by Ouida
There is great originality in the literary talent of Georges Darien. His style is all his own. His manner of relation resembles no other. He has nothing of the modern school, except its hopelessness; he is strong, intense, virile, rough; he seeks no ornament, he strives for no effect; he writes as he feels, boldly, passionately, with that eloquence which is the offspring of simplicity and of veracity, and that potency which comes from wide knowledge of literatures and of mankind. Belonging by birth to the bourgeoisie, son of a Catholic father and a Calvinist mother, his early years were embittered by religious strife. He has later on travelled much; he has known the lowest classes and the hardest ways of life; he is still young in years, but old in the most varied experiences; and he has, certainly, uncommon powers, which have as yet not been duly recognised, for he offends the prejudices and vested interests of his generation, and even in France prejudice and vested interests are strong and close many channels.
He disdains, moreover, to appeal to that large class of readers who require a book, cast in the form of a story, to possess a story. Like the famous knife-grinder he has none to tell, if by story we understand, as most people do, a love-tale in some one of its forms. Biribi is the stern and terrible narrative of the career of an insoumis; Bas les Cœurs is the simple, domestic record of a boy’s recollections of the Année Terrible. In neither is there any hint or fragment of romance. This fact at once limits his public to the restricted number who appreciate the skill which can afford to dispense with the elements of romance, and to rely solely on its own power of description and analysis of character. In this respect for literary excellence and harmonious treatment I should place Bas les Cœurs before Biribi. The relation of events at Versailles, before and after the Prussian occupation, as seen from the point of view of a family of the town, is told with such perfect naturalness that the reader follows it with the deepest interest, and remains fascinated by the admirable manner in which the most tragic and momentous events of history are reflected in the mind of a boy of ten years old.
The tranquillity and precision of his use of the etching-needle, with which he describes the daily life and street scenes in Versailles, contrasts curiously with the hot colour and broad charcoal marks with which he portrays the tortures of the punishment-battalions in Africa.
This testifies to the flexibility of Darien’s talent, since nothing can be more different to the impetuous and turgid violence of Biribi than the restrained and delicate irony of Bas les Cœurs: the one is a battle-piece of Vereschagin, crowded with begrimed and panting figures, in which the dumb canvas seems to shriek with war and smoke with blood; the other is a cabinet picture of Meissonier’s, finished, polished, small in measurement, illimitable in suggestion, fine as the point of a needle, cruel as the fork of a snake’s tongue. For, undoubtedly, Darien is cruel; but he is cruel from the impotent rage which is in him, the powerless sorrow and scorn which his country, his generation, his fellow mortals, his vision of things as they are, awaken in his memory and in his desires.
The apathy and sheepishness of the general multitude fill him with wrath; he longs to pull down on the world its temple, like Samson, regardless of the fall of the column and the roof on himself. No one who loves received doctrines, crystallised commonplaces, undisputed formulæ, should open these books. Such persons will only see in them blasphemies against their honoured gods; for this author is not suited to the smug self-complacency of Philistinism, ‘sanding its sugar and praising its Lord.’
To represent war as it is done in the terrible pages of La Débâcle, or in the heartrending sketch of the Attaque du Moulin, is not difficult to the novelist who has power and knowledge. To represent the effects of war on entirely uninteresting and commonplace persons, and yet keep the attention of the reader riveted to what is passing in one ordinary household during a frightful national calamity, is a far more difficult feat; especially when all the sympathies of the reader which would be easily roused by noble sentiments in the sufferers are voluntarily alienated, and the only motives and feelings depicted are sordid, egotistic, and miserable, except in the young narrator, whose childish intelligence is so slowly awakened to the baseness of those around him, but whose naturally honest and patriotic little soul burns and thrills with shame when once it becomes conscious of the meanness and cowardice of his family and of his neighbours. The highest literary faculty seems to me to show itself in the completeness with which the childlikeness of the young observer is retained, the vague apprehension, the slowly awakening comprehension, the gradually dawning horror with which the events around him impress themselves on a mind remaining instinctively loyal and just in the midst of corrupt and unworthy examples.
Take this as an example of its style: —
‘Shouts are heard afar off in the woods.
‘“Ah, my poor child!” says my aunt, weeping, “what a hideous thing is war!”
‘She looks very feeble, very worn, my poor great-aunt Moreau. The sight of her thin face, her skeleton-like hands, moves me painfully. She sees this.
‘“At my age,” she murmurs, “these events, my dear, are hard to bear.”
‘However, she assures me the Germans are not very cruel. The Captain in command of those billeted on her, despite his rude exterior, is not uncivil.
‘At that moment, indeed, this officer returns with his men; his heels ring on the bricks of the ante-chamber. He opens the door of the little room where we are sitting.
‘“Do not be disturbed, Madame,” he says, addressing my aunt, “on account of the firing you may have heard. There is nothing of any consequence. A wood-cutter, in whose hut we found arms, and whom we have shot: nothing more.”
‘He salutes and retires. My aunt shudders. She turns white, her eyes close, her head falls back against the chair. She is faint. I call her maid, who runs to my summons, with the cook and the servant just come to fetch me. The three women try and revive her. She remains so weak when again conscious, that they carry her to her chamber. She is grieved to have fainted.
‘“When my dear little Jean came to see me,” she murmurs! “It was the thought of that poor wood-cutter—”
‘She trembles like a leaf as I leave her.
‘Germaine, who has come from my grandfather’s to fetch me, asks me to wait a moment; she has a message for the Prussian Captain from my grandfather. The officer is walking up and down, smoking, under the lime-trees. I hear his guttural voice as he answers, “Tell your master that I shall expect him here.” What can this mean? When I reach my grandfather’s house I rush to the dining-room to question the old man, but Germaine catches hold of my arm.
‘“You must not disturb Monsieur. He is engaged with someone.”
‘Through the door, which I hold half-opened, I have seen that someone. He is a person dressed like a peasant, who looks not like a peasant, nevertheless. His large hat is worn too gracefully; his ragged blue blouse is too old to accord with his proud and delicate features. Is he an officer of franc-tireurs? A French spy, perhaps? Is my grandfather giving or receiving information? Is he not, as I hope, planning to surprise the Prussians? I question Germaine. She is astonished at my anxiety.
‘“That man? He wanted to see the Mayor, and as the Germans have put the Mayor in prison, he was brought here. Do not trouble yourself about him, Monsieur Jean.”
‘I hear a sound of closing doors. It is, of course, the stranger going away.
‘My grandfather joins me.
‘“Well, how is your aunt?”
‘I tell him what happened, the story of the wood-cutter and its effect upon her.
‘“Ah! what a pity! — humph, humph! — I will go and see her. Germaine, my cloak.”
‘“Shall I come with you, grandpapa?”
‘“No, no; not worth while. I shall be back in half an hour.”
‘In twenty minutes’ time he returns.
‘“You see I am as good as my word. I made haste, eh?”
‘“Is my aunt better?”
‘“Yo
ur aunt? Yes — no — that is, yes, much better.”
‘“Jean,” he says to me after dinner, “you were to go back the day after to-morrow, but as I must go on business to Versailles in the morning early, I will take you with me. Does it disappoint you, eh?”
‘“A little, yes.”
‘“Bah! you shall make up for it another time. You shall come again soon for several days, and send your lessons to the deuce.”
‘I laugh. I think I must have been mistaken. The man whom I saw must have been really a peasant. My grandsire could not be so gay if there were to be fighting at Maussy this evening. However, before going to bed I look out over the country, and when I lie down I strain my ear to catch a sound. All night long I cannot sleep; I can only listen. All at once a hand touches my elbow. I start up, screaming. Germaine laughs.
‘“What is the matter, Monsieur Jean? Were you dreaming?”
‘I stare round me in amaze. It is broad day.
‘“Make haste and get up; the chocolate is ready; master is waiting.”
‘Half an hour later we leave the house. We are at the end of the street which opens on to the Versailles road, when a platoon of Prussian soldiers, with bayonets fixed, appears upon that road. My grandfather seizes me brutally and throws me down under a fence behind a hedge. I look through the branches. The Prussians pass at quick march. Amidst them marches a man, with his hands tied behind his back. I see a broad-leafed hat, a pale proud face, an old blue blouse. It is the man of yesterday. I know him at a glance.
‘“Grandfather, who is that?”
‘“Eh! Who? who? Some vagabond a Prussian patrol has picked up out of some ditch. The Prussians are very severe for — for — for wayfarers. It is better not to be seen in these affairs — it is better not to be mixed up — I mean—”
‘My grandfather is lying, I am certain; I feel it. Why should he lie? Where are they taking this fettered man? Why force me to lie hidden under a hedge? From behind the village a loud volley thunders through the air.
‘“Grandpapa, grandpapa, did you hear that?”
‘The old man is livid.
‘“It is the Prussians who practise — who practise at firing — in the morning. It is their custom — their custom — every morning—”
‘His teeth chatter.’
Or see this description of the troops leaving for the frontier: —
‘To-day the last regiment quartered here goes to the front; it is a regiment of the line.
‘Léon and I wait in the market-place to go with the soldiers to the railway station.
‘It is an epic, this departure of the troops. I have never felt what I feel now. There is a sense and scent of battle in the air; the midsummer sun shining on the musket-barrels and sparkling on the accoutrements sets fire to one’s brain. The earth trembles under the passage of artillery which is about to vomit death; and one’s heart dances in one’s breast whilst the ponderous caissons, with their iron-circled wheels, shake the stones, and the mouths of the bronze guns display their yawning jaws. Bands play warlike tunes, men chant the Marseillaise, the gold of epaulets and the lace on uniforms glow in the light; the flags flap against the flagstaffs, on whose summits eagles spread their wings; the shoes of the chargers glitter like silver crescents; and one feels some mighty spirit of war soar above these hearts of flesh and of iron who are about to face the shock of battle. The blood steams in one’s veins; the fever of the hour devours one; and one shouts louder and louder, faster and faster, not to become mad.
‘It is market-day. The square is filled by country people who have brought in their vegetables and fruits for sale. Their stalls are under all the trees, and, here and there, take up the pavement. We are standing between a woman selling salads and an old man who has onions, and is on all fours beside his skips, because every moment or so an onion slides off the heap and rolls towards the gutter, unless he stops it. What a funny old fellow he is to take so much trouble for an onion! Ah! there goes another one! The old man hurries to catch it, but an officer, booted and spurred, steps on it; slips, slides, tumbles down. The onion-seller takes off his cap: “Oh, sir! a thousand pardons!”
‘The officer gets up, takes his riding-whip by the whip-end, and brings it with all his force on the uncovered head of the old man, who falls backward on his skull. Blood bespatters his skips of onions.
‘“Here comes the regiment!” screams Léon.
‘The band sounds at the end of the street. We run towards it.
‘“Did you see the poor old man?” I ask.
‘“Yes. He deserved what he got. Only think! The officer might have broken his legs, eh?”
‘I do not answer. I am absorbed in watching the soldiers whom we escort, walking on the pavement, keeping step with them.
‘The soldiers do not all keep step with one another; emotion, enthusiasm, the delights of going to thrash the Prussians, the natural sorrow at leaving those they love — a thousand different feelings. There is an old soldier, a decorated soldier next to me, who is very unsteady on his legs. A young officer, very young, almost beardless, puts his musket straight on the old fellow’s shoulder every second. It is admirable to see the harmony which reigns between privates and officers. The Colonel, a grey-beard, salutes with his sword when the people cheer him; and a trumpeter in the front rank has stuck a great bouquet of roses to the banner of his instrument, and carries it as a priest carries the host. Other nosegays are thrust into the barrels of muskets. Bottles of wine show their corks from under the piles of knapsacks, and two or three dogs are stretched out on the haver-sacks in the baggage-waggons. The crowd cheers the dogs.
‘All the peasants throng to see, shouting their applause to the regiment. Before the chemist’s shop at the corner, a knot of young men wave their caps in the air; the chemist waves his white handkerchief; behind him I see the blue blouse of the old onion-seller, who lies unnoticed on the ground.
‘All at once the music breaks out into the Marseillaise.
‘“Allons, enfans de la patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrivé!”
‘Oh, how beautiful it all is! The soldiers fall into line. The populace, shouting and cheering, accompanies them to the station. Through the bars of the station-gates a private passes me his drinking-cup, and asks me to get it filled at the wine-shop in front of the gates.
‘“Wait; here is the money.”
‘But I do not wish for the brave fellow’s money, I have a franc in my pocket. I will pay for his pint. In a moment I run back again.
‘“Thanks, young sir,” says the soldier. “It is perhaps the last drop I shall ever drink.”
‘“The last!” cries Léon, red as a turkey-cock; so proud is he to be able to rouse the spirit of a warrior. “The last? Ah! we shall give you floods of wine when you come back from victory.”
‘The townspeople, who are crowding round us, cheer. The soldier shakes his head dubiously.
‘“Thanks all the same,” he says sadly.
‘He does not seem very confident of success.
‘“Doubt that we shall be victorious?” says Léon in disgust as we go homeward. “Leave the town for the frontier with so little confidence! I would give — oh, what wouldn’t I give? — to be old enough to go and beat the Prussians. My dear Jean, that soldier has no soul!”
‘I am not sure. The soldier perhaps does not look on the campaign as a picnic. Perhaps he sees more clearly than we do? Perhaps? A great many things I had never thought of before crowd into my brain.’
A few days later, after Sedan, Jean sees the Germans enter Versailles.
‘“Here they are!”
‘It is the octroi-guards who cry out this as they come flying from the gates across the town. They brush me roughly as they pass, and their abject terror gains on me.
‘I follow them. But as I run I see on the other side of the boulevard five or six inquisitive persons, who have stopped in their walk, and hide themselves behind the trees. If they stay to see, why may not I? I, too, get behind th
e stem of a tree, and I watch with staring eyes to see what will happen. On the road, fifty yards from the gates, a dozen horsemen are coming onward at a walk. They stop a moment before the octroi-officers; then they come on into the town in two lines, almost touching the pavement.
‘“The Uhlans!” says someone behind me. Ah, I think with a thrill, these are the Uhlans!
‘They draw near us; their pistols are cocked. They pass me close, and I feel that I shall fall from fright; my nails clutch the bark of the tree which screens me. These riders are covered with blood. There is blood on the pennons of their lances, on the hocks of their horses, on the rents in their torn uniforms, and one of the foremost has a white linen band stained with red on his forehead. Ah! it is hideous! I want to run away — I want to run away; it is impossible. Before me there are these Germans, riding slowly, searching with piercing glances the streets which open out to the left and to the right. Behind them comes on a dense dark mass. One can hear the tramp of feet. One can distinguish the spikes of helmets, the barrels of muskets, the little drums no bigger than tambourines, and the fifes which are playing a march. These drummers and pipers are followed by linesmen in dark blue, shod with boots drawn up above their trousers, the musket held straight on the shoulder, the cloak rolled.
‘And these men, grey with dust and mud, black with powder, with their coats in rags — these men, who fought no doubt this morning, and who have just made a forced march — preserve the most marvellous exactitude, the most perfect regularity in the dressing of their ranks, and the rhythm of their steps keeps measure from the first line to the last of the whole column.
‘They pass — they pass — they will never end. I have almost forgotten my fear. I am partly in front of my sheltering tree. The drums and the fifes cease to sound, and music replaces it from a band marching in front of a group of staff-officers. They play a warlike march, a battle-hymn, and all down the line of troops, from the foremost company which has reached the Chateau of Versailles, to the last which is leaving the Chesnay, shouts of triumph arise and drown the brazen voice of the cymbals. The victorious chant thunders down the wind. It is the Marseillaise — the Marseillaise which our own troops played as they left for the frontier, the hymn which was to render every French soldier invincible, which I had sung myself when we had been so sure of supremacy, and when I had planted my little tricolour flags on the map, all along the route from Paris to Berlin in a Via Triumphalis!