THE FOUR FEARS OF OUR GENERAL
Souvenirs of Childhood
The following conversation took place one evening upon one of those points of Algeria where we Frenchmen have had to fight so desperately and so often. We had encamped, or rather we had bivouacked, in a charming little valley at the foot of a mountain, which, picturesque as it was, suggested only evil things.
Our young General had gathered us together near his tent. He had been giving us, with his habitual clearness, instructions for the battle which was soon to begin, and which might require the greatest effort both on the part of our men and of ourselves. It was planned that we should start out quietly before daylight, noiselessly scale the mountain, and force the enemy, at the point of the bayonet if possible, with powder and shot if necessary, to cede to us the annoying position which they occupied. Everything being arranged, and no one having a desire to sleep, we naturally began to chat. The conversation turned to reminiscences; not to recent memories, but recollections of childhood. This will not astonish those who know what passes in the head of a soldier on the eve of a battle. The words duty, conscience, fear and courage were frequently uttered. Stories and anecdotes had been told illustrating the varied and often contradictory ideas which these words evoked, and we had begun to talk about our personal experiences. The General, who had listened until then, contenting himself by letting drop an occasional opportune word, being urged to tell us something in his turn, began as follows:
“It is not enough, at the critical hour of one’s existence,” he said, “to be firmly resolved to do one’s entire duty, it is necessary above all to know where and what it is. If it is one of those doubtful cases, embarrassing the intelligence of the full-grown man, how much more difficult must it be for the unformed mind of a child. That which agitates the spirit of a little one, at certain trying moments, is a subject worthy the attention of older people, and it is my opinion that one of the surest means of knowing the man is to study him in the child. The child contains all the essential elements of the man. Though he is bounded by an infantile horizon his soul is none the less a human one. Two things, although of very different nature, and although they date back to the earliest years of my existence, have left me the remembrance of greater perplexities than those which have assailed my spirit at any other epoch of my life. Never has my soldier’s conscience been submitted to more cruel tests than those to which I was twice subjected as a little boy.
“Smoke some of my cigars, make yourselves some grog, and I will tell you one of these episodes of my childhood. After which we must try to get some sleep.”
“I was a very little fellow, only six years old; it was not more than two years since I had begun to wear trousers. My father, who was captain of a ship at that time, being almost always on the sea, I had been brought up by two women, my mother and my aunt—Aunt Marie! I loved them equally. I had, in fact, two mothers. Although they were sensible people, they both spoiled me.”
‘One can only spoil that which is bad,’ said Aunt Marie.
‘And Jacques is good,’ added my mother.
“It appears that at five years of age I was angelic. You see I have changed,” said the general, interrupting his tale an instant, and addressing himself to one of us who had smiled a little. “What do you expect, my dear Robert, life does not leave intact all those whom it touches.”
“Say rather, General,” replied the young officer who had been addressed—a good fellow, although a little audacious at times—“if you have changed, we know well that it is almost always to our advantage.”
The General shook his head and continued: “If I had never left my two mothers, it is very probable that I should have been as gentle as a girl. However this may be, and whether I was good or bad, between these two charming women, I was the happiest little being in creation, and curiously enough, I fully realized my happiness. My aunt, who played more of a part than my mother in this story which I am telling you, was a tall and remarkably beautiful person. My mother alone equalled her in beauty, and that for a very simple reason—they were twins, and resembled one another closely. Happily, their costumes differed completely, and prevented me from making a mistake; my mother belonged to the world, and Aunt Marie did not. Aunt Marie was the Superior of the Sisters of Charity of a large military hospital in the town of —— where I was born. We lived in this town during the long absences of my father. Mamma and her sister, whom I often called “Aunt Sister Marie,” divided between them my entire affection. It was indeed a great joy when my mother took me to see Aunt Marie. Although this pleasure was to be found only between the cold walls of a hospital, it was always greatly desired, and awaited with the very greatest impatience on my part.
“To run in the vast, long court where the convalescents were accustomed to walk, or to sit in the sunshine, to wander around that immense garden, which was my Place du Carrousel and my Champs de Mars, to be caught in passing, to be stopped in my wild flight, either by one of the convalescent soldiers who were amused by my antics, or by one of the sisters of Aunt Marie, or above all by Aunt Marie herself, who, when seeing me too heated, left her room, which served her also as a pharmacy, to come and quiet me and kiss me; to gallop over the sandy grounds of this court, riding horse-back on a cane, or on the crutch of an aged, infirm sister, who usually sat knitting on one of the benches—all this was for me the joy of joys.
“The day of which I speak, a beautiful summer day, I had obtained permission to play in my dear court for a whole hour. My mother had to make a visit in the town, which would have been tiresome for me. She had left me in charge of her sister and Aunt Marie, from her open window, was not to lose sight of me for a moment. The aged Sister Rose was asked to watch me as well, and then I had her crutch, without which she was unable to walk. You see I was well guarded.
“Aunt Marie, having mounted to her private room, saw from her window that a door of the large building at the extremity of the court, a double door, and one which I had always seen shut, was open. She hailed one of the nurses and asked him to shut it; but from his answer she probably judged that it was not possible, for it stayed open, and Aunt Marie having called me to her, said: ‘You see that large open door, at the end of the court, little Jacques?’ ‘Yes, Aunt Marie.’ ‘Very well! It is the door of a large room, very dark and very cold, where even big people are not permitted to enter. It is written over the door that entrance is forbidden to the public! Promise me, dear, not to go there.’
“I gave the promise with the intention of keeping it, but I had not rendered due count of the fascinations of Sister Rose’s crutch. Having jumped about a great deal, having pranced round and round the timid Sister Rose, having thoughtlessly knocked against, and annoyed in a thousand ways the soldiers who were playing at drogue, (a game which always makes me laugh, as pieces of wood are placed on the noses of the losers.) I was, as you may imagine, very much excited; my horse ended by running away with me, and, instead of stopping on the threshold of the forbidden door, which more than once I had had the imprudence to approach too closely, he carried me irresistibly to the extremity of the dark room, which I ought not to have entered. I was going so rapidly that before I had time to think I arrived with a shock against the wall at the farther end. I knocked myself so severely that I raised a big bump upon my forehead, which brought me effectually to my senses. My steed, Sister Rose’s crutch, fatigued by the violence of our course, fell, out of breath, but not without noise, at my feet. The silence of the room sent back from its four corners the echo of the fall. Startled by this strange sound, I turned around quickly. I was already impressed by the sense of my disobedience. I had done wrong to come there.
“The sudden change from the light to the obscurity which surrounded me, the cold chill of that room, following quickly the warm atmosphere of the court which I had left all in sunshine, added to my uneasiness, and the rest did not reassure me. A lugubrious row of large white beds, all alike, enclosed by curtains of a most severe aspect, which I had not seen in the rapidity of my entrance, occupied the whole length of the room at my left. Not a breath came from behind these curtains; the beds then were empty. I did not like to be alone among these shadows. The blinds being shut, the daylight ended a few steps from the door by which I had come into this redoubtable place, and did not penetrate to my corner. For an instant I dared not stir, and yet I well knew that I must leave this spot, forbidden to grown persons, just as quickly as I could. Intimidated by my surroundings, and above all by the obscurity and the silence, which are not the friends of children, even the sound of my breathing frightened me; I heard, not without fear, the rapid beatings of my heart. Forgetting at once both Sister Rose and my horse, I resolved to reach the door, and I walked instinctively on the tips of my toes so as to make as little disturbance as possible. When I had taken about twenty steps, hesitating from time to time to regain my courage, seeing that after all I approached the light, my presence of mind gradually came back to me and I cast about one of those questioning regards of a child who wishes, while he has the opportunity, to profit by the occasion and explore the region into which he has unwittingly ventured. I found myself particularly attracted toward a large black bench which was placed along the wall to the left of the entrance, and which occupied more space than a bed.
“Why was this bench, larger and a little lower than the benches in the court, two-thirds covered by a white sheet? Was anything hidden under this sheet? It certainly appeared so to me. While asking myself these questions, I had already arrived three-quarters of the way; a little more daylight reached me thereby. Light is a blessing at any age, but for a child it is sometimes a remedy for all ills. Less anxious as to what might happen to me in the room itself, I began to be more uneasy in regard to what would pass when I had left it. What would Aunt Marie think of my disobedience? Truly I was in no great hurry to regain the court, and I said to myself that being there, it would not cost me any more to learn why a white sheet covered that big bench. In a few steps I drew still nearer to it. The top of the bench was uneven. Without doubt something was hidden there; but what? My curiosity carried me on, and without having the least idea of what I was going to discover, with a bold movement I lifted one entire end of the sheet.
“That which there appeared to my astonished eyes I shall never forget. I see it even yet, as I speak to you, as plainly as when I was six years old in the room of the hospital of ——. Yes, I see it and I shall see it all my life.
“I saw death! a dead person! for the first time.
“Since then I have seen many dead people, more than I can count; this one has rested in my memory more clearly than them all.
“That which I had uncovered was the head, white hair, nude shoulders and chest of a man already old, whose immobility and extraordinary pallor seemed inexpressibly terrible to me. I felt that I stood before a great event. Nothing can give an idea of the stupor which enveloped me. A hundred confusing questions surged in my brain. Has a man from his earliest years an intuition as to what will be the end of his life on earth? I firmly believe so. In any case I was not deceived for a single moment by the thought that I beheld a sleeping man. I understood that it was not a simple sleep. One is never so absent, so calm, when one only sleeps. But then what was it that I saw? What was he doing on the bench—that impassible being?
“‘Suppose I should call Aunt Marie?’ I said to myself; ‘Aunt Marie, who knows everything, and can do everything? Suppose, however, (but the simple thought seemed formidable to me) I should touch him first!’ And, in contradiction to the idea which I had that his sleep was not of that kind which could be disturbed. I said to myself again: ‘Perhaps he will get up. Perhaps he does not know that he is there.’
“I dared to place my hand on his shoulder. I drew it away quickly. That sort of cold was frightful.
“A dreadful thought flashed through my brain. The very truth of truths penetrated my inmost being. People must become like this when they are no longer alive. But then—— I had touched a dead man! I had thereby shown a disrespect toward him. I had troubled that which ought never to be troubled!
“My heart ceased to beat.”
“I imagined that I had done something irreparable. I tried to find a name for my action, which I judged abominable. The idea of sacrilege, one of those dreaded words of which a child does not comprehend the meaning, came into my mind, and I said to myself: ‘That is it, I have committed a sacrilege!’
“Terror took possession of me, and in my fright, instead of escaping through the door which was now quite near me, I took refuge, trembling, in the shadowy end of the room which had lately given me so much trouble to leave. Perhaps I hoped to escape more surely in the darkness from that vision, from that unexplained revelation of death which had then for the first time greeted me.
“I stood again with my face pressed against the wall at the end of the room prohibited to all, hardly breathing, without the power to cry, and not daring to turn round. I fell on my knees and, with a flood of tears, I demanded pardon of God for the great sin which I had committed, and prayed Him to show me the means of effacing it. Did God pardon me? I believe that he did, for I arose from my knees having formed a resolution to repair the wrong which I had done. But it must be done immediately, and all alone. I had uncovered the head of a dead man, and my duty was, first of all, to go and ask his pardon, and, secondly, to render him peaceful by recovering him as before.
“Such a resolution—the idea that he has a duty to accomplish—makes a man of even a child, once he has decided to perform it. I gathered together all my courage and started bravely enough. When I arrived a few steps from the bench and saw that terribly calm visage, with those marble lids closed forever, my heart failed me, and, taking flight, I very soon found myself at the end of the room.
“But strength alone, not will, failed me. Three times I returned, without being able to approach him closely—and yet, it was necessary to do so! I invoked the memory of Aunt Marie, of my mother, who would forgive me if I could repair my fault, of my father who was said to be so brave, and I made an effort to start again, repeating to myself when I was about to weaken, that the pardon of others, of myself as well, and above all, that of the dead man whom I had offended, could be obtained only at this price.
“I am astonished even now when I think of the amount of energy, the superhuman efforts to surmount an insurmountable fear, paralyzing him at each step, that was shown by the unhappy little boy that I then was. I have been in many a trying situation in my career as a soldier, but they have all been as nothing when compared to that one, which preceded them by so many years. What was I saying? Feeling myself ready to fail, with a supreme effort, I desperately finished my course. I stood before the dead man and demanded his pardon, with a voice which probably the dead alone could hear, because it resembled a dying breath, and my hand at last succeeded in covering the awful visage with the sheet which I thought necessary to his repose.
“That done, I arrived with a single bound in the middle of the court; but I was at the end of my strength, and giving vent to a sharp cry, I fell, deprived of all feeling, like a mortally wounded bird, at the feet of poor Sister Rose.”
“My fainting fit lasted, they say, about two hours. I recovered consciousness in the arms of Aunt Marie, who had heard my cry of distress. My mother had returned. On her knees before her sister and me, she bathed my forehead and temples and made me inhale something which burnt my nostrils a little but which smelt very good. I burst into tears and my first word, when I was able to speak, was to ask and re-ask pardon; and when I had to stop for want of breath, it was only to cry again, ‘Pardon! Pardon!’ for that which was to me an irredeemable fault.
“‘Pardon for what, my poor child?’ said my mother, when I had completely recovered consciousness. ‘Is it because you went into the big room?’ But Aunt Marie has already forgiven you. Do you not see how she kisses you?’
“The kiss, yes, that was the pardon of Aunt Marie, but it was not only of that which she knew that I needed forgiveness. All was not yet known. I felt that I must make a complete confession, and, in an account, broken by tears and sobs, I told ‘this all’ to Aunt Marie and my mother. I told them all that it had cost me for having lacked proper respect for the dead.
“My confession was not only complete, it was public; the surgeon of the hospital and five or six soldiers were around us.
“‘Ah!’ said one of the latter, addressing the doctor, ‘the child must have seen the old Marshal who was not able to recover from yesterday’s amputation.’
“When I had finished my tale, when by kind words they had established a relative calm in my conscience, when they had told me many times that the dead man could never again be angry, especially as I had asked his pardon, when Aunt Marie had made me understand besides that although one should respect and honor the dead one should not be afraid of them, a young sergeant who was there, and whom I had teased oftener than the others because he most frequently wore the piece of wood on his nose from losing at ‘drogue,’ asked permission of my mother to kiss ‘that little one.’
“When he had availed himself of the permission, which my mother willingly gave him, he said to her, as he placed me on his knee, ‘Madame, when one shows such courage as that at six years of age, there is little danger of his becoming cowardly later on. That mite will some day be a giant.’
“Whether I have become a giant or not,” said the general, relighting his cigar,—“I cannot say, but that which I do know is that in all my military experience I have never striven harder to be brave than I did that day when I was brought face to face with death for the first time.”
After listening to this story, we all of us realized that courage also consists in overcoming fear.
The general was right. This history of a child was at bottom the history of a man. It interested its hearers, and enabled each one of them to make use of it as a lesson for himself. It was not at all a bad preparation for the work of the following morning, which was likely to demand of each of us a great deal more of perseverance, of resolution and presence of mind, than of brilliancy and dash.
Adapted from the French by Adele Bacon.
(“The Second Fear,” of the “Four Fears of Our General,” will be published in the February issue.)
