white-washed walls hung two photographs of family groups,in one of which appeared the father and mother and three littlechildren, in the other the same personages some ten years later, and alithograph of the Blessed Virgin. On each side of the table was adeal bench, at the head and foot two wooden armchairs. A dresser stoodagainst the wall, on the floor by the oven was a frayed rug, and mostimportant of all, to Michael's mind, was a big stewpot that stood onthe top of the oven. From time to time a fat, comfortable Frenchwomanbustled in, and took off the lid of this to stir it, or placed on thedresser a plate of cheese, or a loaf of freshly cooked brown bread. Twoor three of Michael's brother-officers were there, one sitting in thepatch of sunlight with his back against the green door, another on thestep outside. The post had come in not long before, and all of them,Michael included, were occupied with letters and papers.
To-day there happened to be no letters for Michael, and the paper whichhe glanced at seemed a very feeble effort in the way of entertainment.There was no news in it, except news about the war, which here, out atthe front, did not interest him in the least. Perhaps in England peopleliked to know that a hundred yards of trenches had been taken at oneplace, and that three German attacks had failed at another; but whenyou were actually engaged (or had been or would soon again be) in takingpart in those things, it seemed a waste of paper and compositor'stime to record them. There was a column of letters also from indignantBritons, using violent language about the crimes and treachery ofGermany. That also was uninteresting and far-fetched. Nothing thatGermany had done mattered the least. There was no use in arguing andslinging wild expressions about; it was a stale subject altogetherwhen you were within earshot of that incessant booming of guns. All themorning that had gone on without break, and no doubt they would get newsof what had happened before they set out again that evening for anotherspell in the trenches. But in all probability nothing particular hadhappened. Probably the London papers would record it next day, a furthertediousness on their part. It would be much more interesting to hearwhat was going on there, whether there were any new plays, whether therehad been any fresh concerts, what the weather was like, or even who hadbeen lunching at Prince's, or dining at the Carlton.
He put down his uninteresting paper, and strolled out into the farmyard,stepping over the legs of the junior officer who blocked the doorway,and did not attempt to move. On the doorstep was sitting a major of hisregiment, who, more politely, shifted his place a little so that Michaelshould pass. Outside the smell of manure was acrid but not unpleasant,the old sow grunted in her sleep, and one of the green shutters outsidethe upper windows slowly blew to. There was someone inside the roomapparently, for the moment after a hand and arm bare to the elbow wereprotruded, and fastened the latch of the shutter, so that it should notmove again.
A little further on was a rail that separated the copse from theroadway, and here out of the wind Michael sat down, and lit a cigaretteto stop his yearning for the bubbling stewpot, which would not bebroached for half an hour yet. The day, he believed, was Wednesday,but the whole quiet of the place, apart from that drowsy booming onthe eastern horizon, made it feel like Sunday. Nobody but the fatFrenchwoman who bustled about had anything to do; there was a Sabbathleisure about everything, about the dozing sow, the buzzing flies, thelounging figures that read letters and papers. When last they were here,it is true, there were rather more of them. Eight officers had beenbilleted here last week, before they had been in the trenches and nowthere were but six. This evening they would set out again for anotherforty-eight hours in that hellish inferno, but to-morrow a fresh draftwas arriving, so that when next they foregathered here, whatever hadhappened in the interval, there would probably be at least six of them.
It did not seem to matter much what six there would be, or whether therewould be more than six or less. All that mattered at this moment, as heinhaled the first incense of his cigarette, was that the rain wasover for the present, that the sun shone from a blue sky, that he feltextraordinarily well and tranquil, and that dinner would soon beready. But of all these agreeable things what pleased him most was thetranquillity; to be alive here with the manure heap steaming in thesun, and the sow asleep by the house wall, and swallows settling on theeaves, was "Paradise enow." Somewhere deep down in him were streams ofyearning and of horror, flowing like an underground river in the dark.He yearned for Sylvia, he thought with horror of the two days in thetrenches that had preceded this rest in the white-washed farm-house, andwith horror he thought of the days and nights that would succeed it. Butboth horror and yearnings were stupefied by the content that flooded thepresent moment. No doubt it was reaction from what had gone before, butthe reaction was complete. Just now he asked for nothing but to sit inthe sun and smoke his cigarette, and wait for dinner. As far as he knewhe did not think of anything particular; he just existed in the sun.
The wind must have shifted a little, for before long it came roundthe corner of the house, and slightly spoiled the mellow warmth of thesunshine. This would never do. The Epicurean in him revolted at the ideaof losing a moment of this complete well-being, and arguing that if thewind blew here, it must be dead calm below the kitchen window on theother side of the house, he got off his rail and walked along theslippery bank at the edge of the flooded road in order to go there. Itwas hard to keep his footing here, and his progress was slow, but hefelt he would take any amount of trouble to avoid getting his feet wetin the flooded road. Then there was a patch of kitchen-garden to cross,where the mud clung rather annoyingly to his instep, and, having gainedthe garden path, he very carefully wiped his boots and with a fallentwig dug away the clots of soil that stuck to the instep.
He found that he had been quite right in supposing that the air wouldbe windless here, and full of great content he sat down with his backto the house wall. A tortoise-shell butterfly, encouraged by the warmth,was flitting about among the Michaelmas daisies that bordered the pathand settling on them, opening its wings to the genial sun. Two or threebees buzzed there also; the summer-like tranquillity inserted into themiddle of November squalls and rain, deluded them as well as Michaelinto living completely in the present hour. Gnats hovered about. Onesettled on Michael's hand, where he instantly killed it, and was sorryhe had done so. For the time the booming of guns which had soundedincessantly all the morning to the east, stopped altogether, andabsolute quiet reigned. Had he not been so hungry, and so unable to getthe idea of the stewpot out of his head, Michael would have been contentto sit with his back to the sun-warmed wall for ever.
The high-road, raised and embanked above the low-lying fields, raneastwards in an undeviating straight line. Just opposite the farm werethe last outlying huts of the village, and from there onwards it layuntenanted. But before many minutes were passed, the quiet of the autumnnoon began to be overscored by distant humming, faint at first, and thenquickly growing louder, and he saw far away a little brown speck comingswiftly towards him. It turned out to be a dispatch-rider, mounted on amotor-bicycle, who with a hoot of his horn roared westward throughthe village. Immediately afterwards another humming, steadier andmore sonorous, grew louder, and Michael, recognising it, looked upinstinctively into the blue sky overhead, as an English aeroplane,flying low, came from somewhere behind, and passed directly over him,going eastwards. Before long it stopped its direct course, and began tomount in spirals, and when at a sufficient height, it resumed its onwardjourney towards the German lines. Then three or four privates, billetedin the village, and now resting after duty in the trenches, strolledalong the road, laughing and talking. They sat down not a hundred yardsfrom Michael and one began to whistle "Tipperary." Another and anothertook it up until all four were engaged on it. It was not preciselyin tune nor were the performers in unison, but it produced a vaguelypleasant effect, and if not in tune with the notes as the composer wrotethem, the sight and sound of those four whistling and idle soldiers wasin tune with the air of security of Sunday morning.
Something far down the road caught Michael's eye, some moving li
neof brown wagons. As they came nearer he saw that they were themotor-ambulances of the Red Cross, moving slowly along the ruts andholes which the traffic had worn, so that the occupants should sufferas little jolting as was possible. They carried no doubt the wounded whohad been taken from the trenches last night, and now, after callingfor them at the first dressing station in the rear of the lines, wereremoving them to hospital. As they passed the four men sitting by theroadside, one of them shouted, "Cheer, oh, mates!" and then they fellto whistling "Tipperary" again. Then, oh, blessed moment! the fatFrenchwoman looked out of the kitchen window just above his head.
"Diner, m'sieu," she said, and Michael, without another thought ofambulance or aeroplane, scrambled to his feet. Somewhere in the middledistance of his mind he was sorry that this tranquil morning was over,just as below in the darkness of it there ran those streams of