The war was three months old—three centuries.
By virtue1 of some gift of adaptation which seemed forever to discredit2 human sensibility, people were already beginning to live into the monstrous3 idea of it, acquire its ways, speak its language, regard it as a thinkable, endurable, arrangeable fact; to eat it by day, and sleep on it—yes, and soundly—at night.
The war went on; life went on; Paris went on. She had had her great hour of resistance, when, alone, exposed and defenceless, she had held back the enemy and broken his strength. She had had, afterward4, her hour of triumph, the hour of the Marne; then her hour of passionate5 and prayerful hope, when it seemed to the watching nations that the enemy was not only held back but thrust back, and victory finally in reach. That hour had passed in its turn, giving way to the grey reality of the trenches6. A new speech was growing up in this new world. There were trenches now, there was a “Front”—people were beginning to talk of their sons at the front.
The first time John Campton heard the phrase it sent a shudder7 through him. Winter was coming on, and he was haunted by the vision of the youths out 112there, boys of George’s age, thousands and thousands of them, exposed by day in reeking8 wet ditches and sleeping at night under the rain and snow. People were talking calmly of victory in the spring—the spring that was still six long months away! And meanwhile, what cold and wet, what blood and agony, what shattered bodies out on that hideous9 front, what shattered homes in all the lands it guarded!
Campton could bear to think of these things now. His son was not at the front—was safe, thank God, and likely to remain so!
During the first awful weeks of silence and uncertainty10, when every morning brought news of a fresh disaster, when no letters came from the army and no private messages could reach it—during those weeks, while Campton, like other fathers, was without news of his son, the war had been to him simply a huge featureless mass crushing him earthward, blinding him, letting him neither think nor move nor breathe.
But at last he had got permission to go to Chalons, whither Fortin, who chanced to have begun his career as a surgeon, had been hastily transferred. The physician, called from his incessant11 labours in a roughly-improvised operating-room, to which Campton was led between rows of stretchers laden12 with livid blood-splashed men, had said kindly13, but with a shade of impatience14, that he had not forgotten, had done what he could; that George’s health did not warrant his 113being discharged from the army, but that he was temporarily on a staff-job at the rear, and would probably be kept there if such and such influences were brought to bear. Then, calling for hot water and fresh towels, the surgeon vanished and Campton made his way back with lowered eyes between the stretchers.
The “influences” in question were brought to bear—not without Anderson Brant’s assistance—and now that George was fairly certain to be kept at clerical work a good many miles from the danger-zone Campton felt less like an ant under a landslide15, and was able for the first time to think of the war as he might have thought of any other war: objectively, intellectually, almost dispassionately, as of history in the making.
It was not that he had any doubt as to the rights and wrongs of the case. The painfully preserved equilibrium16 of the neutrals made a pitiful show now that the monstrous facts of the first weeks were known: Germany’s diplomatic perfidy17, her savagery18 in the field, her premeditated and systematized terrorizing of the civil populations. Nothing could efface19 what had been done in Belgium and Luxembourg, the burning of Louvain, the bombardment of Rheims. These successive outrages20 had roused in Campton the same incredulous wrath21 as in the rest of mankind; but being of a speculative22 mind—and fairly sure now that George would never lie in the mud and snow with the others—he had begun to consider the landslide in its universal 114relations, as well as in its effects on his private ant-heap.
His son’s situation, however, was still his central thought. That this lad, who was meant to have been born three thousand miles away in his own safe warless country, and who was regarded by the government of that country as having been born there, as subject to her laws and entitled to her protection—that this lad, by the most idiotic23 of blunders, a blunder perpetrated before he was born, should have been dragged into a conflict in which he was totally unconcerned, should become temporarily and arbitrarily the subject of a foreign state, exposed to whatever catastrophes24 that state might draw upon itself, this fact still seemed to Campton as unjust as when it first dawned on him that his boy’s very life might hang on some tortuous25 secret negotiation26 between the cabinets of Europe.
He still refused to admit that France had any claim on George, any right to his time, to his suffering or to his life. He had argued it out a hundred times with Adele Anthony. “You say Julia and I were to blame for not going home before the boy was born—and God knows I agree with you! But suppose we’d meant to go? Suppose we’d made every arrangement, taken every precaution, as my parents did in my own case, got to Havre or Cherbourg, say, and been told the steamer had broken her screw—or been prevented 115ourselves, at the last moment, by illness or accident, or any sudden grab of the Hand of God? You’ll admit we shouldn’t have been to blame for that; yet the law would have recognized no difference. George would still have found himself a French soldier on the second of last August because, by the same kind of unlucky accident, he and I were born on the wrong side of the Atlantic. And I say that’s enough to prove it’s an iniquitous27 law, a travesty28 of justice. Nobody’s going to convince me that, because a steamer may happen to break a phlange of her screw at the wrong time, or a poor woman be frightened by a thunderstorm, France has the right to force an American boy to go and rot in the trenches.”
“In the trenches—is George in the trenches?” Adele Anthony asked, raising her pale eyebrows29.
“No.” Campton thundered, his fist crashing down among her tea things; “and all your word-juggling isn’t going to convince me that he ought to be there.” He paused and stared furiously about the little ladylike drawing-room into which Miss Anthony’s sharp angles were so incongruously squeezed. She made no answer, and he went on: “George looks at the thing exactly as I do.”
“Has he told you so?” Miss Anthony enquired30, rescuing his teacup and putting sugar into her own.
“He has told me nothing to the contrary. You don’t seem to be aware that military correspondence is censored31, 116and that a soldier can’t always blurt32 out everything he thinks.”
Miss Anthony followed his glance about the room, and her eyes paused with his on her own portrait, now in the place of honour over the mantelpiece, where it hung incongruously above a menagerie of china animals and a collection of trophies33 from the Marne.
“I dropped in at the Luxembourg yesterday,” she said. “Do you know whom I saw there? Anderson ............