Ballads of a Bohemian Part 21

My friends will have other children, and if some day they should read this piece of verse, perhaps they will think of the city lad who used to sit under the old fig-tree in the garden and watch the lizards sun themselves on the time-worn wall.

The Other One

"Gather around me, children dear; The wind is high and the night is cold; Closer, little ones, snuggle near; Let's seek a story of ages old; A magic tale of a bygone day, Of lovely ladies and dragons dread; Come, for you're all so tired of play, We'll read till it's time to go to bed."

So they all are glad, and they nestle in, And squat on the rough old nursery rug, And they nudge and hush as I begin, And the fire leaps up and all's so snug; And there I sit in the big arm-chair, And how they are eager and sweet and wise, And they cup their chins in their hands and stare At the heart of the flame with thoughtful eyes.

And then, as I read by the ruddy glow And the little ones sit entranced and still . . .

_He_'s drawing near, ah! I know, I know He's listening too, as he always will.

He's there--he's standing beside my knee; I see him so well, my wee, wee son. . . .

Oh, children dear, don't look at me-- I'm reading now for--the Other One.

For the firelight glints in his golden hair, And his wondering eyes are fixed on my face, And he rests on the arm of my easy-chair, And the book's a blur and I lose my place: And I touch my lips to his shining head, And my voice breaks down and--the story's done. . . .

Oh, children, kiss me and go to bed: Leave me to think of the Other One.

Of the One who will never grow up at all, Who will always be just a child at play, Tender and trusting and sweet and small, Who will never leave me and go away; Who will never hurt me and give me pain; Who will comfort me when I'm all alone; A heart of love that's without a stain, Always and always my own, my own.

Yet a thought shines out from the dark of pain, And it gives me hope to be reconciled: _That each of us must be born again, And live and die as a little child; So that with souls all shining white, White as snow and without one sin, We may come to the Gates of Eternal Light, Where only children may enter in._

So, gentle mothers, don't ever grieve Because you have lost, but kiss the rod; From the depths of your woe be glad, believe You've given an angel unto G.o.d.

Rejoice! You've a child whose youth endures, Who comes to you when the day is done, Wistful for love, oh, yours, just yours, Dearest of all, the Other One.

Catastrophe

Brittany, August 14, 1914.

And now I fear I must write in another strain. Up to this time I have been too happy. I have existed in a magic Bohemia, largely of my own making. Hope, faith, enthusiasm have been mine. Each day has had its struggle, its failure, its triumph. However, that is all ended. During the past week we have lived breathlessly. For in spite of the exultant sunshine our spirits have been under a cloud, a deepening shadow of horror and calamity. . . . WAR.

Even as I write, in our little village steeple the bells are ringing madly, and in every little village steeple all over the land. As he hears it the harvester checks his scythe on the swing; the clerk throws down his pen; the shopkeeper puts up his shutters. Only in the cafes there is a clamor of voices and a drowning of care.

For here every man must fight, every home give tribute. There is no question, no appeal. By heredity and discipline all minds are shaped to this great hour. So to-morrow each man will seek his barracks and become a soldier as completely as if he had never been anything else.

With the same docility as he dons his baggy red trousers will he let some muddle-headed General hurl him to destruction for some dubious gain. To-day a father, a home-maker; to-morrow fodder for cannon. So they all go without hesitation, without bitterness; and the great military machine that knows not humanity swings them to their fate. I marvel at the sense of duty, the resignation, the sacrifice. It is magnificent, it is FRANCE.

And the Women. Those who wait and weep. Ah! to-day I have not seen one who did not weep. Yes, one. She was very old, and she stood by her garden gate with her hand on the uplifted latch. As I pa.s.sed she looked at me with eyes that did not see. She had no doubt sons and grandsons who must fight, and she had good reason, perhaps, to remember the war of _soixante-dix_. When I pa.s.sed an hour later she was still there, her hand on the uplifted latch.

August 30th.

The men have gone. Only remain graybeards, women and children. Calvert and I have been helping our neighbors to get in the harvest. No doubt we aid; but there with the old men and children a sense of uneasiness and even shame comes over me. I would like to return to Paris, but the railway is mobilized. Each day I grow more discontented. Up there in the red North great things are doing and I am out of it. I am thoroughly unhappy.

Then Calvert comes to me with a plan. He has a Ford car. We will all three go to Paris. He intends to offer himself and his car to the Red Cross. His wife will nurse. So we are very happy at the solution, and to-morrow we are off.

Paris.

Back again. Closed shutters, deserted streets. How glum everything is!

Those who are not mobilized seem uncertain how to turn. Every one buys the papers and reads grimly of disaster. No news is bad news.

I go to my garret as to a beloved friend. Everything is just as I left it, so that it seems I have never been away. I sigh with relief and joy. I will take up my work again. Serene above the storm I will watch and wait. Although I have been brought up in England I am American born.

My country is not concerned.

So, going to the Dome Cafe, I seek some of my comrades. Strange! They have gone. MacBean, I am told, is in England. By dyeing his hair and lying about his age he has managed to enlist in the Seaforth Highlanders. Saxon Dane too. He has joined the Foreign Legion, and even now may be fighting.

Well, let them go. I will keep out of the mess. But why did they go? I wish I knew. War is murder. Criminal folly. Against Humanity.

Imperialism is at the root of it. We are fools and dupes. Yes, I will think and write of other things. . . .

_MacBean has enlisted_.

I hate violence. I would not willingly cause pain to anything breathing. I would rather be killed than kill. I will stand above the Battle and watch it from afar.

_Dane is in the Foreign Legion_.

How disturbing it all is! One cannot settle down to anything. Every day I meet men who tell the most wonderful stories in the most casual way.

I envy them. I too want to have experiences, to live where life's beat is most intense. But that's a poor reason for going to war.

And yet, though I shrink from the idea of fighting, I might in some way help those who are. MacBean and Dane, for example. Sitting lonely in the Dome, I seem to see their ghosts in the corner. MacBean listening with his keen, sarcastic smile, Saxon Dane banging his great hairy fist on the table till the gla.s.ses jump. Where are they now? Living a life that I will never know. When they come back, if they ever do, shall I not feel shamed in their presence? Oh, this filthy war! Things were going on so beautifully. We were all so happy, so full of ambition, of hope; laughing and talking over pipe and bowl, and in our garrets seeking to realize our dreams. Ah, these days will never come again!

Then, as I sit there, Calvert seeks me out. He has joined an ambulance corps that is going to the Front. Will I come in?

"Yes," I say; "I'll do anything."

So it is all settled. To-morrow I give up my freedom.

BOOK FOUR ~~ WINTER

I

The Somme Front, January 1915.