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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
Stendhal and Byron: Military leprosy; fronts of brass and feet of clay
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Stendhal
From The Charterhouse of Parma (1839)
Translated by C.K. Scott Moncrieff
“We’re beginning to hear the infantry fire now,” said the vivandiere, whipping up her little horse, which seemed quite excited by the firing.
The cantiniere turned to the right and took a side road that ran through the fields; there was a foot of mud in it; the little cart seemed about to be stuck fast: Fabrizio pushed the wheel. His horse fell twice; presently the road, though with less water on it, was nothing more than a bridle path through the grass. Fabrizio had not gone five hundred yards when his nag stopped short: it was a corpse, lying across the path, which terrified horse and rider alike.
Fabrizio’s face, pale enough by nature, assumed a markedly green tinge; the cantiniere, after looking at the dead man, said, as though speaking to herself: “That’s not one of our Division.” Then, raising her eyes to our hero, she burst out laughing.
“Aha, my boy! There’s a titbit for you!” Fabrizio sat frozen. What struck him most of all was the dirtiness of the feet of this corpse which had already been stripped of its shoes and left with nothing but an old pair of trousers all clotted with blood.
“Come nearer,” the cantiniere ordered him, “get off your horse, you’ll have to get accustomed to them; look,” she cried, “he’s stopped one in the head.”
A bullet, entering on one side of the nose, had gone out at the opposite temple, and disfigured the corpse in a hideous fashion. It lay with one eye still open.
“Get off your horse then, lad,” said the cantiniere, “and give him a shake of the hand to see if he’ll return it.”
Without hesitation, although ready to yield up his soul with disgust, Fabrizio flung himself from his horse and took the hand of the corpse which he shook vigorously; then he stood still as though paralyzed. He felt that he had not the strength to mount again. What horrified him more than anything was that open eye.
“The vivandiere will think me a coward,” he said to himself bitterly. But he felt the impossibility of making any movement; he would have fallen. It was a frightful moment; Fabrizio was on the point of being physically sick. The vivandiere noticed this, jumped lightly down from her little carriage, and held out to him, without saying a word, a glass of brandy which he swallowed at a gulp; he was able to mount his screw, and continued on his way without speaking. The vivandiere looked at him now and again from the corner of her eye.
“You shall fight to-morrow, my boy,” she said at length; “to-day you’re going to stop with me. You can see now that you’ve got to learn the business before you can become a soldier.”
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