The Prussian Officer

The Prussian Officer, by D. H.
Lawrence

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Title: The Prussian Officer
Author: D. H. Lawrence
Release Date: August 31, 2007 [EBook #22480]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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THE PRUSSIAN OFFICER
By D. H. Lawrence
LONDON

DUCKWORTH & CO,
3 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN
Published December 1914

THE PRUSSIAN OFFICER

I
They had marched more than thirty kilometres since dawn, along the
white, hot road where occasional thickets of trees threw a moment of
shade, then out into the glare again. On either hand, the valley, wide
and shallow, glittered with heat; dark green patches of rye, pale young
corn, fallow and meadow and black pine woods spread in a dull, hot
diagram under a glistening sky. But right in front the mountains ranged
across, pale blue and very still, snow gleaming gently out of the deep
atmosphere. And towards the mountains, on and on, the regiment
marched between the rye fields and the meadows, between the scraggy
fruit trees set regularly on either side the high road. The burnished, dark
green rye threw on a suffocating heat, the mountains drew gradually
nearer and more distinct. While the feet of the soldiers grew hotter,
sweat ran through their hair under their helmets, and their knapsacks
could burn no more in contact with their shoulders, but seemed instead
to give off a cold, prickly sensation.
He walked on and on in silence, staring at the mountains ahead, that
rose sheer out of the land, and stood fold behind fold, half earth, half
heaven, the heaven, the banner with slits of soft snow, in the pale,
bluish peaks.
He could now walk almost without pain. At the start, he had
determined not to limp. It had made him sick to take the first steps, and
during the first mile or so, he had compressed his breath, and the cold
drops of sweat had stood on his forehead. But he had walked it off.

What were they after all but bruises! He had looked at them, as he was
getting up: deep bruises on the backs of his thighs. And since he had
made his first step in the morning, he had been conscious of them, till
now he had a tight, hot place in his chest, with suppressing the pain,
and holding himself in. There seemed no air when he breathed. But he
walked almost lightly.
The Captain's hand had trembled at taking his coffee at dawn: his
orderly saw it again. And he saw the fine figure of the Captain
wheeling on horseback at the farm-house ahead, a handsome figure in
pale blue uniform with facings of scarlet, and the metal gleaming on
the black helmet and the sword-scabbard, and dark streaks of sweat
coming on the silky bay horse. The orderly felt he was connected with
that figure moving so suddenly on horseback: he followed it like a
shadow, mute and inevitable and damned by it. And the officer was
always aware of the tramp of the company behind, the march of his
orderly among the men.
The Captain was a tall man of about forty, grey at the temples. He had a
handsome, finely knit figure, and was one of the best horsemen in the
West. His orderly, having to rub him down, admired the amazing
riding-muscles of his loins.
For the rest, the orderly scarcely noticed the officer any more than he
noticed, himself. It was rarely he saw his master's face: he did not look
at it. The Captain had reddish-brown, stilt hair, that he wore short upon
his skull. His moustache was also cut short and bristly over a full,
brutal mouth. His face was rather rugged, the cheeks thin. Perhaps the
man was the more handsome for the deep lines in his face, the irritable
tension of his brow, which gave him the look of a man who fights with
life. His fair eyebrows stood bushy over light blue eyes that were
always flashing with cold fire.
He was a Prussian aristocrat, haughty and overbearing. But his mother
had been a Polish Countess. Having made too many gambling debts
when he was young, he had ruined his prospects in the Army, and
remained an infantry captain. He had never married: his position did
not allow of it, and no woman had ever moved him to it. His time he

spent riding--occasionally he