“Dans le vieux parc solitaire et glacée,”
and the sentries of some Jäger regiment will catch the sound of thin voices floating across the night. They will be still arguing over the same old questions, those two foolish ghosts, those questions whose solution the rest of the world has long since decided to ignore.
“But look here now, honestly, surely Brooke is not too bad; listen to this ...” and the faint words of “Mamua” would be borne over last year’s leaves.
But the elder ghost would shake his head; and a thin reedy voice would pipe—
“No, it won’t do, old man, won’t do, only a whispering gallery.” And they would pass on, still arguing, still differing, and still, apparently, very good friends.
And the two German sentries would look at one another sympathetically.
“Kriegs-gefangeners, Fritz,” one would say, “captured in the great war. There were a lot of ’em here, and those two, you’ll always see them walkin’ up and down there talking the most awful rot, all about poetry and things. Poor fellows! probably a little wrong in the head, they were, a bit maddish you know; they look a bit that way.”
And it is not for me to deny it.