Ballads of a Bohemian Part 29

Closer I creep . . . I crouch . . . I spring. . . .

(_He wakes._)

Ugh! What a horrible dream I've had!

And it isn't real . . . I'm glad, I'm glad!

Marie is good and Marie is true . . .

But now I know what it's best to do.

I'll sell the farm and I'll seek my kind, I'll live apart with my fellow-blind, And we'll eat and drink, and we'll laugh and joke, And we'll talk of our battles, and smoke and smoke; And brushes of bristle we'll make for sale, While one of us reads a book of Braille.

And there will be music and dancing too, And we'll seek to fashion our life anew; And we'll walk the highways hand in hand, The Brotherhood of the Sightless Band; Till the years at last shall bring respite And our night is lost in the Greater Night.

The Legless Man

(_The Dark Side_)

_My mind goes back to Fumin Wood, and how we stuck it out, Eight days of hunger, thirst and cold, mowed down by steel and flame; Waist-deep in mud and mad with woe, with dead men all about, We fought like fiends and waited for relief that never came.

Eight days and nights they rolled on us in battle-frenzied ma.s.s!

"Debout les morts!" We hurled them back. By G.o.d! they did not pa.s.s._

They pinned two medals on my chest, a yellow and a brown, And lovely ladies made me blush, such pretty words they said.

I felt a cheerful man, almost, until my eyes went down, And there I saw the blankets--how they sagged upon my bed.

And then again I drank the cup of sorrow to the dregs: Oh, they can keep their medals if they give me back my legs.

I think of how I used to run and leap and kick the ball, And ride and dance and climb the hills and frolic in the sea; And all the thousand things that now I'll never do at all. . . .

_Mon Dieu!_ there's nothing left in life, it often seems to me.

And as the nurses lift me up and strap me in my chair, If they would chloroform me off I feel I wouldn't care.

Ah yes! we're "heroes all" to-day--they point to us with pride; To-day their hearts go out to us, the tears are in their eyes!

But wait a bit; to-morrow they will blindly look aside; No more they'll talk of what they owe, the dues of sacrifice (One hates to be reminded of an everlasting debt).

It's all in human nature. Ah! the world will soon forget.

_My mind goes back to where I lay wound-rotted on the plain, And ate the muddy mangold roots, and drank the drops of dew, And dragged myself for miles and miles when every move was pain, And over me the carrion-crows were retching as they flew.

Oh, ere I closed my eyes and stuck my rifle in the air I wish that those who picked me up had pa.s.sed and left me there._

(_The Bright Side_)

Oh, one gets used to everything!

I hum a merry song, And up the street and round the square I wheel my chair along; For look you, how my chest is sound And how my arms are strong!

Oh, one gets used to anything!

It's awkward at the first, And jolting o'er the cobbles gives A man a grievous thirst; But of all ills that one must bear That's surely not the worst.

For there's the cafe open wide, And there they set me up; And there I smoke my _caporal_ Above my cider cup; And play _manille_ a while before I hurry home to sup.

At home the wife is waiting me With smiles and pigeon-pie; And little Zi-Zi claps her hands With laughter loud and high; And if there's cause to growl, I fail To see the reason why.

And all the evening by the lamp I read some tale of crime, Or play my old accordion With Marie keeping time, Until we hear the hour of ten From out the steeple chime.

Then in the morning bright and soon, No moment do I lose; Within my little cobbler's shop To gain the silver _sous_ (Good luck one has no need of legs To make a pair of shoes).

And every Sunday--oh, it's then I am the happy man; They wheel me to the river-side, And there with rod and can I sit and fish and catch a dish Of _goujons_ for the pan.

Aye, one gets used to everything, And doesn't seem to mind; Maybe I'm happier than most Of my two-legged kind; For look you at the darkest cloud, Lo! how it's silver-lined.

The Faceless Man

_I'm dead._ Officially I'm dead. Their hope is past.

How long I stood as missing! Now, at last I'm dead.

Look in my face--no likeness can you see, No tiny trace of him they knew as "me".

How terrible the change!

Even my eyes are strange.

So keyed are they to pain, That if I chanced to meet My mother in the street She'd look at me in vain.

When she got home I think she'd say: "I saw the saddest sight to-day-- A _poilu_ with no face at all.

Far better in the fight to fall Than go through life like that, I think.

Poor fellow! how he made me shrink.

No face. Just eyes that seemed to stare At me with anguish and despair.

This ghastly war! I'm almost cheered To think my son who disappeared, My boy so handsome and so gay, Might have come home like him to-day."

I'm dead. I think it's better to be dead When little children look at you with dread; And when you know your coming home again Will only give the ones who love you pain.

Ah! who can help but shrink? One cannot blame.

They see the hideous husk, not, not the flame Of sacrifice and love that burns within; While souls of satyrs, riddled through with sin, Have bodies fair and excellent to see.

_Mon Dieu!_ how different we all would be If this our flesh was ordained to express Our spirit's beauty or its ugliness.

(Oh, you who look at me with fear to-day, And shrink despite yourselves, and turn away-- It was for you I suffered woe accurst; For you I braved red battle at its worst; For you I fought and bled and maimed and slew; For you, for you!

For you I faced h.e.l.l-fury and despair; The reeking horror of it all I knew: I flung myself into the furnace there; I faced the flame that scorched me with its glare; I drank unto the dregs the devil's brew-- Look at me now--for _you_ and _you_ and _you_. . . .)

I'm thinking of the time we said good-by: We took our dinner in Duval's that night, Just little Jacqueline, Lucette and I; We tried our very utmost to be bright.

We laughed. And yet our eyes, they weren't gay.

I sought all kinds of cheering things to say.

"Don't grieve," I told them. "Soon the time will pa.s.s; My next permission will come quickly round; We'll all meet at the Gare du Montparna.s.se; Three times I've come already, safe and sound."

(But oh, I thought, it's harder every time, After a home that seems like Paradise, To go back to the vermin and the slime, The weariness, the want, the sacrifice.

"Pray G.o.d," I said, "the war may soon be done, But no, oh never, never till we've won!")

Then to the station quietly we walked; I had my rifle and my haversack, My heavy boots, my blankets on my back; And though it hurt us, cheerfully we talked.