The Broken Soldier and the Maid of France by Henry Van Dyke
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THE BROKEN SOLDIER AND THE MAID OF FRANCE
* * * * *
Books By Henry Van Dyke
The Broken Soldier and the Maid of France
The Americanism of Washington
The Christ Child in Art
The Lost Boy
The Mansion
The Story of the Other Wise Man
Harper & Brothers, New York
Established 1817
* * * * *
THE BROKEN SOLDIER AND THE MAID OF FRANCE
by
HENRY VAN DYKE
With Illustrations by Frank E. Schoonover
New York and London
Harper & Brothers Publishers
MCMXIX
[Illustration]
"God commands you," she cried. "It is for France."
CONTENTS
The Meeting at the Spring
The Green Confessional
The Absolving Dream
The Victorious Penance
The Meeting at the Spring
Along the old Roman road that crosses the rolling hills from the upper
waters of the Marne to the Meuse, a soldier of France was passing in
the night.
In the broader pools of summer moonlight he showed as a hale and husky
fellow of about thirty years, with dark hair and eyes and a handsome,
downcast face. His uniform was faded and dusty; not a trace of the
horizon-blue was left; only a gray shadow. He had no knapsack on his
back, no gun on his shoulder. Wearily and doggedly he plodded his way,
without eyes for the veiled beauty of the sleeping country. The quick,
firm military step was gone. He trudged like a tramp, choosing always
the darker side of the road.
He was a figure of flight, a broken soldier.
Presently the road led him into a thick forest of oaks and beeches, and
so to the crest of a hill overlooking a long open valley with wooded
heights beyond. Below him was the pointed spire of some temple or
shrine, lying at the edge of the wood, with no houses near it. Farther
down he could see a cluster of white houses with the tower of a church
in the center. Other villages were dimly visible up and down the valley
on either slope. The cattle were lowing from the barnyards. The cocks
crowed for the dawn. Already the moon had sunk behind the western
trees. But the valley was still bathed in its misty, vanishing light.
Over the eastern ridge the gray glimmer of the little day was rising,
faintly tinged with rose. It was time for the broken soldier to seek
his covert and rest till night returned.
So he stepped aside from the road and found a little dell thick with
underwoods, and in it a clear spring gurgling among the ferns and
mosses. Around the opening grew wild gooseberries and golden broom and
a few tall spires of purple foxglove. He drew off his dusty boots and
socks and bathed his feet in a small pool, drying them with fern
leaves. Then he took a slice of bread and a piece of cheese from his
pocket and made his breakfast. Going to the edge of the thicket, he
parted the branches and peered out over the vale.
Its eaves sloped gently to the level floor where the river loitered in
loops and curves. The sun was just topping the eastern hills; the heads
of the trees were dark against a primrose sky.
In the fields the hay had been cut and gathered. The aftermath was
already greening the moist places. Cattle and sheep sauntered out to
pasture. A thin silvery mist floated here and there, spreading in broad
sheets over the wet ground and shredding into filmy scarves and ribbons
as the breeze caught it among the pollard willows and poplars on the
border of the stream. Far away the water glittered where the river made
a sudden bend or a long smooth reach. It was like the flashing of
distant shields. Overhead a few white clouds climbed up from the north.
The rolling ridges, one after another, infolded the valley as far as
eye could see; pale green set in dark green, with here and there an arm
of forest running down on a sharp promontory to meet and turn the
meandering stream.
"It must be the valley of the Meuse," said the soldier. "My faith, but
France is beautiful and tranquil here!"
The northerly wind was rising. The clouds climbed more swiftly. The
poplars shimmered, the willows glistened, the veils of mist vanished.
From very far away there came a rumbling thunder, heavy, insistent,
continuous, punctuated with louder crashes.
"It is the guns," muttered the soldier, shivering. "It is the guns
around Verdun! Those damned Boches!"
He turned back into the thicket and dropped among the ferns beside the
spring. Stretching himself with a gesture of abandon, he pillowed his
face on his crossed arms to sleep.
A rustling in the bushes roused him. He sprang to his feet quickly. It
was a priest, clad in a dusty cassock, his long black beard streaked
with gray. He came slowly treading up beside the trickling rivulet,
carrying a bag on a stick over his shoulder.
"Good morning, my son," he said. "You have chosen a pleasant spot to
rest."
The soldier, startled, but not forgetting his manners learned from
boyhood, stood up and lifted his hand to take off his cap. It was
already lying on the ground. "Good morning, Father," he answered. "I
did not choose the place, but stumbled on it by chance. It is pleasant
enough, for I am very tired and have need of sleep."
"No doubt," said the priest. "I can see that you look weary, and I beg
you to pardon me if I have interrupted your repose. But why do you say
you came here 'by chance'? If you are a good Christian you know that
nothing is by chance. All is ordered and designed by Providence."
"So they told me in church long ago," said the soldier, coldly; "but
now it does not seem so true--at least not with me."
The first feeling of friendliness and respect into which he had been
surprised was passing. He had fallen back into the mood of his
journey--mistrust, secrecy, resentment.
The priest caught the tone. His gray eyes under their bushy brows
looked kindly but searchingly at the soldier and smiled a little. He
set down his bag and leaned on his stick. "Well," he said, "I can tell
you one thing, my son. At all events it was not chance that brought me
here. I came with a purpose."
The soldier started a little, stung by suspicion. "What then," he
cried, roughly, "were you looking for me? What do you know of me? What
is this talk of chance and purpose?"
"Come, come," said the priest, his smile spreading from his eyes to his
lips, "do not be angry. I assure you that I know nothing of you
whatever, not even your name nor why you are here. When I said that I
came with a purpose I meant only that a certain thought, a wish, led me
to this spot. Let us sit together awhile beside, the spring and make
better acquaintance."
"I do not desire it," said the soldier, with a frown.
"But you will not refuse it?" queried the priest, gently. "It is not
good to refuse the request of one old enough to be your father. Look, I
have here some excellent tobacco and cigarette-papers. Let us sit down
and smoke together. I will tell you who I am and the purpose that
brought me here."
The soldier yielded grudgingly, not knowing what else to do. They sat
down on a mossy bank beside the spring, and while the blue smoke of
their cigarettes went drifting under the little trees the priest began:
"My name is Antoine Courcy. I am the cure of Darney, a village among
the Reaping Hook Hills, a few leagues south from here. For twenty-five
years I have reaped the harvest of heaven in that blessed little field.
I am sorry to leave it. But now this war, this great battle for freedom
and the life of France, calls me. It is a divine vocation. France has
need of all her sons to-day, even the old ones. I cannot keep the love
of God in my heart unless I follow the love of country in my life. My
younger brother, who used to be the priest of the next parish to mine,
was in the army. He has fallen. I am going to replace him. I am on my
way to join the troops--as a chaplain, if they will; if not, then as a
private. I must get into the army of France or be left out of the host
of heaven."
The soldier had turned his face away and was plucking the lobes from a
frond of fern. "A brave resolve, Father," he said, with an ironic note.
"But you have not yet told me what brings you off your road, to this
place."
"I will tell you," replied the priest, eagerly; "it is the love of
Jeanne d'Arc, the Maid who saved France long ago. You know about her?"
"A little," nodded the soldier. "I have learned in the school. She was
a famous saint."
"Not yet a saint," said the priest, earnestly; "the Pope has not yet
pronounced her a saint. But it will be done soon. Already he has
declared her among the Blessed Ones. To me she is the most blessed of
all. She never thought of herself or of a saint's crown. She gave her
life entire for France. And this is the place that she came from! Think
of that--right here!"
"I did not know that," said the soldier.
"But yes," the priest went on, kindling. "I tell you it was here that
the Maid of France received her visions and set out to work. You see
that village below us--look out through the branches--that is Dom-remy,
where she was born. That spire just at the edge of the wood--you saw
that? It is the basilica they have built to her memory. It is full of
pictures of her. It stands where the old beech-tree, 'Fair May,' used
to grow. There she heard the voices and saw the saints who sent her on
her mission. And this is the Gooseberry Spring, the Well of the Good
Fairies. Here she came with the other children, at the festival of the
well-dressing, to spread their garlands around it, and sing, and eat
their supper on the green. Heavenly voices spoke to her, but the others
did not hear them. Often did she drink of this water. It became a
fountain of life springing up in her heart. I have come to drink at the
same source. It will strengthen me as a sacrament. Come, son, let us
take it together as we go to our duty in battle."
Father Courcy stood up and opened his old black bag. He took out a
small metal cup. He filled it carefully at the spring. He made the sign
of the cross over it.
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit," he murmured,
"blessed and holy is this water." Then he held the cup toward the
soldier. "Come, let us share it and make our vows together."
The bright drops trembled and fell from the bottom of the cup. The
soldier sat still, his head in his hands.
"No," he answered, heavily, "I cannot take it. I am not worthy. Can a
man take a sacrament without confessing his sins?"
Father Courcy looked at him with pitying eyes. "I see," he said,
slowly; "I see, my son. You have a burden on your heart. Well, I will
stay with you and try to lift it. But first I shall make my own vow."
He raised the cup toward the sky. A tiny brown wren sang canticles of
rapture in the thicket. A great light came into the priest's face--a
sun-ray from the east, far beyond the tree-tops.
"Blessed Jeanne d'Arc, I drink from thy fountain in thy name. I vow my
life to thy cause. Aid me, aid this my son, to fight valiantly for
freedom and for France. In the name of God, amen."
The soldier looked up at him. Wonder, admiration, and shame were
struggling in the look. Father Courcy wiped the empty cup carefully and
put it back in his bag. Then he sat down beside the soldier, laying a
fatherly hand on his shoulder.
"Now, my son, you shall tell me what is on your heart."
The Green Confessional
For a long time the soldier remained silent. His head was bowed. His
shoulders drooped. His hands trembled between his knees. He was
wrestling with himself.
"No," he cried, at last, "I cannot, I dare not tell you. Unless,
perhaps"--his voice faltered--"you could receive it under the seal of
confession? But no. How could you do that? Here in the green woods? In
the open air, beside a spring? Here is no confessional."
"Why not?" asked Father Courcy. "It is a good place, a holy place.
Heaven is over our heads and very near. I will receive your confession
here."
The soldier knelt among the flowers. The priest pronounced the sacred
words. The soldier began his confession:
"I, Pierre Duval, a great sinner, confess my fault, my most grievous
fault, and pray for pardon." He stopped for a moment and then
continued, "But first I must tell you, Father, just who I am and where
I come from and what brings me here."
"Go on, Pierre Duval, go on. That is what I am waiting to hear. Be
simple and very frank."
"Well, then, I am from the parish of Laucourt, in the pleasant country
of the Barrois not far from Bar-sur-Aube. My faith, but that is a
pretty land, full of orchards and berry-gardens! Our old farm there is
one of the prettiest and one of the best, though it is small. It was
hard to leave it when the call to the colors came, two years ago. But I
was glad to go. My heart was high and strong for France. I was in the
Nth Infantry. We were in the center division under General Foch at the
battle of the Marne. _Fichtre_! but that was fierce fighting! And what
a general! He did not know how to spell 'defeat.' He wrote it'
victory.' Four times we went across that cursed Marsh of Saint-Gond.
The dried mud was trampled full of dead bodies. The trickling streams
of water ran red. Four times we were thrown back by the Boches. You
would have thought that was enough. But the general did not think so.
We went over again on the fifth day, and that time we stayed. The
Germans could not stand against us. They broke and ran. The roads where
we chased them were full of empty wine-bottles. In one village we
caught three officers and a dozen men dead drunk. _Bigre!_ what a fine
joke!"
Pierre, leaning back upon his heels, was losing himself in his recital.
His face lighted up, his hands were waving. Father Courcy bent forward
with shining eyes.
"Continue," he cried. "This is a beautiful confession--no sin yet.
Continue, Pierre."
"Well, then, after that we were fighting here and there, on the Aisne,
on the Ailette, everywhere. Always the same story--Germans rolling down
on us in flood, green-gray waves. But the foam on them was fire and
steel. The shells of the barrage swept us like hailstones. We waited,
waited in our trenches, till the green-gray mob was near enough. Then
the word came. _Sapristi!_ We let loose with mitrailleuse, rifle,
field-gun, everything that would throw death. It did not seem like
fighting with men. It was like trying to stop a monstrous thing, a
huge, terrible mass that was rushing on to overwhelm us. The waves
tumbled and broke before they reached us. Sometimes they fell flat.
Sometimes they turned and rushed the other way. It was wild, wild, like
a change of the wind and tide in a storm, everything torn and confused.
Then perhaps the word came to go over the top and at them. That was
furious. That was fighting with men, for sure--bayonet, revolver,
rifle-butt, knife, anything that would kill. Often I sickened at the
blood and the horror of it. But something inside of me shouted: 'Fight
on! It is for France. It is for "_L'Alouette_," thy farm; for thy wife,
thy little ones. Wilt thou let them be ruined by those beasts of
Boches? What are they doing here on French soil? Brigands, butchers,
Apaches! Drive them out; and if they will not go, kill them so they can
do no more shameful deeds. Fight on!' So I killed all I could."
The priest nodded his head grimly. "You were right, Pierre; your voice
spoke true. It was a dreadful duty that you were doing. The Gospel
tells us, if we are smitten on one cheek we must turn the other. But it
does not tell us to turn the cheek of a little child, of the woman we
love, of the country we belong to. No! that would be disgraceful,
wicked, un-Christian. It would be to betray the innocent! Continue, my
son."
"Well, then," Pierre went on, his voice deepening and his face growing
more tense, "then we were sent to Verdun. That was the hottest place of
all. It was at the top of the big German drive. The whole sea rushed
and fell on us--big guns, little guns, poison-gas, hand-grenades,
liquid fire, bayonets, knives, and trench-clubs. Fort after fort went
down. The whole pack of hell was loose and raging. I thought of that
crazy, chinless Crown Prince sitting in his safe little cottage hidden
in the woods somewhere--they say he had flowers and vines planted
around it--drinking stolen champagne and sicking on his dogs of death.
He was in no danger. I cursed him in my heart, that blood-lord! The
shells rained on Verdun. The houses were riddled; the cathedral was
pierced in a dozen places; a hundred fires broke out. The old citadel
held good. The outer forts to the north and east were taken. Only the
last ring was left. We common soldiers did not know much about what was
happening. The big battle was beyond our horizon. But that General
Petain, he knew it all. Ah, that is a wise man, I can tell you! He sent
us to this place or that place where the defense was most needed. We
went gladly, without fear or holding back. We were resolute that those
mad dogs should not get through. '_They shall not pass!_' And they did
not pass!"
"Glorious!" cried the priest, drinking the story in. "And you, Pierre?
Where were you, what were you doing?"
"I was at Douaumont, that fort on the highest hill of all. The Germans
took it. It cost them ten thousand men. The ground around it was like a
wood-yard piled with logs. The big shell-holes were full of corpses.
There were a few of us that got away. Then our company was sent to hold
the third redoubt on the slope in front of Fort de Vaux. Perhaps you
have heard of that redoubt. That was a bitter job. But we held it many
days and nights. The Bodies pounded us from Douaumont and from the
village of Vaux. They sent wave after wave up the slope to drive us
out. But we stuck to it. That ravine of La Cail-lette was a boiling
caldron of men. It bubbled over with smoke and 'fire. Once, when their
second wave had broken just in front of us, we went out to hurry the
fragments down the hill. Then the guns from Douaumont and the village
of Vaux hammered us. Our men fell like nine-pins. Our lieutenant called
to us to turn back. Just then a shell tore away his right leg at the
knee. It hung by the skin and tendons. He was a brave lad. I could not
leave him to die there. So I hoisted him on my back. Three shots struck
me. They felt just like hard blows from a heavy fist. One of them made
my left arm powerless. I sank my teeth in the sleeve of my lieutenant's
coat as it hung over my shoulder. I must not let him fall off my back.
Somehow--God knows how--I gritted through to our redoubt. They took my
lieutenant from my shoulders. And then the light went out."
The priest leaned forward, his hands stretched out around the soldier.
"But you are a hero," he cried. "Let me embrace you!"
The soldier drew back, shaking his head sadly. "No," he said, his voice
breaking--"no, my father, you must not embrace me now. I may have been
a brave man once. But now I am a coward. Let me tell you everything. My
wounds were bad, but not desperate. The _brancardiers_ carried me down
to Verdun, at night, I suppose, but I was unconscious; and so to the
hospital at Vaudelaincourt. There were days and nights of blankness
mixed with pain. Then I came to my senses and had rest. It was
wonderful. I thought that I had died and gone to heaven. Would God it
had been so! Then I should have been with my lieutenant. They told me
he had passed away in the redoubt. But that hospital was beautiful, so
clean and quiet and friendly. Those white nurses were angels. They
handled me like a baby. I would have liked to stay there. I had no
desire to get better. But I did. One day several officers visited the
hospital. They came to my cot, where I was sitting up. The highest of
them brought out a Cross of War and pinned it on the breast of my
nightshirt. 'There,' he said, 'you are decorated, Pierre Duval! You are
one of the heroes of France. You are soon going to be perfectly well
and to fight again bravely for your country.' I thanked him, but I knew
better. My body might get perfectly well, but something in my soul was
broken. It was worn out. The thin spring had snapped. I could never
fight again. Any loud noise made me shake all over. I knew that I could
never face a battle--impossible! I should certainly lose my nerve and
run away. It is a damned feeling, that broken something inside of one.
I can't describe it."
Pierre stopped for a moment and moistened his dry lips with the tip of
his tongue.
"I know," said Father Courcy. "I understand perfectly what you want to
say. It was like being lost and thinking that nothing could save you; a
feeling that is piercing and dull at the same time, like a heavy weight
pressing on you with sharp stabs in it. It was what they call
shellshock, a terrible thing. Sometimes it drives men crazy for a
while. But the doctors know what to do for that malady. It passes. You
got over it."
"No," answered Pierre, "the doctors may not have known that I had it.
At all events, they did not know what to do for it. It did not pass. It
grew worse. But I hid it, talking very little, never telling anybody
how I felt. They said I was depressed and needed cheering up. All the
while there was that black snake coiled around my heart, squeezing
tighter and tighter. But my body grew stronger every day. The wounds
were all healed. I was walking around. In July the doctor-in-chief sent
for me to his office. He said: 'You are cured, Pierre Duval, but you
are not yet fit to fight. You are low in your mind. You need cheering
up. You are to have a month's furlough and repose. You shall go home to
your farm. How is it that you call it?' I suppose I had been babbling
about it in my sleep and one of the nurses had told him. He was always
that way, that little Doctor Roselly, taking an interest in the men,
talking with them and acting friendly. I said the farm was called
'_L'Alouette_'--rather a foolish name. 'Not at all,' he answered; 'it
is a fine name, with the song of a bird in it. Well, you are going back
to "_L'Alouette_" to hear the lark sing for a month, to kiss your wife
and your children, to pick gooseberries and currants. Eh, my boy, what
do you think of that? Then, when the month is over, you will be a new
man. You will be ready to fight again at Verdun. Remember, they have
not passed and they shall not pass! Good luck to you, Pierre Duval.' So
I went back to the farm as fast as I could go."
He was silent for a few moments, letting his thoughts wander through
the pleasant paths of that little garden of repose. His eyes were
dreaming, his lips almost smiled.
"It was sweet at '_L'Alouette_,' very sweet, Father. The farm was in
pretty good order and the kitchen-garden was all right, though the
flowers had been a little neglected. You see, my wife, Josephine, she
is a very clever woman. She had kept up the things that were the most
necessary. She had hired one of the old neighbors and a couple of boys
to help her with the plowing and planting. The harvest she sold as it
stood. Our yoke of cream-colored oxen and the roan horse were in good
condition. Little Pierrot, who is five, and little Josette, who is
three, were as brown as berries. They hugged me almost to death. But it
was Josephine herself who was the best of all. She is only twenty-six,
Father, and so beautiful still, with her long chestnut hair and her
eyes like brown stones shining under the waters of a brook. I tell you
it was good to get her in my arms again and feel her lips on mine. And
to wake in the early morning, while the birds were singing, and see her
face beside me on the white pillow, sleeping like a child, that was a
little bit of Paradise. But I do wrong to tell you of all this,
Father."
"Proceed, my big boy," nodded the priest. "You are saying nothing
wrong. I was a man before I was a priest. It is all natural, what you
are saying, and all according to God's law--no sin in it. Proceed. Did
your happiness do you good?"
Pierre shook his head doubtfully. The look of dejection came back to
his face. He frowned as if something puzzled and hurt him. "Yes and no!
That is the strange thing. It made me thankful--that goes without
saying. But it did not make me any stronger in my heart. Perhaps it was
too sweet. I thought too much of it. I could not bear to think of
anything else. The idea of the war was hateful, horrible, disgusting.
The noise and the dirt of it, the mud in the autumn and the bitter cold
in the winter, the rats and the lice in the dugouts! And then the fury
of the charge, and the everlasting killing, killing, or being killed!
The danger had seemed little or nothing to me when I was there. But at
a distance it was frightful, unendurable. I knew that I could never
stand up to it again. Besides, already I had done my share--enough for
two or three men. Why must I go back into that hell? It was not fair.
Life was too dear to be risking it all the time. I could not endure it.
France? France? Of course I love France. But my farm, and my life with
Josephine and the children mean more to me. The thing that made me a
good soldier is broken inside me. It is beyond mending."