by Philip Wylie
XI
In a day the last veil of mist that had shrouded his feelings andthoughts, making them numb and sterile, vanished; in a day Hugo foundhimself--or believed that he had; in a day his life changed and flungitself on the course which, in a measure, destined its fixation. Henever forgot that day.
It began in the early morning when the anchor of the freighter thunderedinto the harbour water. The crew was not given shore leave until noon.Then the mysterious silence of the captain and the change in the ship'scourse was explained. Through the third officer he sent a message to theseamen. War had been declared. The seaways were unsafe. The _Katrina_would remain indefinitely at Marseilles. The men could go ashore. Theywould report on the following day.
The first announcement of the word sent Hugo's blood racing. War! Whatwar? With whom? Why? Was America in it, or interested in it? He steppedashore and hurried into the city. The populace was in feverishexcitement. Soldiers were everywhere, as if they had sprung up magicallylike the seed of the dragon. Hugo walked through street after street inthe furious heat. He bought a paper and read the French accounts ofmobilizations, of a battle impending. He looked everywhere for some onewho could tell him. Twice he approached the American Consulate, but itwas jammed with frantic and frightened people who were trying only toget away. Hugo's ambition, growing in him like a fire, was in theopposite direction. War! And he was Hugo Danner!
He sat at a cafe toward the middle of the afternoon. He was so excitedby the contagion in his veins that he scarcely thrilled at the first useof his new and half-mastered tongue. The _garcon_ hurried to his table.
"_De la biere_," Hugo said.
The waiter asked a question which Hugo could not understand, so herepeated his order in the universal language of measurement of a largeglass by his hands. The waiter nodded. Hugo took his beer and stared outat the people. They hurried along the sidewalk, brushing the table atwhich he sat. They called to each other, laughed, cried sometimes, andshook hands over and over. "_La guerre_" was on every tongue. Old mengestured the directions of battles. Young men, a little more seriousperhaps, and often very drunk, were rushing into uniform as orderfollowed order for mobilization. And there were girls, thousands ofthem, walking with the young men.
Hugo wanted to be in it. He was startled by the impact of that desire.All the ferocity of him, all the unleashed wish to rend and kill, wasblazing in his soul. But it was a subtle conflagration, which urged himin terms of duty, in words that spoke of the war as his one perfectopportunity to put himself to a use worthy of his gift. A war. In a warwhat would hold him, what would be superior to him, who could resisthim? He swallowed glass after glass of the brackish beer, quenching amighty thirst and firing a mightier ambition. He saw himself charginginto battle, fighting till his ammunition was gone, till his bayonetbroke; and then turning like a Titan and doing monster deeds with barehands. And teeth.
Bands played and feet marched. His blood rose to a boiling-point. AFrenchman flung himself at Hugo's table. "And you--why aren't you asoldier?"
"I will be," Hugo replied.
"Bravo! We shall revenge ourselves." The man gulped a glass of wine,slapped Hugo's shoulder, and was gone. Then a girl talked to Hugo. Thenanother man.
Hugo dwelt on the politics of the war and its sociology only in the mostperfunctory manner. It was time the imperialistic ambitions of theCentral Powers were ended. A war was inevitable for that purpose.France and England had been attacked. They were defending themselves. Hewould assist them. Even the problem of citizenship and the tangle of redtape his enlistment might involve did not impress him. He could see thefield of battle and hear the roar of guns, a picture conjured up by hisknowledge of the old wars. What a soldier he would be!
While his mind was still leaping and throbbing and his head waswhirling, darkness descended. He would give away his life, do his dutyand a hundred times more than his duty. Here was the thing that wasintended for him, the weapon forged for his hand, the task designed forhis undertaking. War. In war he could bring to a full fruition themajesty of his strength. No need to fear it there, no need to be ashamedof it. He felt himself almost the Messiah of war, the man created at theprecise instant he was required. His call to serve was sounding in hisears. And the bands played.
The chaos did not diminish at night, but, rather, it increased. He wentwith milling crowds to a bulletin board. The Germans had commenced tomove. They had entered Belgium in violation of treaties long heldsacred. Belgium was resisting and Liege was shaking at the devastationof the great howitzers. A terrible crime. Hugo shook with the rage ofthe crowd. The first outrages and violations, highly magnified, werereported. The blond beast would have to be broken.
"God damn," a voice drawled at Hugo's side. He turned. A tall, lean manstood there, a man who was unquestionably American. Hugo spoke ininstant excitement.
"There sure is hell to pay."
The man turned his head and saw Hugo. He stared at him rathersuperciliously, at his slightly seedy clothes and his strong, unusualface. "American?"
"Yeah."
"Let's have a drink."
They separated themselves from the mob and went to a crowded cafe. Theman sat down and Hugo took a chair at his side. "As you put it," the mansaid, "there is hell to pay. Let's drink on the payment."
Hugo felt in him a certain aloofness, a detachment that checked hisdesire to throw himself into flamboyant conversation. "My name'sDanner," he said.
"Mine's Shayne, Thomas Mathew Shayne. I'm from New York."
"So am I, in a way. I was on a ship that was stranded here by the war.At loose ends now."
Shayne nodded. He was not particularly friendly for a person who had meta countryman in a strange city. Hugo did not realize that Shayne hadbeen besieged all day by distant acquaintances and total strangers forassistance in leaving France, or that he expected a request for moneyfrom Hugo momentarily. And Shayne did not seem particularly wrought upby the condition of war. They lifted their glasses and drank. Hugo losta little of his ardour.
"Nice mess."
"Time, though. Time the Germans got their answer."
Shayne's haughty eyebrows lifted. His wide, thin mouth smiled. "Perhaps.I just came from Germany. Seemed like a nice, peaceful country threeweeks ago."
"Oh." Hugo wondered if there were many pro-German Americans. Hiscompanion answered the thought.
"Not that I don't believe the Germans are wrong. But war is such--such adamn fool thing."
"Well, it can't be helped."
"No, it can't. We're all going to go out and get killed, though."
"We?"
"Sure. America will get in it. That's part of the game. America is moredangerous to Germany than France--or England, for that matter."
"That's a rather cold-blooded viewpoint."
Shayne nodded. "I've been raised on it. _Garcon, l'addition, s'il vousplait._" He reached for his pocketbook simultaneously with Hugo. "I'msorry you're stranded," he said, "and if a hundred francs will help,I'll be glad to let you have it. I can't do more."
Hugo's jaw dropped. He laughed a little. "Good lord, man, I said my shipwas stuck. Not me. And these drinks are mine." He reached into hispocket and withdrew a huge roll of American bills and a packet ofFrench notes.
Shayne hesitated. His calmness was not severely shaken, however. "I'msorry, old man. You see, all day I've been fighting off starving andstartled Americans and I thought you were one. I apologize for mymistake." He looked at Hugo with more interest. "As a matter of fact,I'm a little skittish about patriotism. And about war. Of course, I'mgoing to be in it. The first entertaining thing that has happened in adog's age. But I'm a conscientious objector on principles. I ratherthought I'd enlist in the Foreign Legion to-morrow."
He was an unfamiliar type to Hugo. He represented the American who hadbeen educated at home and abroad, who had acquired a wide horizon forhis views, who was bored with the routine of his existence. His clotheswere elegant and impeccable. His face was very nearly inscrutable.Although h
e was only a few years older than Hugo, he made the latterfeel youthful.
They had a brace of drinks, two more and two more. All about them wasbedlam, as if the emotions of man had suddenly been let loose to sweephim off his feet. Grief, joy, rage, lust, fear were all obviously therein almost equal proportions.
Shayne extended his hand. "They have something to fight for, at least.Something besides money and glory. A grudge. I wonder what it is thatmakes me want to get in? I do."
"So do I."
Shayne shook his head. "I wouldn't if I were you. Still, you willprobably be compelled to in a while." He looked at his watch. "Do youcare to take dinner with me? I had an engagement with an aunt who is onthe verge of apoplexy because two of the Boston Shaynes are in Munich.It scarcely seems appropriate at the moment. I detest her, anyway. Whatdo you say?"
"I'd like to have dinner with you."
They walked down the Cannebiere. At a restaurant on the east side nearthe foot of the thoroughfare they found a table in the corner. A pair ofwaiters hastened to take their order. The place was riotous with voicesand the musical sounds of dining. On a special table was a greatdemijohn of 1870 cognac, which was fast being drained by the guests.Shayne consulted with his companion and then ordered in fluent French.The meal that was brought approached a perfection of service and asuperiority of cooking that Hugo had never experienced. And always thebabble, the blare of bands, the swelling and fading persistence of thestringed orchestra, the stream of purple Chateauneuf du Pape and itsflinty taste, the glitter of the lights and the bright colours on themosaics that represented the principal cities of Europe. It was asplendid meal.
"I'm afraid I'll have to ask your name again," Shayne said.
"Danner. Hugo Danner."
"Good God! Not the football player?"
"I did play football--some time ago."
"I saw you against Cornell--when was it?--two years ago. You weremagnificent. How does it happen that--"
"That I'm here?" Hugo looked directly into Shayne's eyes.
"Well--I have no intention of prying into your affairs."
"Then I'll tell you. Why not?" Hugo drank his wine. "I killed a man--inthe game--and quit. Beat it."
Shayne accepted the statement calmly. "That's tough. I can understandyour desire to get out from under. Things like that are bad when you'reyoung."
"What else could I have done?"
"Nothing. What are you going to do? Rather, what were you going to do?"
"I don't know," Hugo answered slowly. "What do you do? What do peoplegenerally do?" He felt the question was drunken, but Shayne accepted itat its face value.
"I'm one of those people who have too much money to be able to doanything I really care about, most of the time. The family keeps me insight and control. But I'm going to cut away to-morrow."
"In the Foreign Legion? I'll go with you."
"Splendid!" They shook hands across the table.
Three hours later found them at another cafe. They had been walking partof the time in the throngs on the street. For a while they had stoodoutside a newspaper office watching the bulletins. They were quitedrunk.
"Old man," Shayne said, "I'm mighty glad I found you."
"Me, too, old egg. Where do we go next?"
"I don't know. What's your favourite vice? We can locate it inMarseilles."
Hugo frowned. "Well, vice is so limited in its scope."
His companion chuckled. "Isn't it? I've always said vice was narrow. Thenext time I see Aunt Emma I'm going to say: 'Emma, vice is becoming toonarrow in its scope.' She'll be furious and it will bring her to anearly demise and I'll inherit a lot more money, and that will be thereal tragedy. She's a useless old fool, Aunt Emma. Never did a valuablething in her life. Goes in for charity--just like we go in for golf andwhat-not. Oh, well, to hell with Aunt Emma."
Hugo banged his glass on the table. "_Garcon! Encore deux whiskey al'eau_ and to hell with Aunt Emma."
"Like to play roulette?"
"Like to try."
They climbed into a taxi. Shayne gave an address and they were driven toanother quarter of the town. In a room packed with people in eveningclothes they played for an hour. Several people spoke to Shayne and heintroduced Hugo to them. Shayne won and Hugo lost. They went out intothe night. The streets were quieter in that part of town. Two girlsaccosted them.
"That gives me an idea," Shayne said. "Let's find a phone. Maybe we canget Marcelle and Claudine."
Marcelle and Claudine met them at the door of the old house. Their armswere laden with champagne bottles. The interior of the dwelling beliedits cold, grey, ancient stones. Hugo did not remember much of whatfollowed that evening. Short, unrelated fragments stuck in hismind--Shayne chasing the white form of Marcelle up and down the stairs;himself in a huge bath-tub washing a back in front of him, his surprisewhen he saw daylight through the wooden shutters of the house.
Someone was shaking him. "Come on, soldier. The leave's up."
He opened his eyes and collected his thoughts. He grinned at Shayne."All right. But if I had to defend myself right now--I'd fail against agood strong mouse."
"We'll fix that. Hey! Marcelle! Got any Fernet-Branca?"
The girl came with two large glasses of the pick-me-up. Hugo swallowedthe bitter brown fluid and shuddered. Claudine awoke. "_Cheri!_" shesighed, and kissed him.
They sat on the edge of the bed. "Boy!" Hugo said. "What a binge!"
"You like eet?" Claudine murmured.
He took her hand. "Loved it, darling. And now we're going to war."
"Ah!" she said, and, at the door: "_Bonne chance!_"
Shayne left Hugo, after agreeing on a time and place for their meetingin the afternoon. The hours passed slowly. Hugo took another drink, andthen, exerting his judgment and will, he refrained from taking more. Atnoon he partook of a light meal. He thought, or imagined, that theecstasy of the day before was showing some signs of decline. It occurredto him that the people might be very sober and quiet before the war wasa thing to be written into the history of France.
The sun was shining. He found a place in the shade where he could avoidit. He ordered a glass of beer, tasted it, and forgot to finish it. Theelation of his first hours had passed. But the thing within him that hadcaused it was by no means dead. As he sat there, his muscles tensed withthe picturization of what was soon to be. He saw the grim shadows of theenemy. He felt the hot splash of blood. For one suspended second he wasashamed of himself, and then he stamped out that shame as beingsomething very much akin to cowardice.
He wondered why Shayne was joining the Legion and what sort of person hewas underneath his rather haughty exterior. A man of character,evidently, and one who was weary of the world to which he had beenprivileged. Hugo's reverie veered to his mother and father. He tried toimagine what they would think of his enlistment, of him in the war; andeven what they thought of him from the scant and scattered informationhe had supplied. He was sure that he would justify himself. He feltpurged and free and noble. His strength was a thing of wreck and ruin,given to the world at a time when wreck and ruin were needed to set itright. It was odd that such a product should emerge from the dusty brainof a college professor in a Bible-ridden town.
Hugo had not possessed a religion for a long time. Now, wondering onanother tangent if the war might not bring about his end, he thoughtabout it. He realized that he would hate himself for murmuring a prayeror asking protection. He was gamer than the Cross-obsessed weaklings whowere not wise enough to look life in the face and not brave enough todraw the true conclusions from what they saw. True conclusions? Hemeditated. What did it matter--agnosticism, atheism, pantheism--anythingbut the savage and anthropomorphic twaddle that had been doled out sincethe Israelites singled out Jehovah from among their many gods. He wouldnot commit himself. He would go back with his death to the place wherehe had been before he was born and feel no more regret than he had inthat oblivious past. Meanwhile he would fight! He moved restively andwaited for Shayne with growin
g impatience.
Until that chaotic and gorgeous hour he had lived for nothing, provednothing, accomplished nothing. Society was no better in any way becausehe had lived. He excepted the lives he had saved, the few favours he haddone. That was nothing in proportion to his powers. He was his ownmeasure, and by his own efforts would he satisfy himself. War! He flexedhis arms. War. His black eyes burned with a formidable light.
Then Shayne came. Walking with long strides. A ghostly smile on hislips. A darkness in his usually pale-blue eyes. Hugo liked him. Theysaid a few words and walked toward the recruiting-tent. A _poilu_ insteely blue looked at them and saw that they were good. He profferedpapers. They signed. That night they marched for the first time. A weeklater they were sweating and swearing over the French manual of arms.Hugo had offered his services to the commanding officer at the camp andbeen summarily denied an audience or a chance to exhibit his abilities.When they reached the lines--that would be time enough. Well, he couldwait until those lines were reached.
