all roads lead to calvary-第44章

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been　lending　money　to　Russia　to　enable　her　to　build　railways；　and　that　when　they　were　complete　France　and　Russia　would　fall　upon　us　suddenly。　　'The　Fatherland　in　danger！'　　It　may　be　lies　or　it　may　not；　what　is　one　to　do？　　What　would　you　have　doneeven　if　you　could　have　done　anything？〃

〃He's　right；〃　said　a　dreamy…eyed　looking　man；　laying　down　the　book　he　had　been　reading。　　〃We　should　have　done　just　the　same。　　'My　country；　right　or　wrong。'　　After　all；　it　is　an　ideal。〃

A　dark；　black…bearded　man　raised　himself　painfully　upon　his　elbow。　He　was　a　tailor　in　the　Rue　Parnesse；　and　prided　himself　on　a　decided　resemblance　to　Victor　Hugo。

〃It's　a　noble　ideal；〃　he　said。　　〃La　Patrie！　　The　great　Mother。　Right　or　wrong；　who　shall　dare　to　harm　her？　　Yes；　if　it　was　she　who　rose　up　in　her　majesty　and　called　to　us。〃　　He　laughed。　　〃What　does　it　mean　in　reality：　　Germania；　Italia；　La　France；　Britannia？　　Half　a　score　of　pompous　old　muddlers　with　their　fat　wives　egging　them　on：　　sons　of　the　fools　before　them；　talkers　who　have　wormed　themselves　into　power　by　making　frothy　speeches　and　fine　promises。　My　Country！〃　he　laughed　again。　　〃Look　at　them。　　Can't　you　see　their　swelling　paunches　and　their　flabby　faces？　　Half　a　score　of　ambitious　politicians；　gouty　old　financiers；　bald…headed　old　toffs；　with　their　waxed　moustaches　and　false　teeth。　　That's　what　we　mean　when　we　talk　about　'My　Country'：　　a　pack　of　selfish；　soulless；　muddle…headed　old　men。　　And　whether　they're　right　or　whether　they're　wrong；　our　duty　is　to　fight　at　their　biddingto　bleed　for　them；　to　die　for　them；　that　they　may　grow　more　sleek　and　prosperous。〃　　He　sank　back　on　his　pillow　with　another　laugh。

Sometimes　they　agreed　it　was　the　newspapers　that　made　warthat　fanned　every　trivial　difference　into　a　vital　question　of　national　honourthat；　whenever　there　was　any　fear　of　peace；　re…stoked　the　fires　of　hatred　with　their　never…failing　stories　of　atrocities。　　At　other　times　they　decided　it　was　the　capitalists；　the　traders；　scenting　profit　for　themselves。　　Some　held　it　was　the　politicians；　dreaming　of　going　down　to　history　as　Richelieus　or　as　Bismarcks。　　A　popular　theory　was　that　cause　for　war　was　always　discovered　by　the　ruling　classes　whenever　there　seemed　danger　that　the　workers　were　getting　out　of　hand。　　In　war；　you　put　the　common　people　back　in　their　place；　revived　in　them　the　habits　of　submission　and　obedience。　　Napoleon　the　Little；　it　was　argued；　had　started　the　war　of　1870　with　that　idea。　　Russia　had　welcomed　the　present　war　as　an　answer　to　the　Revolution　that　was　threatening　Czardom。　　Others　contended　it　was　the　great　munition　industries；　aided　by　the　military　party；　the　officers　impatient　for　opportunities　of　advancement；　the　strategists　eager　to　put　their　theories　to　the　test。　　A　few　of　the　more　philosophical　shrugged　their　shoulders。　It　was　the　thing　itself　that　sooner　or　later　was　bound　to　go　off　of　its　own　accord。　　Half　every　country's　energy；　half　every　country's　time　and　money　was　spent　in　piling　up　explosives。　　In　every　country　envy　and　hatred　of　every　other　country　was　preached　as　a　religion。　They　called　it　patriotism。　　Sooner　or　later　the　spark　fell。

A　wizened　little　man　had　been　listening　to　it　all　one　day。　　He　had　a　curiously　rat…like　face；　with　round；　red；　twinkling　eyes；　and　a　long；　pointed　nose　that　twitched　as　he　talked。

〃I'll　tell　you　who　makes　all　the　wars；〃　he　said。　　〃It's　you　and　me；　my　dears：　　we　make　the　wars。　　We　love　them。　　That's　why　we　open　our　mouths　and　swallow　all　the　twaddle　that　the　papers　give　us；　and　cheer　the　fine；　black…coated　gentlemen　when　they　tell　us　it's　our　sacred　duty　to　kill　Germans；　or　Italians；　or　Russians；　or　anybody　else。　　We　are　just　crazy　to　kill　something：　　it　doesn't　matter　what。　　If　it's　to　be　Germans；　we　shout　'A　Berlin！'；　and　if　it's　to　be　Russians　we　cheer　for　Liberty。　　I　was　in　Paris　at　the　time　of　the　Fashoda　trouble。　　How　we　hissed　the　English　in　the　cafes！　　And　how　they　glared　back　at　us！　　They　were　just　as　eager　to　kill　us。　Who　makes　a　dog　fight？　　Why；　the　dog。　　Anybody　can　do　it。　　Who　could　make　us　fight　each　other；　if　we　didn't　want　to？　　Not　all　the　king's　horses　and　all　the　King's　men。　　No；　my　dears；　it's　we　make　the　wars。　　You　and　me；　my　dears。〃

There　came　a　day　in　early　spring。　　All　night　long　the　guns　had　never　ceased。　　It　sounded　like　the　tireless　barking　of　ten　thousand　giant　dogs。　　Behind　the　hills；　the　whole　horizon；　like　a　fiery　circle；　was　ringed　with　flashing　light。　　Shapeless　forms；　bent　beneath　burdens；　passed　in　endless　procession　through　the　village。　Masses　of　rushing　men　swept　like　shadowy　phantoms　through　the　fitfully…illumined　darkness。　　Beneath　that　everlasting　barking；　Joan　would　hear；　now　the　piercing　wail　of　a　child；　now　a　clap　of　thunder　that　for　the　moment　would　drown　all　other　sounds；　followed　by　a　faint；　low；　rumbling　crash；　like　the　shooting　of　coals　into　a　cellar。　　The　wounded　on　their　beds　lay　with　wide…open；　terrified　eyes；　moving　feverishly　from　side　to　side。

At　dawn　the　order　came　that　the　hospital　was　to　be　evacuated。　　The　ambulances　were　already　waiting　in　the　street。　　Joan　flew　up　the　ladder　to　her　loft；　the　other　side　of　the　yard。　　Madame　Lelanne　was　already　there。　　She　had　thrown　a　few　things　into　a　bundle；　and　her　foot　was　again　upon　the　ladder；　when　it　seemed　to　her　that　someone　struck　her；　hurling　her　back　upon　the　floor；　and　the　house　the　other　side　of　the　yard　rose　up　into　the　air；　and　then　fell　quite　slowly；　and　a　cloud　of　dust　hid　it　from　her　sight。

Madame　Lelanne　must　have　carried　her　down　the　ladder。　　She　was　standing　in　the　yard；　and　the　dust　was　choking　her。　　Across　the　street；　beyond　the　ruins　of　the　hospital；　swarms　of　men　were　running　about　like　ants　when　their　nest　has　been　disturbed。　　Some　were　running　this　way；　and　some　that。　　And　then　they　would　turn　and　run　back　again；　making　dancing　movements　round　one　another　and　jostling　one　another。　　The　guns　had　ceased；　and　instead；　it　sounded　as　if　all　the　babies　in　the　world　were　playing　with　their　rattles。　Suddenly　Madame　Lelanne　reappeared　out　of　the　dust；　and　seizing　Joan；　dragged　her　through　a　dark　opening　and　down　a　flight　of　steps；　and　then　left　her。　　She　was　in　a　great　vaulted　cellar。　　A　faint　light　crept　in　through　a　grated　window　at　the　other　end。　There　was　a　long　table　against　the　wall；　and　in　front　of　it　a　bench。　　She　staggered　to　it　and　sat　down；　leaning　against　the　damp　wall。　　The　place　was　very　silent。　　Suddenly　she　began　to　laugh。　She　tried　to　stop　herself；　but　couldn't。　　And　then　she　heard　footsteps　descending；　and　her　memory　came　back　to　her　with　a　rush。　They　were　German　footsteps；　she　felt　sure　by　the　sound：　　they　were　so　slow　and　heavy。　　They　should　not　find　her　in　hysterics；　anyhow。　She　fixed　her　teeth　into　the　wooden　table　in　front　of　her　and　held　on　to　it　with　clenched　hands。　　She　had　recovered　herself　before　the　footsteps　had　finished　their　descent。　　With　a　relief　that　made　it　difficult　for　her　not　to　begin　laughing　again；　she　found　it　was　Madame　Lelanne　and　Monsieur　Dubos。　　They　were　carrying　something　between　them。　　She　hardly　recognized　Dubos　at　first。　　His　beard　was　gone；　and　a　line　of　flaming　scars　had　taken　its　place。　　They　laid　their　burden　on　the　table。　　It　was　one　of　the　wounded　men　from　the　hut。　　They　told　her　they　were　bringing　down　two　more。　　The　hut　itself　had　not　been　hit；　but　the　roof　had　been　torn　off　by　the　force　of　the　explosion；　and　the　others　had　been　killed　by　the　falling　beams。　　Joan　wanted　to　return　with　them；　but　Madame　Lelanne　had　assumed　an　air　of　authority；　and　told　her　she　would　be　more　useful　where　she　was。　　From　the　top　of　the　steps　they　threw　down　bundles　of　straw；　on　which　they　laid　the　wounded　men；　and　Joan　tended　them；　while　Madame　Lelanne　and　the　little　chemist　went　up　and　down　continuously。　　Before　evening　the　place；　considering　all　things；　was　fairly　habitable。　　Madame　Lelanne　brought　down　the　great　stove　from　the　hut；　and　breaking　a　pane　of　glass　in　the　barred　window；　they　fixed　it　up　with　its　chimney　and　lighted　it。　From　time　to　time　the　turmoil　above　them　would　break　out　again：　the　rattling；　and　sometimes　a　dull　rumbling　as　of　rushing　water。　But　only　a　faint　murmur　of　it　penetrated　into　the　cellar。　　Towards　night　it　became　quiet　again。

How　long　Joan　remained　there　she　was　never　quite　sure。　　There　was　little　difference　between　day　and　night。　　After　it　had　been　quiet　for　an　hour　or　so；　Madame　Lelanne　would　go　out；　to　return　a　little　later　with　a　wounded　man　upon　her　back；　and　when　one　died；　she　would　throw　him　across　her　shoulder　and　disappear　again　up　the　steps。　　Sometimes　it　was　a　Frenchman　and　sometimes　a　German　she　brought　in。　　One　gathered　that　the　fight　for　the　village　still　continued。　　There　was　but　little　they　could　do　for　them　beyond　dressing　their　wounds　and　easing　their　pain。　　Joan　and　the　little　chemist　took　it　in　turns　to　relieve　one　another。　　If　Madame　Lelanne　ever　slept；　it　was　when　she　would　sit　in　the　shadow　behind　the　stove；　her　hands　upon　her　knees。　　Dubos　had　been　in　the　house　when　it　had　fallen。　　Madame　Lelanne　had　discovered　him　pinned　against　a　wall　underneath　a　great　oak　beam　that　had　withstood　the　falling　debris。　　His　beard　had　been　burnt　off；　but　otherwise　he　had　been　unharmed。

She　seemed　to　be　living　in　a　dream。　　She　could　not　shake　from　her　the　feeling　that　it　was　not　bodies　but　souls　that　she　was　tending。　The　men　themselves　gave　colour　to　this　fancy　of　hers。　　Stripped　of　their　poor；　stained；　tattered　uniforms；　they　were　neither　French　nor　Germans。　　Friend　or　foe！　it　was　already　but　a　memory。　　Often；　awakening　out　of　a　sleep；　they　would　look　across　at　one　another　and　smile　as　to　a　comrade。　　A　great　peace　seemed　to　have　entered　there。　Faint　murmurs　as　from　some　distant　troubled　world　would　steal　at　times　into　the　silence。　　It　brought　a　pang　of　pity；　but　it　did　not　drive　away　the　quiet　that　dwelt　there。

Once；　someone　who　must　have　known　the　place　and　had　descended　the　steps　softly；　sat　there　among　them　and　talked　with　them。　　Joan　could　not　remember　seeing　him　enter。　　Perhaps　unknowing；　she　had　fallen　to　sleep　for　a　few　minutes。　　Madame　Lelanne　was　seated　by　the　stove；　her　great　coarse　hands　upon　her　knees；　her　patient；　dull；　slow…moving　eyes　fixed　upon　the　speaker's　face。　　Dubos　was　half　standing；　half　resting　against　the　table；　his　arms　folded　upon　his　breast。　　The　wounded　men　had　raised　themselves　upon　the　straw　and　were　listening。　　Some　leant　upon　their　elbows；　some　sat　with　their　hands　clasped　round　their　knees；　and　one；　with　head　bent　down；　remained　with　his　face　hidden　in　his　hands。

The　speaker　sat　a　little　way　apart。　　The　light　from　the　oil　lamp；　suspended　from　the　ceiling；　fell　upon　his　face。　　He　wore　a　peasant's　blouse。　　It　seemed　to　her　a　face　she　knew。　　Possibly　she　had　passed　him　in　the　village　street　and　had　looked　at　him　without　remembering。　　It　was　his　eyes　that　for　long　years　afterwards　still　haunted　her。　　She　did　not　notice　at　the　time　what　language　he　was　speaking。　　But　there　were　none　who　did　not　understand　him。

〃You　think　of　God　as　of　a　great　King；〃　he　said；　〃a　Ruler　who　orders　all　things：　　who　could　change　all　things　in　the　twinkling　of　an　eye。　　You　see　the　cruelty　and　the　wrong　around　you。　　And　you　say　to　yourselves：　　'He　has　ordered　it。　　If　He　would；　He　could　have　willed　it　differently。'　　So　that　in　your　heart