Part 1 (2/2)

The Mussulman and the cavalry officer were chaffing the Philosopher and poking fun at the phrase-mongers, hair-splitters, and other wasters of time. They took a childish delight in his broad smile of embarra.s.sment at being teased in the Frau Major's presence, and she, out of feminine politeness, came to the Philosopher's rescue, while casting amorous looks at the others who could deal such pert blows with their tongues.

”Oh, let the poor man alone,” she laughed and cooed. ”He's right. War is horrible. These two gentlemen are just trying to get your temper up.”

She twinkled at the Philosopher to soothe him. His good nature made him so helpless.

The Philosopher grinned phlegmatically and said nothing. The Mussulman, setting his teeth, s.h.i.+fted his leg, which in its white bandage was the only part of him that was visible, and placed it in a more comfortable position on the bench.

”The Philosopher?” he laughed. ”As a matter of fact, what does the Philosopher know about war? He's in the artillery. And war is conducted by the infantry. Don't you know that, Mrs. ----?”

”I am not Mrs. here. Here I am Sister Engelberta,” she cut in, and for a moment the expression on her face became almost serious.

”I beg your pardon, Sister Engelberta. Artillery and infantry, you see, are like husband and wife. We infantrymen must bring the child into the world when a victory is to be born. The artillery has only the pleasure, just like a man's part in love. It is not until after the child has been baptized that he comes strutting out proudly. Am I not right, Captain?”

he asked, appealing to the cavalry officer. ”You are an equestrian on foot now, too.”

The captain boomed his a.s.sent. In his summary view, members of the Reichstag who refused to vote enough money for the military, Socialists, pacifists, all men, in brief, who lectured or wrote or spoke superfluous stuff and lived by their brains belonged in the same category as the Philosopher. They were all ”bookworms.”

”Yes, indeed,” he said in his voice hoa.r.s.e from shouting commands.

”A philosopher like our friend here is just the right person for the artillery. Nothing to do but wait around on the top of a hill and look on. If only they don't shoot up our own men! It is easy enough to dispose of the fellows on the other side, in front of us. But I always have a devilish lot of respect for you a.s.sa.s.sins in the back. But let's stop talking of the war. Else I'll go off to bed. Here we are at last with two charming ladies, when it's been an age since we've seen a face that isn't covered with stubble, and you still keep talking of that d.a.m.ned shooting. Good Lord, when I was in the hospital train and the first girl came in with a white cap on her curly light hair, I'd have liked to hold her hand and just keep looking and looking at her. Upon my word of honor, Sister Engelberta, after a while the shooting gets to be a nuisance. The lice are worse. But the worst thing of all is the complete absence of the lovely feminine. For five months to see nothing but men--and then all of a sudden to hear a dear clear woman's voice!

That's the finest thing of all. It's worth going to war for.”

The Mussulman pulled his mobile face flas.h.i.+ng with youth into a grimace.

”The finest thing of all! No, sir. To be quite frank, the finest thing of all is to get a bath and a fresh bandage, and be put into a clean white bed, and know that for a few weeks you're going to have a rest.

It's a feeling like--well, there's no comparison for it. But, of course, it is very nice, too, to be seeing ladies again.”

The Philosopher had tilted his round fleshy Epicurean head to one side, and a moist sheen came into his small crafty eyes. He glanced at the place where a bright spot in the almost palpable darkness suggested the Frau Major's white dress, and began to tell what he thought, very slowly in a slight sing-song.

”The finest thing of all, I think, is the quiet--when you have been lying up there in the mountains where every shot is echoed back and forth five times, and all of a sudden it turns absolutely quiet--no whistling, no howling, no thundering--nothing but a glorious quiet that you can listen to as to a piece of music! The first few nights I sat up the whole time and kept my ears c.o.c.ked for the quiet, the way you try to catch a tune at a distance. I believe I even howled a bit, it was so delightful to listen to no sound.”

The captain of cavalry sent his cigarette flying through the night like a comet scattering sparks, and brought his hand down with a thump on his knee.

”There, there, Sister Engelberta, did you get that?” he cried sarcastically. ”'Listen to no sound.' You see, that's what's called philosophy. I know something better than that, Mr. Philosopher, namely, not to hear what you hear, especially when it's such philosophical rubbish.”

They laughed, and the man they were teasing smiled good-naturedly. He, too, was permeated by the peacefulness that floated into the garden from the sleeping town. The cavalryman's aggressive jokes glided off without leaving a sting, as did everything else that might have lessened the sweetness of the few days still lying between him and the front. He wanted to make the most of his time, and take everything easily with his eyes tight shut, like a child who has to enter a dark room.

The Frau Major leaned over to the Philosopher.

”So opinions differ as to what was the finest thing,” she said; and her breath came more rapidly. ”But, tell me, what was the most awful thing you went through out there? A lot of the men say the drumfire is the worst, and a lot of them can't get over the sight of the first man they saw killed. How about you?”

The Philosopher looked tortured. It was a theme that did not fit into his programme. He was casting about for an evasive reply when an unintelligible wheezing exclamation drew all eyes to the corner in which the landsturm officer and his wife were sitting. The others had almost forgotten them in the darkness and exchanged frightened glances when they heard a voice that scarcely one of them knew, and the man with the glazed eyes and uncertain gestures, a marionette with broken joints, began to speak hastily in a falsetto like the crowing of a rooster.

”What was the most awful thing? The only awful thing is the going off.

You go off to war--and they let you go. That's the awful thing.”

A cold sickening silence fell upon the company. Even the Mussulman's face lost its perpetually happy expression and stiffened in embarra.s.sment. It had come so unexpectedly and sounded so unintelligible. It caught them by the throat and set their pulses bounding--perhaps because of the vibrating of the voice that issued from the twitching body, or because of the rattling that went along with it, and made it sound like a voice broken by long sobbing.

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