Hospital
One long side of the hospital looks from its rows of windows to vineyards and the mountains. The smell of burning brushwood comes in, to the smell of the hospital.
Through all the vineyards these days they are burning the refuse of the vines. The smoke stays among the vines, lingering heavily. The purple smoke and the red and purple wine colours of the vines, and the purple mists of the distances, gathered away into the purple shadows of the mountains, make one think at twilight of the music of a violin, or of a flute.
The Number 18 is very bad. He does not know any one any more. He lies against a heap of cushions, his knees drawn up almost to his chin, his eyes wide open all the time, his hands picking at the covers.
The boy in the next bed keeps saying, "If my mother were here, she would know what to do. If my mother were here, she would save him."
There is a boy who wants some grapes. His whole body is shot to pieces. They do not dare give him even a sip of water. He keeps begging and begging for grapes. Very shortly the hillside under the windows will be heavy and purple with grapes.
There is a boy who talks about riding over everything. He keeps saying, "We rode right over them, we rode right over them."
There is another who keeps crying, "Oh, no, not that! Oh, no, not that!"
There is the petit père, who is getting smaller and smaller. When they are dying, they seem always to get smaller and smaller. He had a bullet through one lung, but it was out and he was getting well. Only, he caught cold.
He is from the north. His wife and his two little girls are somewhere in the country from which no news comes. He has had no news of them since he left them and went away to war, on the second day.
He used to talk of them all the time, and worry terribly.
But now he cannot talk at all, and he does not worry any more. He smiles quite happily and has no more grief.
When they do the dressings of Number 26 he crams his handkerchief into his mouth so that he may not scream. He shivers and trembles and the tears roll down his cheeks, very big tears. But he never makes a sound.
Number 15 is not a boy at all, but just a little sick thing. He is so very little in his bed. He is like a sparrow—the skeleton of a sparrow.
I feed him crumbs of bread, and sips of water, as if he were a sparrow.
How one loves a thing one has fed with a teaspoon.
I do not like No. 30. I am always so afraid that I shall in some way show how I dislike him. It is hateful of me, but I cannot like him. He screams at his dressings, and he is fat, and he sends out and buys cheeses and eats them.
The little Zouave is better again. That is the most dreadful thing, that it is so long. He takes so long to die. The days when he is better are the most cruel days.
To-day in the middle of the morning, he was beckoning to me with a feeble little thin brown hand.
I went over and bent down, for he can only whisper.
He said, "I said good morning to you when you first came in, and you did not know."
Number 4 is not going to die. The shade of death is gone from his young face.
He is going to lie for a long time on a rubber cushion that has a tube hanging down, quite long, like a tail.
Every day, for a long time, at the dressings I shall have to pull back the sheets and blankets and take away the hoop, and see that thing that used to be a big fine man lying quite helpless and of so strange a shape upon the rubber cushion with the tail.