Gladiator, Philip Wylie [sight word books txt] 📗

THE first announcement of the word sent Hugo’s blood racing. War! What war? With whom? Why? Was America in it, or interested in it? He stepped ashore and hurried into the city. The populace was in feverish excitement. Soldiers were everywhere, as if they had sprung up magically like the seed of the dragon. Hugo walked through street after street in the furious heat. He bought a paper and read the French accounts of mobilizations, of battle impending. He looked everywhere for some one who could tell him. Twice he approached the American Consulate, but it was jammed with frantic and frightened people who were trying only to get away. Hugo’s ambition, growing in him like a fire, was in the opposite direction. War! And he was Hugo Danner! He sat in a cafe toward the middle of the afternoon. He was so excited by the contagion in his veins that he scarcely thrilled at the first use of his new and half-mastered tongue. The gar�on hurried to his table.

“De la biere,” Hugo said.

The waiter asked a question which Hugo could not understand, so he repeated his order in the universal language of measurement of a large glass by his hands. The waiter nodded. Hugo took his beer and stared out at the people. They hurried along the sidewalk, brushing the table at which he sat. They called to each other, laughed, cried sometimes, and shook hands over and over. “La guerre” was on every tongue. Old men gestured the directions of battles. Young men, a little more serious perhaps, and often very drunk, were rushing into uniform as order followed order for mobilization. And there were girls, thousands of them, walking with the young men. Hugo wanted to be in it. He was startled by the impact of that desire. All the ferocity of him, all the unleashed wish to rend and kill, was blazing in his soul. But it was a subtle conflagration, which urged him in terms of duty, in words that spoke of the war as his one perfect opportunity to put himself to a use worthy of his gift. A war. In a war what would hold him, what would be superior to him, who could resist him? He swallowed glass after glass of the brackish beer, quenching a mighty thirst and firing a mightier ambition. He saw himself charging into battle, fighting till his ammunition was gone, till his bayonet broke; and then turning like a Titan and doing monster deeds with bare hands. And teeth.

The chaos did not diminish at night, but, rather, it increased. He went with milling crowds to a bulletin board. The Germans had commenced to move. They had entered Belgium in violation of treaties long held sacred. Belgium was resisting and Liege was shaking at the devastation of the great howitzers. A terrible crime. Hugo shook with the rage of the crowd. The first outrages and violations, highly magnified, were reported. The blond beast would have to be broken.

“God damn,” a voice drawled at Hugo’s side. He turned. A tall, lean man stood there, a man who was unquestionably American. Hugo spoke in instant excitement.

“There sure is hell to pay.”

The man turned his head and saw Hugo. He stared at him rather superciliously, at his slightly seedy clothes and his strong, unusual face. “American?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s have a drink.”

They separated themselves from the mob and went to a crowded cafe. The man sat down and Hugo took a chair at his side. “As you put it,” the man said, “there is hell to pay. Let’s drink on the payment.”

Hugo felt in him a certain aloofness, a detachment that checked his desire to throw himself into flamboyant conversation. “My name’s Danner,” he said.

“Mine’s Shayne, Thomas Mathew Shayne. I’m from New York.”

“So am I, in a way. I was on a ship that was stranded here by the war. At loose ends now.”

Shayne nodded. He was not particularly friendly for a person who had met a countryman in a strange city. Hugo did not realize that Shayne had been besieged all day by distant acquaintances and total strangers for assistance in leaving France, or that he expected a request for money from Hugo momentarily. And Shayne did not seem particularly wrought up by the condition of war. They lifted their glasses and drank. Hugo lost a little of his ardor.

“Nice mess.”

“Time, though. Time the Germans got their answer.”

Shayne’s haughty eyebrows lifted. His wide, thin mouth smiled.

“Perhaps, I just came from Germany. Seemed like a nice, peaceful country three weeks ago.”

“Oh.” Hugo wondered if there were many pro-German Americans. His companion answered the thought.

“Not that I don’t believe the Germans are wrong. But war is such—such a damn fool thing.”

“Well, it can’t be helped.”

“No, it can’t. We’re all going to go out and get killed, though.”

“We?”

“Sure. America will get in it. That’s part of the game. America is more dangerous to Germany than France—or England, for that matter.”

“That’s a rather cold-blooded viewpoint,”

Shayne nodded. “I’ve been raised on it. Gar�on, l’addition, s’il vous plait.” He reached for his pocketbook simultaneously with Hugo. “I’m sorry you’re stranded,” he said, “and if a hundred francs will help, I’ll be glad to let you have it. I can’t do more.”

Hugo’s jaw dropped. He laughed a little. “Good lord, man, I said my ship was stuck. Not me. And these drink are mine.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a huge roll of American bills and a packet of French notes.

Shayne hesitated. His calmness was not severely shaken, however. “I’m sorry, old man. You see, all day I’ve been fighting off starving and startled Americans and I thought you were one. I apologize for my mistake.” He looked at Hugo with more interest. “As a matter of fact, I’m a little skittish about patriotism. And about war. Of course, I’m going to be in it. The first entertaining thing that has happened in a dog’s age. But I’m a conscientious objector on principles. I rather thought I’d enlist in the Foreign Legion to-morrow.” Shayne extended his hand. “They have something to fight for, at least. Something besides money and glory. A grudge. I wonder what it is that makes me want to get in? I do.”

“So do I.”

Shayne shook his head. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Still, you will probably be compelled to in a while.” He looked at his watch. “Do you care to take dinner with me? I had an engagement with an aunt who is on the verge of apoplexy because two of the Boston Shaynes are in Munich. It scarcely seems appropriate at the moment. I detest her, anyway. What do you say?”

“I’d like to have dinner with you.”

They walked down the Cannebiere. At a restaurant on the east side near the foot of the thoroughfare they found a table in the corner. A pair of waiters hastened to take their order. The place was riotous with voices and the musical sounds of dining.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask your name again,” Shayne said.

“Banner. Hugo Banner.”

“Danner God! Not the football player?”

“I did play football—some time ago.”

“I saw you against Cornell—when was it?—two years ago. You were magnificent. How does it happen that—”

“That I’m here?” Hugo looked directly into Shayne’s eyes.

“Well—I have no intention of prying into your affairs.”

“Then I’ll tell you. Why not?” Hugo drank his wine. “I killed a man—in the game—and quit. Beat it.”

Shayne accepted the statement calmly. “That’s tough. I can understand your desire to get out from under. Things like that are bad when you’re young.”

“What else could I have done?”

“Nothing. What are you going to do? Rather, what were you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Hugo answered slowly. “What do you do? What do people generally do?” He felt the question was drunken, but Shayne accepted it at its face value.

“I’m one of those people who have too much money to be able to do anything I really care about, most of the time. The family keeps me in sight and control. But I’m going to cut away to-morrow.”

“In the Foreign Legion? I’ll go with you.”

“Splendid!” They shook hands across the table.

Three hours later found them at another cafe. They had been walking part of the time in the throngs on the street.

For a while they had stood outside a newspaper office watching the bulletins. They were quite drunk. Two girls accosted them.

“That gives me an idea,” Shayne said. “Let’s find a phone. Maybe we can get Marcelle and Claudine.”

Marcelle and Claudine met them at the door of the old house. Their arms were laden with champagne bottles. The interior of the dwelling belied its cold, gray, ancient stones. Hugo did not remember much of what followed that evening. Short, unrelated fragments stuck in his mind—Shayne chasing the white form of Marcelle up and down the stairs; himself in a huge bath-tub washing a back in front of him, his surprise when he saw daylight through the wooden shutters of the house.

Some one was shaking him. “Come on, soldier. The leave’s up.”

He opened his eyes and collected his thoughts. He grinned at Shayne. “All right. But if I had to defend myself right now—I’d fail against a good strong mouse.”

“We’ll fix that. Hey! Marcelle! Got any Fernet—Branca?”

The girl came with two large glasses of the pick-me-up. Hugo swallowed the bitter brown fluid and shuddered. Claudine awoke. “Cheri!” she sighed, and kissed him.

They sat on the edge of the bed. “Boy!” Hugo said. “What a binge!”

“You like eet?” Claudine murmured.

He took her hand. “Loved it, darling. And now we’re going to war.”

“Ah!” she said, and, at the door: “Bonne chance!” Shayne left Hugo, after agreeing on a time and place for their meeting in the afternoon. The hours passed slowly. Hugo took another drink, and then, exerting his judgment and will, he refrained from taking more. At noon he partook of a light meal. He thought, or imagined, that the ecstasy of the day