On the other side of his horse, his comrade lies in a trench hemmed in by heavy beams. Both men are already apparently quite dead: it is too late for the army surgeon or nurse. Death has come swiftly in the midst of action, and the tide of battle has swept on, leaving them behind. The horse belonging to the man in the trench has died with his rider; we see only his fine head.
The other horse, though unable to rise, is still alive. As he lies stretched on the ground, we see what muscular strength he had,—a beautiful creature whose glossy hide and sweeping mane and tail show the pride his owner took in him. The two have shared together all the hardships of the campaign,—long journeys, short rations, extremes of cold and heat, fatigue and privation. The horse has learned to listen for the familiar voice, so strong in command, so reassuring in danger. Now even in his dying agony he turns with touching devotion to his master. Not a sound comes from the closed lips, not a flutter of the eyelids disturbs the calm of the face.
Lifting his head for a last effort, the splendid creature sends forth a prolonged whinny. This must surely arouse the sleeper, and he fixes his eyes on the impassive countenance with an almost human expression of anxiety and entreaty. All in vain, and in another moment the flames and smoke will envelop them, and soon nothing will remain to show where they fell.
This is the story we read in our picture of War. There is nothing here to tell us whether the fallen riders are among the victors or the vanquished. We do not care to know, for in either case their fate is equally tragic. It was England's iron duke who said "Nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won."
Fr. Hanfstaengl, photo. John Andrew & Son, Sc.
WAR
National Gallery, London
Various small touches in the composition add to the significance of the scene. Fresh flowers among the heaps of stones show how recently there was a smiling garden where now all is so ghastly. On the ground lie an embroidered saddle-cloth, a bugle, and a sword, emblems of the military life.
It is said that the horrors of war have never yet been faithfully portrayed. Those who have lived through the experience are unwilling to recall it, while those who draw upon their imaginations must fall short of the reality. Whenever any powerful imagination comes somewhere near the truth, people turn away shocked, unable to endure the spectacle.[17] Even this picture is almost too painful to contemplate, yet it selects only a single episode from a battlefield strewn with scenes of equal horror.
[17] As when the exhibition of Verestschagin's pictures was forbidden.