But Teresa said nothing.
“One does what one must. And after all, one is always just a man,” he said. “And if one has wounds—à la guerre comme à la guerre!”
His voice came out of the darkness like a ghost.
“Ah!” sighed Kate. “It makes one wonder what a man is, that he must needs expose himself to the horrors of all the other people.”
There was silence for a moment.
“Man is a column of blood, with a voice in it,” he said. “And when the voice is still, and he is only a column of blood, he is better.”
She went away to her room sadly, hearing the sound of infinite exhaustion in his voice. As if he had a hole, a wound in the middle of him. She could almost feel it, in her own bowels.
And if, with his efforts, he killed himself?—Then, she said, Cipriano would come apart, and it would be all finished.
Ah, why should a man have to make these efforts on behalf of a beastly, malevolent people who weren’t worth it! Better let the world come to an end, if that was what it wanted.
She thought of Teresa soothing him, soothing him and saying nothing. And him like a great helpless, wounded thing! It was rather horrible, really. Herself, she would have to expostulate, she would have to try to prevent him. Why should men damage themselves with this useless struggling and fighting, and then come home to their women to be restored!