They had marched more than thirty kilometres since dawn, along the white, hot
road where occasional thickets of trees threw a moment of shade, then out into
the glare again. On either hand, the valley, wide and shallow, glittered with
heat; dark green patches of rye, pale young corn, fallow and meadow and black
pine woods spread in a dull, hot diagram under a glistening sky. But right in
front the mountains ranged across, pale blue and very still, snow gleaming
gently out of the deep atmosphere. And towards the mountains, on and on, the
regiment marched between the rye fields and the meadows, between the scraggy
fruit trees set regularly on either side the high road. The burnished, dark
green rye threw on a suffocating heat, the mountains drew gradually nearer and
more distinct. While the feet of the soldiers grew hotter, sweat ran through
their hair under their helmets, and their knapsacks could burn no more in
contact with their shoulders, but seemed instead to give off a cold, prickly
sensation.
He walked on and on in silence, staring at the mountains ahead, that rose sheer
out of the land, and stood fold behind fold, half earth, half heaven, the
heaven, the banner with slits of soft snow, in the pale, bluish peaks.
He could now walk almost without pain. At the start, he had determined not to
limp. It had made him sick to take the first steps, and during the first mile
or so, he had compressed his breath, and the cold drops of sweat had stood on
his forehead. But he had walked it off. What were they after all but bruises!
He had looked at them, as he was getting up: deep bruises on the backs of his
thighs. And since he had made his first step in the morning, he had been
conscious of them, till now he had a tight, hot place in his chest, with
suppressing the pain, and holding himself in. There seemed no air when he
breathed. But he walked almost lightly.
The Captain’s hand had trembled at taking his coffee at dawn: his orderly
saw it again. And he saw the fine figure of the Captain wheeling on horseback
at the farm-house ahead, a handsome figure in pale blue uniform with facings of
scarlet, and the metal gleaming on the black helmet and the sword-scabbard, and
dark streaks of sweat coming on the silky bay horse. The orderly felt he was
connected with that figure moving so suddenly on horseback: he followed it like
a shadow, mute and inevitable and damned by it. And the officer was always
aware of the tramp of the company behind, the march of his orderly among the
men.
The Captain was a tall man of about forty, grey at the temples. He had a
handsome, finely knit figure, and was one of the best horsemen in the West. His
orderly, having to rub him down, admired the amazing riding-muscles of his
loins.
For the rest, the orderly scarcely noticed the officer any more than he noticed
himself. It was rarely he saw his master’s face: he did not look at it.
The Captain had reddish-brown, stilt hair, that he wore short upon his skull.
His moustache was also cut short and bristly over a full, brutal mouth. His
face was rather rugged, the cheeks thin. Perhaps the man was the more handsome
for the deep lines in his face, the irritable tension of his brow, which gave
him the look of a man who fights with life. His fair eyebrows stood bushy over
light blue eyes that were always flashing with cold fire.
He was a Prussian aristocrat, haughty and overbearing. But his mother had been
a Polish Countess. Having made too many gambling debts when he was young, he
had ruined his prospects in the Army, and remained an infantry captain. He had
never married: his position did not allow of it, and no woman had ever moved
him to it. His time he spent riding—occasionally he rode one of his own
horses at the races—and at the officers’ club. Now and then he took
himself a mistress. But after such an event, he returned to duty with his brow
still more tense, his eyes still more hostile and irritable. With the men,
however, he was merely impersonal, though a devil when roused; so that, on the
whole, they feared him, but had no great aversion from him. They accepted him
as the inevitable.
To his orderly he was at first cold and just and indifferent: he did not fuss
over trifles. So that his servant knew practically nothing about him, except
just what orders he would give, and how he wanted them obeyed. That was quite
simple. Then the change gradually came.
The orderly was a youth of about twenty-two, of medium height, and well built.
He had strong, heavy limbs, was swarthy, with a soft, black, young moustache.
There was something altogether warm and young about him. He had firmly marked
eyebrows over dark, expressionless eyes, that seemed never to have thought,
only to have received life direct through his senses, and acted straight from
instinct.
Gradually the officer had become aware of his servant’s young, vigorous,
unconscious presence about him. He could not get away from the sense of the
youth’s person, while he was in attendance. It was like a warm flame upon
the older man’s tense, rigid body, that had become almost unliving,
fixed. There was something so free and self-contained about him, and something
in the young fellow’s movement, that made the officer aware of him. And
this irritated the Prussian. He did not choose to be touched into life by his
servant. He might easily have changed his man, but he did not. He now very
rarely looked direct at his orderly, but kept his face averted, as if to avoid
seeing him. And yet as the young soldier moved unthinking about the apartment,
the elder watched him, and would notice the movement of his strong young
shoulders under the blue cloth, the bend of his neck. And it irritated him. To
see the soldier’s young, brown, shapely peasant’s hand grasp the
loaf or the wine-bottle sent a flash of hate or of anger through the elder
man’s blood. It was not that the youth was clumsy: it was rather the
blind, instinctive sureness of movement of an unhampered young animal that
irritated the officer to such a degree.
Once, when a bottle of wine had gone over, and the red gushed out on to the
tablecloth, the officer had started up with an oath, and his eyes, bluey like
fire, had held those of the confused youth for a moment. It was a shock for the
young soldier. He felt something sink deeper, deeper into his soul, where
nothing had ever gone before. It left him rather blank and wondering. Some of
his natural completeness in himself was gone, a little uneasiness took its
place. And from that time an undiscovered feeling had held between the two men.
Henceforward the orderly was afraid of really meeting his master. His
subconsciousness remembered those steely blue eyes and the harsh brows, and did
not intend to meet them again. So he always stared past his master, and avoided
him. Also, in a little anxiety, he waited for the three months to have gone,
when his time would be up. He began to feel a constraint in the Captain’s
presence, and the soldier even more than the officer wanted to be left alone,
in his neutrality as servant.
He had served the Captain for more than a year, and knew his duty. This he
performed easily, as if it were natural to him. The officer and his commands he
took for granted, as he took the sun and the rain, and he served as a matter of
course. It did not implicate him personally.
But now if he were going to be forced into a personal interchange with his
master he would be like a wild thing caught, he felt he must get away.
But the influence of the young soldier’s being had penetrated through the
officer’s stiffened discipline, and perturbed the man in him. He,
however, was a gentleman, with long, fine hands and cultivated movements, and
was not going to allow such a thing as the stirring of his innate self. He was
a man of passionate temper, who had always kept himself suppressed.
Occasionally there had been a duel, an outburst before the soldiers. He knew
himself to be always on the point of breaking out. But he kept himself hard to
the idea of the Service. Whereas the young soldier seemed to live out his warm,
full nature, to give it off in his very movements, which had a certain zest,
such as wild animals have in free movement. And this irritated the officer more
and more.
In spite of himself, the Captain could not regain his neutrality of feeling
towards his orderly. Nor could he leave the man alone. In spite of himself, he
watched him, gave him sharp orders, tried to take up as much of his time as
possible. Sometimes he flew into a rage with the young soldier, and bullied
him. Then the orderly shut himself off, as it were out of earshot, and waited,
with sullen, flushed face, for the end of the noise. The words never pierced to
his intelligence, he made himself, protectively, impervious to the feelings of
his master.
He had a scar on his left thumb, a deep seam going across the knuckle. The
officer had long suffered from it, and wanted to do something to it. Still it
was there, ugly and brutal on the young, brown hand. At last the
Captain’s reserve gave way. One day, as the orderly was smoothing out the
tablecloth, the officer pinned down his thumb with a pencil, asking,
“How did you come by that?”
The young man winced and drew back at attention.
“A wood axe, Herr Hauptmann,” he answered.
The officer waited for further explanation. None came. The orderly went about
his duties. The elder man was sullenly angry. His servant avoided him. And the
next day he had to use all his willpower to avoid seeing the scarred thumb. He
wanted to get hold of it and—— A hot flame ran in his blood.
He knew his servant would soon be free, and would be glad. As yet, the soldier
had held himself off from the elder man. The Captain grew madly irritable. He
could not rest when the soldier was away, and when he was present, he glared at
him with tormented eyes. He hated those fine, black brows over the unmeaning,
dark eyes, he was infuriated by the free movement of the handsome limbs, which
no military discipline could make stiff. And he became harsh and cruelly
bullying, using contempt and satire. The young soldier only grew more mute and
expressionless.
What cattle were you bred by, that you can’t keep straight eyes? Look me
in the eyes when I speak to you.
And the soldier turned his dark eyes to the other’s face, but there was
no sight in them: he stared with the slightest possible cast, holding back his
sight, perceiving the blue of his master’s eyes, but receiving no look
from them. And the elder man went pale, and his reddish eyebrows twitched. He
gave his order, barrenly.
Once he flung a heavy military glove into the young soldier’s face. Then
he had the satisfaction of seeing the black eyes flare up into his own, like a
blaze when straw is thrown on a fire. And he had laughed with a little tremor
and a sneer.
But there were only two months more. The youth instinctively tried to keep
himself intact: he tried to serve the officer as if the latter were an abstract
authority and not a man. All his instinct was to avoid personal contact, even
definite hate. But in spite of himself the hate grew, responsive to the
officer’s passion. However, he put it in the background. When he had left
the Army he could dare acknowledge it. By nature he was active, and had many
friends. He thought what amazing good fellows they were. But, without knowing
it, he was alone. Now this solitariness was intensified. It would carry him
through his term. But the officer seemed to be going irritably insane, and the
youth was deeply frightened.
The soldier had a sweetheart, a girl from the mountains, independent and
primitive. The two walked together, rather silently. He went with her, not to
talk, but to have his arm round her, and for the physical contact. This eased
him, made it easier for him to ignore the Captain; for he could rest with her
held fast against his chest. And she, in some unspoken fashion, was there for
him. They loved each other.
The Captain perceived it, and was mad with irritation. He kept the young man
engaged all the evenings long, and took pleasure in the dark look that came on
his face. Occasionally, the eyes of the two men met, those of the younger
sullen and dark, doggedly unalterable, those of the elder sneering with
restless contempt.
The officer tried hard not to admit the passion that had got hold of him. He
would not know that his feeling for his orderly was anything but that of a man
incensed by his stupid, perverse servant. So, keeping quite justified and
conventional in his consciousness, he let the other thing run on. His nerves,
however, were suffering. At last he slung the end of a belt in his
servant’s face. When he saw the youth start back, the pain-tears in his
eyes and the blood on his mouth, he had felt at once a thrill of deep pleasure
and of shame.
But this, he acknowledged to himself, was a thing he had never done before. The
fellow was too exasperating. His own nerves must be going to pieces. He went
away for some days with a woman.
It was a mockery of pleasure. He simply did not want the woman. But he stayed
on for his time. At the end of it, he came back in an agony of irritation,
torment, and misery. He rode all the evening, then came straight in to supper.
His orderly was out. The officer sat with his long, fine hands lying on the
table, perfectly still, and all his blood seemed to be corroding.
At last his servant entered. He watched the strong, easy young figure, the fine
eyebrows, the thick black hair. In a week’s time the youth had got back
his old well-being. The hands of the officer twitched and seemed to be full of
mad flame. The young man stood at attention, unmoving, shut on.
The meal went in silence. But the orderly seemed eager. He made a clatter with
the dishes.
“Are you in a hurry?” asked the officer, watching the intent, warm
face of his servant. The other did not reply.
“Will you answer my question?” said the Captain.
“Yes, sir,” replied the orderly, standing with his pile of deep
Army plates. The Captain waited, looked at him, then asked again:
“Are you in a hurry?
“Yes, sir,” came the answer, that sent a flash through the
listener.
“For what?”
“I was going out, sir.”
“I want you this evening.”
There was a moment’s hesitation. The officer had a curious stiffness of
countenance.
“Yes, sir,” replied the servant, in his throat.
“I want you tomorrow evening also—in fact, you may consider your
evenings occupied, unless I give you leave.”
The mouth with the young moustache set close.
“Yes, sir,” answered the orderly, loosening his lips for a moment.
He again turned to the door.
“And why have you a piece of pencil in your ear?”
The orderly hesitated, then continued on his way without answering. He set the
plates in a pile outside the door, took the stump of pencil from his ear, and
put it in his pocket. He had been copying a verse for his sweetheart’s
birthday card. He returned to finish clearing the table. The officer’s
eyes were dancing, he had a little, eager smile.
“Why have you a piece of pencil in your ear?” he asked.
The orderly took his hands full of dishes. His master was standing near the
great green stove, a little smile on his face, his chin thrust forward. When
the young soldier saw him his heart suddenly ran hot. He felt blind. Instead of
answering, he turned dazedly to the door. As he was crouching to set down the
dishes, he was pitched forward by a kick from behind. The pots went in a stream
down the stairs, he clung to the pillar of the banisters. And as he was rising
he was kicked heavily again, and again, so that he clung sickly to the post for
some moments. His master had gone swiftly into the room and closed the door.
The maid-servant downstairs looked up the staircase and made a mocking face at
the crockery disaster.
The officer’s heart was plunging. He poured himself a glass of wine, part
of which he spilled on the floor, and gulped the remainder, leaning against the
cool, green stove. He heard his man collecting the dishes from the stairs.
Pale, as if intoxicated, he waited. The servant entered again. The
Captain’s heart gave a pang, as of pleasure, seeing the young fellow
bewildered and uncertain on his feet, with pain.
“Schöner!” he said.
The soldier was a little slower in coming to attention.
“Yes, sir!”
The youth stood before him, with pathetic young moustache, and fine eyebrows
very distinct on his forehead of dark marble.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yes, sir.”
The officer’s tone bit like acid.
“Why had you a pencil in your ear?”
Again the servant’s heart ran hot, and he could not breathe. With dark,
strained eyes, he looked at the officer, as if fascinated. And he stood there
sturdily planted, unconscious. The withering smile came into the
Captain’s eyes, and he lifted his foot.
“I—I forgot it—sir,” panted the soldier, his dark eyes
fixed on the other man’s dancing blue ones.
“What was it doing there?”
He saw the young man’s breast heaving as he made an effort for words.
“I had been writing.”
“Writing what?”
Again the soldier looked him up and down. The officer could hear him panting.
The smile came into the blue eyes. The soldier worked his dry throat, but could
not speak. Suddenly the smile lit like a name on the officer’s face, and
a kick came heavily against the orderly’s thigh. The youth moved a pace
sideways. His face went dead, with two black, staring eyes.
“Well?” said the officer.
The orderly’s mouth had gone dry, and his tongue rubbed in it as on dry
brown-paper. He worked his throat. The officer raised his foot. The servant
went stiff.
“Some poetry, sir,” came the crackling, unrecognizable sound of his
voice.
“Poetry, what poetry?” asked the Captain, with a sickly smile.
Again there was the working in the throat. The Captain’s heart had
suddenly gone down heavily, and he stood sick and tired.
“For my girl, sir,” he heard the dry, inhuman sound.
“Oh!” he said, turning away. “Clear the table.”
“Click!” went the soldier’s throat; then again,
“click!” and then the half-articulate:
“Yes, sir.”
The young soldier was gone, looking old, and walking heavily.
The officer, left alone, held himself rigid, to prevent himself from thinking.
His instinct warned him that he must not think. Deep inside him was the intense
gratification of his passion, still working powerfully. Then there was a
counter-action, a horrible breaking down of something inside him, a whole agony
of reaction. He stood there for an hour motionless, a chaos of sensations, but
rigid with a will to keep blank his consciousness, to prevent his mind
grasping. And he held himself so until the worst of the stress had passed, when
he began to drink, drank himself to an intoxication, till he slept obliterated.
When he woke in the morning he was shaken to the base of his nature. But he had
fought off the realization of what he had done. He had prevented his mind from
taking it in, had suppressed it along with his instincts, and the conscious man
had nothing to do with it. He felt only as after a bout of intoxication, weak,
but the affair itself all dim and not to be recovered. Of the drunkenness of
his passion he successfully refused remembrance. And when his orderly appeared
with coffee, the officer assumed the same self he had had the morning before.
He refused the event of the past night—denied it had ever been—and
was successful in his denial. He had not done any such thing—not he
himself. Whatever there might be lay at the door of a stupid, insubordinate
servant.
The orderly had gone about in a stupor all the evening. He drank some beer
because he was parched, but not much, the alcohol made his feeling come back,
and he could not bear it. He was dulled, as if nine-tenths of the ordinary man
in him were inert. He crawled about disfigured. Still, when he thought of the
kicks, he went sick, and when he thought of the threat of more kicking, in the
room afterwards, his heart went hot and faint, and he panted, remembering the
one that had come. He had been forced to say, “For my girl.” He was
much too done even to want to cry. His mouth hung slightly open, like an
idiot’s. He felt vacant, and wasted. So, he wandered at his work,
painfully, and very slowly and clumsily, fumbling blindly with the brushes, and
finding it difficult, when he sat down, to summon the energy to move again. His
limbs, his jaw, were slack and nerveless. But he was very tired. He got to bed
at last, and slept inert, relaxed, in a sleep that was rather stupor than
slumber, a dead night of stupefaction shot through with gleams of anguish.
In the morning were the manœuvres. But he woke even before the bugle sounded.
The painful ache in his chest, the dryness of his throat, the awful steady
feeling of misery made his eyes come awake and dreary at once. He knew, without
thinking, what had happened. And he knew that the day had come again, when he
must go on with his round. The last bit of darkness was being pushed out of the
room. He would have to move his inert body and go on. He was so young, and had
known so little trouble, that he was bewildered. He only wished it would stay
night, so that he could lie still, covered up by the darkness. And yet nothing
would prevent the day from coming, nothing would save him from having to get up
and saddle the Captain’s horse, and make the Captain’s coffee. It
was there, inevitable. And then, he thought, it was impossible. Yet they would
not leave him free. He must go and take the coffee to the Captain. He was too
stunned to understand it. He only knew it was inevitable—inevitable
however long he lay inert.
At last, after heaving at himself, for he seemed to be a mass of inertia, he
got up. But he had to force every one of his movements from behind, with his
will. He felt lost, and dazed, and helpless. Then he clutched hold of the bed,
the pain was so keen. And looking at his thighs, he saw the darker bruises on
his swarthy flesh and he knew that, if he pressed one of his fingers on one of
the bruises, he should faint. But he did not want to faint—he did not
want anybody to know. No one should ever know. It was between him and the
Captain. There were only the two people in the world now—himself and the
Captain.
Slowly, economically, he got dressed and forced himself to walk. Everything was
obscure, except just what he had his hands on. But he managed to get through
his work. The very pain revived his dull senses. The worst remained yet. He
took the tray and went up to the Captain’s room. The officer, pale and
heavy, sat at the table. The orderly, as he saluted, felt himself put out of
existence. He stood still for a moment submitting to his own nullification,
then he gathered himself, seemed to regain himself, and then the Captain began
to grow vague, unreal, and the younger soldier’s heart beat up. He clung
to this situation—that the Captain did not exist—so that he himself
might live. But when he saw his officer’s hand tremble as he took the
coffee, he felt everything falling shattered. And he went away, feeling as if
he himself were coming to pieces, disintegrated. And when the Captain was there
on horseback, giving orders, while he himself stood, with rifle and knapsack,
sick with pain, he felt as if he must shut his eyes—as if he must shut
his eyes on everything. It was only the long agony of marching with a parched
throat that filled him with one single, sleep-heavy intention: to save himself.
