One of Ours, Willa Cather [feel good fiction books txt] 📗

in the hospital, and he seemed ashamed to be alive, poor boy, when my brother was dead. He put his hand over his face and began to cry, and said, ‘Oh, Madame, il était toujours plus chic que moi!’ ”

Although Mlle. Olive spoke English well, Claude saw that she did so only by keeping her mind intently upon it. The stiff sentences she uttered were foreign to her nature; her face and eyes ran ahead of her tongue and made one wait eagerly for what was coming. He sat down in a sagging canvas chair, absently twisting a sprig of Gaura he had pulled.

“You have found a flower?” She looked up.

“Yes. It grows at home, on my father’s farm.”

She dropped the faded shirt she was darning. “Oh, tell me about your country! I have talked to so many, but it is difficult to understand. Yes, tell me about that!”

Nebraska⁠—What was it? How many days from the sea, what did it look like? As he tried to describe it, she listened with half-closed eyes. “Flat-covered with grain-muddy rivers. I think it must be like Russia. But your father’s farm; describe that to me, minutely, and perhaps I can see the rest.”

Claude took a stick and drew a square in the sand: there, to begin with, was the house and farmyard; there was the big pasture, with Lovely Creek flowing through it; there were the wheatfields and cornfields, the timber claim; more wheat and corn, more pastures. There it all was, diagrammed on the yellow sand, with shadows gliding over it from the half-charred locust trees. He would not have believed that he could tell a stranger about it in such detail. It was partly due to his listener, no doubt; she gave him unusual sympathy, and the glow of an unusual mind. While she bent over his map, questioning him, a light dew of perspiration gathered on her upper lip, and she breathed faster from her effort to see and understand everything. He told her about his mother and his father and Mahailey; what life was like there in summer and winter and autumn⁠—what it had been like in that fateful summer when the Hun was moving always toward Paris, and on those three days when the French were standing at the Marne; how his mother and father waited for him to bring the news at night, and how the very cornfields seemed to hold their breath.

Mlle. Olive sank back wearily in her chair. Claude looked up and saw tears sparkling in her brilliant eyes. “And I myself,” she murmured, “did not know of the Marne until days afterward, though my father and brother were both there! I was far off in Brittany, and the trains did not run. That is what is wonderful, that you are here, telling me this! We, we were taught from childhood that some day the Germans would come; we grew up under that threat. But you were so safe, with all your wheat and corn. Nothing could touch you, nothing!”

Claude dropped his eyes. “Yes,” he muttered, blushing, “shame could. It pretty nearly did. We are pretty late.” He rose from his chair as if he were going to fetch something.⁠ ⁠… But where was he to get it from? He shook his head. “I am afraid,” he said mournfully, “there is nothing I can say to make you understand how far away it all seemed, how almost visionary. It didn’t only seem miles away, it seemed centuries away.”

“But you do come⁠—so many, and from so far! It is the last miracle of this war. I was in Paris on the fourth day of July, when your Marines, just from Belleau Wood, marched for your national fête, and I said to myself as they came on, ‘That is a new man!’ Such heads they had, so fine there, behind the ears. Such discipline and purpose. Our people laughed and called to them and threw them flowers, but they never turned to look⁠ ⁠… eyes straight before. They passed like men of destiny.” She threw out her hands with a swift movement and dropped them in her lap. The emotion of that day came back in her face. As Claude looked at her burning cheeks, her burning eyes, he understood that the strain of this war had given her a perception that was almost like a gift of prophecy.

A woman came up the hill carrying a baby. Mlle. de Courcy went to meet her and took her into the house. Claude sat down again, almost lost to himself in the feeling of being completely understood, of being no longer a stranger. In the far distance the big guns were booming at intervals. Down in the garden Louis was singing. Again he wished he knew the words of Louis’ songs. The airs were rather melancholy, but they were sung very cheerfully. There was something open and warm about the boy’s voice, as there was about his face⁠—something blond, too. It was distinctly a blond voice, like summer wheatfields, ripe and waving. Claude sat alone for half an hour or more, tasting a new kind of happiness, a new kind of sadness. Ruin and new birth; the shudder of ugly things in the past, the trembling image of beautiful ones on the horizon; finding and losing; that was life, he saw.

When his hostess came back, he moved her chair for her out of the creeping sunlight. “I didn’t know there were any French girls like you,” he said simply, as she sat down.

She smiled. “I do not think there are any French girls left. There are children and women. I was twenty-one when the war came, and I had never been anywhere without my mother or my brother or sister. Within a year I went all over France alone; with soldiers, with Senegalese, with anybody. Everything is different with us.” She lived at Versailles, she told him, where her father had been an instructor in the Military School. He had died since the