The Prussian Officer | Page 6

must
go and take the coffee to the Captain. He was too stunned to understand
it. He only knew it was inevitable--inevitable however long he lay
inert.

At last, after heaving at himself, for he seemed to be a mass of inertia,
he got up. But he had to force every one of his movements from behind,
with his will. He felt lost, and dazed, and helpless. Then he clutched
hold of the bed, the pain was so keen. And looking at his thighs, he saw
the darker bruises on his swarthy flesh and he knew that, if he pressed
one of his fingers on one of the bruises, he should faint. But he did not
want to faint---he did not want anybody to know. No one should ever
know. It was between him and the Captain. There were only the two
people in the world now--himself and the Captain.
Slowly, economically, he got dressed and forced himself to walk.
Everything was obscure, except just what he had his hands on. But he
managed to get through his work. The very pain revived his dull senses.
The worst remained yet. He took the tray and went up to the Captain's
room. The officer, pale and heavy, sat at the table. The orderly, as he
saluted, felt himself put out of existence. He stood still for a moment
submitting to his own nullification, then he gathered himself, seemed to
regain himself, and then the Captain began to grow vague, unreal, and
the younger soldier's heart beat up. He clung to this situation--that the
Captain did not exist--so that he himself might live. But when he saw
his officer's hand tremble as he took the coffee, he felt everything
falling shattered. And he went away, feeling as if he himself were
coming to pieces, disintegrated. And when the Captain was there on
horseback, giving orders, while he himself stood, with rifle and
knapsack, sick with pain, he felt as if he must shut his eyes--as if he
must shut his eyes on everything. It was only the long agony of
marching with a parched throat that filled him with one single,
sleep-heavy intention: to save himself.

II
He was getting used even to his parched throat. That the snowy peaks
were radiant among the sky, that the whity-green glacier-river twisted
through its pale shoals, in the valley below, seemed almost supernatural.
But he was going mad with fever and thirst. He plodded on
uncomplaining. He did not want to speak, not to anybody. There were

two gulls, like flakes of water and snow, over the river. The scent of
green rye soaked in sunshine came like a sickness. And the march
continued, monotonously, almost like a bad sleep.
At the next farm-house, which stood low and broad near the high road,
tubs of water had been put out. The soldiers clustered round to drink.
They took off their helmets, and the steam mounted from their wet hair.
Captain sat on horseback, watching. He needed to see his orderly. His
hel-met threw a dark shadow over his light, fierce eyes, but his
moustache and mouth and chin were distinct in the sunshine. The
orderly must move under the presence of the figure of the horseman. It
was not that he was afraid, or cowed. It was as if he was disembowllled,
made empty, like an empty shell. He felt himself as nothing, a shadow
creeping under the sunshine. And, thirsty as he was, he could scarcely
drink, feeling the Captain near him. He would not take off his helmet to
wipe his wet hair. He wanted to stay in shadow, not to be forced into
consciousness. Starting, he saw the light heel of the officer prick the
belly of the horse; the Captain cantered away, and he himself could
relapse into vacancy.
Nothing, however, could give him back his living place in the hot,
bright morning. He felt like a gap among it all. Whereas the Captain
was prouder, overriding. A hot flash went through the young servant's
body. The Captain was firmer and prouder with life, he himself was
empty as a shadow. Again the flash went through him, dazing him out.
But his heart ran a little firmer.
The company turned up the hill, to make a loop for the return. Below,
from among the trees, the farm-bell clanged. He saw the labourers,
mowing barefoot at the thick grass, leave off their work and go
downhill, their scythes hanging over their shoulders, like long, bright
claws curving down behind them. They seemed like dream-people, as if
they had no relation to himself. He felt as in a blackish dream: as if all
the other things were there and had form, but he himself was only a
consciousness, a gap that could think