Part 13

MARQUIS (_stoutly_). Yes, all of them, and one of them three or four times. Tell me, Duchess, since you know something of the world, in what form is a declaration most pleasing?

DUCHESS (_serenely_). By word of mouth, Monsieur de la Mise-en-Scène.

MARQUIS. Oh, by word of mouth! And under what conditions? On horseback? During a gentle stroll? In a ball-room?

DUCHESS. No, rather under the conditions of ordinary life, in an ordinary room such as this, in the midst of one's ordinary avocations.

MARQUIS (_stops in his pacing up and down, stands near her, and, looking at her fixedly, says_): I attach the greatest possible value to your judgment and advice, Duchess. And I fear I have wasted a good deal of time writing those letters at the little table. Here is an ordinary room, here are we both at our ordinary avocations, which consist in doing nothing, now sauntering up and down the floors, now sitting upon chairs; all is as you would desire it. We are not on horseback, we are not at a ball, we are not strolling through the park. Will you marry me?

DUCHESS (_composedly_). Certainly not!

MARQUIS. Oh, well then, I'm very glad I did write those letters after all. It's a great thing to have one's work behind one instead of in front of one. But before I get to the tedious task again I do particularly beg you to consider my proposal. (_He sits down in a chair opposite her and begins to tick off the fingers of his left hand with the forefinger of his right._) My first point is this----

DUCHESS (_wearily_). Oh, Monsieur de la Mise-en-Scène, are you going to put it under three heads?

MARQUIS. No, Madam, I act in this fashion because I have seen the attitude adopted invariably by all diplomats when they would convince some great and powerful Sovereign; and my first point is this: We know each other and we know the world. On the other hand, we are not intimate friends, which would be fatal. We are both free. We are both careless as to differences in rank.

DUCHESS. I am not.

MARQUIS. Well, well, let us pass that: it is a matter one can soon get used to after the first years of married life.

DUCHESS. I assure you, you are wasting your time. I have not the slightest intention of marrying you or anybody else. But I will help you to get married if you like. My advice will be useful to you, as you say. And, first of all, show me those letters.

MARQUIS (_warmly_). Thank you, Madam; thank you a thousand times! This one here is to Madame de Livaudan (_hands her one letter and holds the other ready in his hand_).

DUCHESS (_glancing at it_). It is too formal!

MARQUIS. This one (_he hands her another_) is to an Italian lady, whose name I will get hold of before I write the direction outside; for the moment it escapes me, but she is a Contessa, something like Marolio, and I met her in a coach.

DUCHESS (_reads it_). It is far too long.

MARQUIS. This one (_he hands her a third_) is to a distant cousin of mine in Madrid, formerly the wife of----

DUCHESS (_in surprise_). But are they all widows?

MARQUIS (_gravely_). Yes, Madam, they are all widows--and all rich.

DUCHESS (_sighing profoundly_). It certainly seems a pity that with your knowledge of Versailles and your pleasant habit of friendship ... and your gallant record in the war ... you should be compelled to such adventures.

MARQUIS (_lightly_). There! there! Madam, do not pity me. Many a poor fellow is worse off than I. The fourth one.... (_He produces yet another letter._)

DUCHESS (_waving it aside_). No, no, I have already seen too much of that correspondence! Trust me, Marquis, it will all end in smoke, and may even very possibly make you ridiculous.

MARQUIS (_apologetically_). Madam, I have done my best. I have put before you the very reasonable proposal that we should marry. I put it before you in the very manner which you suggest. It did not, for the moment at least, meet with your approval: and surely it was common-sense to keep my line of retreat open upon the four widows, by any one of which roads I might have fallen back after my defeat at your hands.

DUCHESS (_thoughtfully_). No, I do not think we should get married. There are too many doubts.... I have seen such experiments fail ... and (_shrugging her shoulders_) succeed ... I confess I have seen them fail and succeed.

MARQUIS. Indeed?

DUCHESS (_still ruminating, but in a quiet way_). Yes.... On one's own land.... Yes, that is how it always has to begin. And then there would be the getting of a post (_she still continues to think it over, frowning with the interest of her subject; at last she rises promptly, and looking the Marquis full in the face she says_): We have half-an-hour or more before the hunt comes home. We will walk round the gardens together and give this very important matter the discussion it deserves.

MARQUIS (_cheerfully_). By all means, Duchess, so that you do not make me miss the courier who is to take the first of these missives. I am entirely at your disposal.

DUCHESS. It is my deliberate advice to you not to post the first of those letters to-day. Come! (_She goes out of the door in a rather majestic manner, and he follows, smiling._)

THE FOG

(_A young man in the uniform of a Lieutenant of Dragoons is riding on the edge of a wood in a thick fog. The month is the month of November, and the year is the year 1793. The young man has a simple, open face, with rather protuberant blue eyes and sandy hair. His mouth is at a half smile, and he does not seem to mind having lost his way. His name is Boutroux._)

BOUTROUX. The more I see of warfare the more I am astonished!... It is true I have only seen four months of it.... My father would be very much astonished if he could see me now!... My mother would be more than astonished: she would be positively alarmed! On the other hand (_musing_) it is a great relief to me, and would be a still greater relief to her, that I cannot hear the sound of firearms.... The more I see of warfare the more and more perplexed I become. (_Looking up at the edge of the wood on his left._) Now what is that wood? Before the fog fell I could have sworn we were in an open rolling country with spinneys here and there, and I could almost have told you very roughly where we were and where the enemy were--more or less--so to speak--and now here is a horrid great wood! And where am I?

(_At this moment a single voice is heard through the fog. The single voice belongs to a man called Metris. He is as yet unseen._)

METRIS. Get back a little! When I said follow me I did not mean bunching up like a lot of dirty linesmen. I meant keeping your spaces.... Charles, you are as pig-headed as ever! There are times when one does not answer a superior, but there are other times when one does. (_Angrily._) Charles! (_There is no reply._) Something has gone very definitely wrong with my troop! That is the worst of fog.

(_As he says this he emerges in a vast and murky way into the vision of Boutroux. The two men stop their horses and look at each other through the mist._)

BOUTROUX. Have you seen the Thirty-second?

METRIS. (_Boutroux perceives him to be a tall man quite ten years his senior, very lean, with menacing moustaches, and clothed in a uniform with which he is unfamiliar._) No, sir, I have not seen the Thirty-second. (_He salutes with a sword._) I take it you are an officer in the Republican service?

BOUTROUX (_wearily_). Oh yes!

METRIS (_with elaborate courtesy_). Then, sir, you are my prisoner! My name is Georges de Metris, of Heyren in this country, and my father's name will be familiar to you.

BOUTROUX. Your father's name is not familiar to me, sir. And what is more, _my_ father's name would not be familiar to you. For my poor old dad (God bless him!) is at the present moment in Bayonne, where he is a grocer--in a large way of business, I am glad to say. And talking of prisoners, you are my prisoner! It is as well I should tell you this before we go further. For if there is one thing I detest more than another in this new profession of mine it is the ambiguity thereof. (_He salutes with his sword in rather an extravagant fashion and smiles broadly._)

METRIS (_making his horse trot up quite close to Boutroux and halting stiffly while he lowers his sword_). Sir! I should be loath to quarrel with one so young and evidently so new to arms.

BOUTROUX. And I, sir (_lowering his sword as far as ever he can stretch_), would be still more loath to quarrel with one so greatly my senior and one evidently too used to this lethal game.

METRIS (_biting his lips_). I detest your principles, sir, but I respect your uniform.

BOUTROUX. You have the advantage of me, sir. Your uniform seems to me positively grotesque. But your principles I admire enormously.

METRIS (_stiffly_). Sir, I serve the Emperor. You have heard my name.

BOUTROUX. I have heard your name, and now that you tell me that you serve the Emperor I am willing to believe _that_ also. So it seems that we are enemies. I thought as much when you first showed out of the fog. It was not your uniform which gave me this opinion.

METRIS. Then what is it?

BOUTROUX. It was your singular habit of commanding men who were not there.

METRIS (_in a boiling passion, which he restrains_). I did not come here, sir, for a contest of words.

BOUTROUX (_genially, putting up his sword_). I take it you did not come here with any direct motive. You got here somehow, just as I did, and neither of us knows why.

METRIS (_in extreme anger_). But you will know why very soon, sir! And I hope I shall know why, too! Sir, I call upon you to draw!

BOUTROUX (_seating himself back in the saddle with great ease while his horse munches the wet grass_). Now, there you are. I have been a soldier only these few weeks, and I thought I had got hold of all the muddlement there was; "lines" which aren't lines, and "positions strongly held" which anybody can walk round for fun; and communications "cut," when, as a fact, one could go right along them on horseback, and "destructive fire" that hits nobody, and "excellent morale" when one's men are on the point of hitting one on the nose. But if you will allow me, sir, you positively take the prize in the matter! You suggest the duello or some such phantasy. Do you want us to fight with these cavalry swords from the saddle?

METRIS. I do not know if you are trying to gain time, sir. I suggest that you should meet me on foot here and now.

BOUTROUX. What! and lose my horse?

METRIS. Sir, we can tie the two beasts by their bridles, and we can hang their bridles so tied to the branch of one of these trees.

BOUTROUX (_frowning_). I have a very short experience of warfare--I think I have said that before--and I hesitate to correct a man of your experience. But if you can really _tie_ two bridles together and then have enough leather left to get it over the branch of a tree, you'll teach me something about the art of campaigning of which I was quite innocent.... (_Getting down from his horse._) Come, I think in the French service we have a better way than that. (_He unbuckles one end of the snaffle-rein._) You see (_looking up genially_), we leave the curb on. If I had time I would explain to you why.... Now, sir, will you not unbuckle the end of your snaffle-rein?

METRIS (_stiffly_). No, sir, I will not.

BOUTROUX (_sighing_). They are all the same! The service simply fossilises them, especially, it would seem, the enemy; though I confess (_turning courteously to_ METRIS _and bowing to him_) you are the first of the enemy I have ever met.

METRIS (_restraining himself_). Pray, sir, do not delay.

BOUTROUX (_full of good humour_). I will not! See, I pass my snaffle-rein in through the buckle of your horse's curb; and pardon me, sir, but what a fine horse! Is it yours or the Emperor's?

METRIS (_ominously_). It is mine, sir.

BOUTROUX. Keep it. This (_jerking his thumb at his weedy mount_) belongs to the Republic--if it is still a Republic, for news travels slowly to the armies. At any rate, it doesn't belong to me. (_He slowly takes the end of his snaffle-rein and looks for something to fasten it to; he shakes his head doubtfully. At last, holding the end of the snaffle-rein in his left hand while the two horses begin to browse peacefully, he draws his sword with his right, and putting himself in a theatrical posture, says_): Come on, sir, I'm damned if I will let go of these horses.

METRIS (_solemnly_). I do not jest upon these occasions.

BOUTROUX. Neither do I, sir. Indeed, I have not been in such an occasion before; and I make it a rule never to jest when I do anything for the first time. Come, draw, and put yourself in a posture of defence, or, by Heaven (so far as these two animals will allow me) I will make a mincemeat of you with my sword.

METRIS (_boiling over_). This is far more than any gentleman can endure! (_He stands before_ BOUTROUX _with his left hand clenched behind his back, his right foot well advanced, and his sabre in tierce._) Now, sir.

BOUTROUX (_very simply_). Now! (_Nothing happens._)

METRIS. Sir, are you upon your guard?

BOUTROUX. More or less (_jerking the horses_). Garrup! (_To_ METRIS) Excuse me, sir, it seems that even in browsing grass this horse of mine has a devil of a hard mouth. He nearly sprained my wrist.... Well, then, are you upon your guard?

METRIS (_courteously_). I am.

BOUTROUX (_as in surprise_). Oh, you are! (_He gives a tremendous cut at the point of the neck, which his opponent skilfully parries and replies to by a thrust._) Never ... (_rapidly parrying a sharp succession of thrusts that follow from his opponent_) never ... thrust ... with a light cavalry sword.... I don't know much about (Ah, you missed that!)--much about ... this business. But---- (_He suddenly gets round inside_ METRIS' _guard, but has the misfortune to cut with a spent blow into nothing better than cloth. They disengage._)

METRIS. Sir, you play well enough for a man who is uninstructed, but I warn you you are depending upon luck.

BOUTROUX. I know that. Luckily for me my mind is divided, and I can form no plan. For these animals at the end of the snaffle-rein have nearly pulled my arm off. However, let us have a second bout. The great thing for men like me is not to plan too much. (_Voices are heard through the fog._) Sir, let me warn you like a gentleman, though my father is but a grocer, and yours for all I know a Rouge Dragon, that I hear the voice of one who is most indubitably my Colonel. And talking of _his_ profession, he was, at the outbreak of this regrettable campaign, a butcher in Toulouse. He is a very brutal man, but I will not detain you, for your time is short.

METRIS. This is more than I will stand. (_They engage, and_ METRIS, _whose blood is now up and who means business, gets_ BOUTROUX _with a slash on the cheek at the third pass_.)

THE COLONEL (_now apparent through the thick fog, with a group of misty figures behind him_). Do I interrupt you, gentlemen?

BOUTROUX (_with great respect_). My Colonel, I had the misfortune to be separated from my troop during the fog, but I have taken this man (_pointing at the Austrian with his sword_) prisoner, but only after a sharp passage of arms, during which, my Colonel, I have been wounded. (_He points to the scratch on his cheek._)

COLONEL (_coldly_). Lieutenant Boutroux, you shall have forty days. (_He turns to a soldier._) Undo that scrimmage of bridles. (_The soldier obeys him. He turns to_ METRIS _with great courtesy_.) I take it, sir, you are an officer in the forces of the Emperor and that you hold his commission?

METRIS. Undoubtedly.

COLONEL. Then, sir, you will follow me, for I take it you constitute yourself my prisoner. (_Turning to an officer upon his right._) Major Clement, you will see to the enforcement of my sentence upon Lieutenant Boutroux. Pray add upon the record that he jested with a superior officer when discovered, separated from his command, fencing with a member of the enemy's forces. The Brigadier may deal with the complaint as he chooses.

BOUTROUX. Upon my soul, the longer I follow it, the less I comprehend the career of arms!

THE SPANIARD

When I was in the French Army I met many men who had a constant tradition of the military past. These were not in the regiment, but one came across them in the garrison town where we were quartered, and among others there was an old man whose father had fought in the Peninsula and who retained a very vivid family memory of those wars. From this old man I gathered in particular what I had learned in general from reading, an impression of the Spaniard as a soldier, but that impression was false. It was false for many reasons, but chiefly for this: that Spain, like the United Kingdom, is very highly differentiated indeed, and province differs from province to an extent hardly ever grasped by those who have never visited the country.

When, many years later, I had the opportunity to visit Spain, this was the first point I noticed. It is particularly striking in the mountains. You will find yourself with one type of man talking Catalan in some small modern village; the way in which he tills his garden, the way in which his house is built, and the way in which he bargains with you, are all native to his race. You set off over the hills and by evening you come to another village more different than is a Welsh village from an English one, for you have crossed from Catalonia into Aragon. Then, again, the boundary of the Basque Provinces, or at least of the Basque race, is as clean as a cut with a knife. One may argue indefinitely whether this is because the Basques have preferred the peculiar climate and soil of their inhabitance or whether it is their energy and tenacity which have changed the earth, but there it is. The Basque is much more separate from the people around him than is even (if he will pardon my saying so) the Irishman of the West from the Scotchman of the Lothians.

There is another form of differentiation in Spain which is so striking that I hesitate for adjectives to describe it lest those adjectives should seem excessive; but I will say this, it is more striking than the contrast between the oasis and the desert in Africa, and that is pretty strong. I mean the differentiation produced by the sudden change from the high plateaux to the sea-plains. The word "sea-plains" is not strictly accurate, the belt running back from the Mediterranean sometimes looks like a plain, sometimes like an enclosed valley, more often it is a system of terraces, hills upon hills, but at any rate when you are once out of the influence of the sea and on to the high plateaux which form, as it were, the body of the Spanish square, you pass from luxuriance to sterility, from ease to hardship, and from the man who is always willing to smile to the stoic.

Then, again, you have the contrast between Andalusia and everything to the north of Andalusia. Andalusia was the very wealthy part of Spain under the Romans. It must always remain the very wealthy part of Spain so far as agriculture is concerned. It has easy communications and a climate like nothing on earth. Therefore, when the Moors came there they found a large, active, and instructed Christian population, and they ruined Andalusia less than any other part of Spain. Nay, in some odd (and not very pleasant) way they married the Asiatic to the European, and the European solidity, the European power over stone, the European sense of a straight line, were in Andalusia used by the vague imagination of the Asiatic to his own purpose, with marvellous results. All this has produced a quite distinct type of man; and it is remarkable that, as is to be found in so many similar cases in Europe, the people exactly limitrophous to Andalusia on the north are peculiarly sparse, impoverished and alone. There lies the wide and arid sweep of La Mancha, imperishable in European letters.

Now, having said so much as to this high differentiation of the Spanish people (and one could add much more: the Asturias, always unconquered; the Atlantic tides and rivers, the tideless Eastern harbours, the curious poverty of Estremadura; the French experiments of Madrid and its neighbourhood, so utterly ill-fitted to the climate and the genius of Spain), let me say something of the Spanish unity.

No nation in Europe is so united. By which I do not mean that no other nation is so homogeneous, even in those deep things which escape superficial differentiation. The Spaniard is united to the Spaniard by the three most powerful bonds that can bind man to man--religion, historical memory, isolation. It is not to be admitted by any careful traveller that the religious emotion of the modern Spaniard is either combative or profound. Indeed, I know of nothing more remarkable than the passage from Spanish to French thought in this respect. You leave, let us say, Huesca; you notice at the morning Mass a moving and somewhat small concourse of worshippers, few communicants, but above all in the temper of the place, in the written stuff of the somewhat belated newspapers, a sort of indifference; as though the things of the soul "muddled through." You bicycle a long day to Canfranc, the next day you are over the hills (and Lord! what hills), and there you are in the seething vat of the great French quarrel. From the little villages right up to the majestic capital, Toulouse, you feel the pulsation increasing. Religion and its enemies are there at war. The thing is vital, and men are quite ready to die on either side. Of this, I say, you find little or nothing in Spain; nevertheless, religion does bind the Spaniard to the Spaniard, and it binds him firmly to his kind. For the very fact that there is so little opposition, while it produces so much indifference, produces also a singular national contempt; and every man speaking to every other man knows with precision how that man's mind stands upon the ultimate things, how careless he is and yet how secure.