Critical Studies

lay bare the shoulders of her community and use the scourge upon them. If at its first appearance the strange and terrible revelations contained in the work entitled Biribi were met by offic

would have been as costly to the author as were his issues of Zola to the unhappy and martyrised Vizetelly. In France alone its pictures of the most terrible

free thought, and by its fearless exposure of evils protected by the crystallisation of time, usage, and prejudice. Over the modern world which chatters of liberty, but does not anywhere possess it, or even know actually what it means, there hang, in heavy and icy weight, two ever-increasing despotisms: the scientific and the military. Of the former it is not necessary to treat in these pages; of the latter the yearly increase throughout Europe, ever since the war of 1870-71, must alarm every unbiassed thinker, bringing with it, as it does, the impoverishment of the people, the curse of youth and manhood, the endless strain of a fiscal burden, so

ork, and to this fact there are owing that directness, simplicity, and virility which are the distinguishing characteristics of both these volumes. They are alive with life. The reader may resent them, detest them, dread them and their revelations; but he must be impressed by them; he must receive from their perusal that thrill which can only come from reality. They are saturated with the tears of blood of a strong man who fee

in jest to one of the most awful hells that earth holds. The tortures which are suffered in every army, in the best army, and in the time of greatest peace, can scarcely ever be over-rated; and they are not the less, but the more terrible, because almost always endured in silence and ignored by authority. Now and then a voi

loquence which is the offspring of simplicity and of veracity, and that potency which comes from wide knowledge of literatures and of mankind. Belonging by birth to the bourgeoisie, son of a Catholic father and a Calvinist mother, his early years were embittered by religious strife. He has later on travelled much; he has known the lowest cl

llections of the Année Terrible. In neither is there any hint or fragment of romance. This fact at once limits his public to the restricted number who appreciate the skill which can afford to dispense with the elements of romance, and to rely solely on its own power of description and analysis of character. In this respect for literary excellence and harmonious treatment I should place Bas les C?ur

daily life and street scenes in Versailles, contrasts curiously with the hot colour and bro

anting figures, in which the dumb canvas seems to shriek with war and smoke with blood; the other is a cabinet picture of Meissonier's, finished, polished, small in measurement, illimitable in suggestion, fine as the point of a needle, cruel as the fork of a snak

lumn and the roof on himself. No one who loves received doctrines, crystallised commonplaces, undisputed formul?, should open these books. Such persons will only see

when all the sympathies of the reader which would be easily roused by noble sentiments in the sufferers are voluntarily alienated, and the only motives and feelings depicted are sordid, egotistic, and miserable, except in the young narrator, whose childish intelligence is so slowly awakened to the baseness of those around him, but whose naturally honest and patriotic little soul burns and thrills with shame when once it becomes conscious

an example

eard afar off

s my aunt, weeping, "what

aunt Moreau. The sight of her thin face, her skel

rs, "these events, my d

cruel. The Captain in command of those billeted

en; his heels ring on the bricks of the ante-chamber. He

f the firing you may have heard. There is nothing of any consequence. A wo

faint. I call her maid, who runs to my summons, with the cook and the servant just come to fetch me. The three women try a

see me," she murmurs! "It was the

like a leaf

The officer is walking up and down, smoking, under the lime-trees. I hear his guttural voice as he answers, "Tell your master that I shall expect him

rb Monsieur. He is e

hat is worn too gracefully; his ragged blue blouse is too old to accord with his proud and delicate features. Is he an officer of franc-tireurs? A French spy, perha

rmans have put the Mayor in prison, he was brought he

g doors. It is, of course

dfather

how is y

the story of the wood-cut

humph!-I will go and see

me with you,

while. I shall be ba

inutes' time

good as my word.

aunt b

s-no-that is, y

fter to-morrow, but as I must go on business to Versailles in the m

ittle

me. You shall come again soon for several

ere to be fighting at Maussy this evening. However, before going to bed I look out over the country, and when I lie down I strain my ear to

er, Monsieur Jean?

me in amaze.

p; the chocolate is re

ars upon that road. My grandfather seizes me brutally and throws me down under a fence behind a hedge. I look through the branches. The Prussians pass at quick march. Amidst

ther, who

ditch. The Prussians are very severe for-for-for wayfarers. It is better

ere are they taking this fettered man? Why force me to lie hidden under

randpapa, did

d man i

ractise at firing-in the morning. It is

eeth c

on of the troops leav

rtered here goes to the front

et-place to go with the sold

in one's breast whilst the ponderous caissons, with their iron-circled wheels, shake the stones, and the mouths of the bronze guns display their yawning jaws. Bands play warlike tunes, men chant the Marseillaise, the gold of epaulets and the lace on uniforms glow in the light; the flags flap against the flagstaffs, on whose summits eagles

elling salads and an old man who has onions, and is on all fours beside his skips, because every moment or so an onion slides off the heap and rolls towards the gutter, unless he stops it. What a funny old fellow he is to take so

ings it with all his force on the uncovered head of the old man, wh

the regiment!

the end of the stree

the poor old

t. Only think! The officer mi

ing the soldiers whom we escort, walking

ung, almost beardless, puts his musket straight on the old fellow's shoulder every second. It is admirable to see the harmony which reigns between privates and officers. The Colonel, a grey-beard, salutes with his sword when the people cheer him; and a trumpeter in the front rank has stuck a great bouquet of ros

p at the corner, a knot of young men wave their caps in the air; the chemist waves his white handk

usic breaks out in

enfans de

gloire es

ing, accompanies them to the station. Through the bars of the station-gates a private passe

ere is th

ney, I have a franc in my pocket. I will pay

e soldier. "It is perhaps the

to be able to rouse the spirit of a warrior. "The last? Ah! we

ding round us, cheer. The sold

the same,"

eem very confi

town for the frontier with so little confidence! I would give-oh, what wouldn't I give?

as a picnic. Perhaps he sees more clearly than we do? Perhaps? A g

Sedan, Jean sees the G

e the

flying from the gates across the town. They brush me ro

s. If they stay to see, why may not I? I, too, get behind the stem of a tree, and I watch with staring eyes to see what will happen. On the road, fifty yards from the gat

ehind me. Ah, I think with a

st has a white linen band stained with red on his forehead. Ah! it is hideous! I want to run away-I want to run away; it is impossible. Before me there are these Germans, riding slowly, searching with piercing glances the streets which open out to the left and to the right. Behind them comes on a dense dark mass. One can hear the tra

orning, and who have just made a forced march-preserve the most marvellous exactitude, the most perfect regularity in the

the line of troops, from the foremost company which has reached the Chateau of Versailles, to the last which is leaving the Chesnay, shouts of triumph arise and drown the brazen voice of the cymbals. The victorious chant thunders down the wind. It is the Marseillaise-the Marseillaise which our o

dragoons, cuirassiers, hussars with white facings and a death's-head on their shakoes. Then come the carriages, the waggons, the vehicles with ladders, the baggage-carts.... All at once my heart sickens and stands still. Behind the wheels of the last waggons I seem to see some red cloth. Yes, it is

es, of sentiments, of street-life in a momentous hour, more accurate, more vivid

nt de défendre le sol sacré de la Patrie!' accepts the large Prussian orders, sets his steam-saws going in his timber yard, and furnishes the wood for the besiegers of Paris; or of that of the tobacconist Legros, who, after crying, 'Un soldat qui renie son drapeau? Qu'il crêve comme un chien!' stands bareheaded with bent spine to sell cigars to Bavarian officers. This is human nature: human nature as commerce and modern teaching and the ch

as his life shall last the gloom it has left will stay with him. If France herself should

thinkers) that the great majority of men are neither the martyrs nor the heroes, neither the victims nor the tyrants of their time, but a mass considerable alone by its numbers, inconsiderable by any mental or moral worth, and chiefly absorbed in different forms of selfishness and the desire of gain. It is probably an error, though one consecrated by usage and talent, to represent the generality of human beings

into the causes of deaths in the ranks, and of executions after summary, and almost secret, court-martial in Algeria, have confirmed the veracity of the statements made in Biribi. The French Government, indeed, was, as I have said, so apprehensive of the effect of these on the public mind that, althou

sick and swooning soldier is dragged, tied to the tail of a mule. They are at times ferocious as the licensed torturer with the three stripes on the sleeve, who throws his helpless prisoner, gagged and bound, on the burning sands. Terrible they always are, with all the terror of truths which have been lived through by the person who chronicles them. It is not any betrayal of confidence to say that the author of Biribi has experienced

r à cheval, has lost two cartridges as t

The boy Loupat gazes at him with the eyes of an animal watching the descent of

ys to him, "We shall leave you here. That

e State! The following morning the bugle sounds the réveil at four o'clock. It is still dark. At twenty minutes to five the company, with knapsacks on their backs, i

e is mi

upat, my

at is

my Ca

night to escape court-martial, but we w

look where he points. Under the portico, on the great architra

e, climbs to the body takes ho

officer in comma

alread

n again. "Well! he has done justi

he opening in the door and see far away below me-already far away-a small dark shape which swi

Barnaux is drinking with the men of his marabout, when a sergeant enters,

d him and chained to his ankles. He is cast down thus on the sand of the camp. Because he moans with pain they gag him with a dirty rag, they tie his chin to his head wit

read that they will tear the bandages off their wounds, or cut the

erves as an infirmary; within there are planks on

the instinct of the dying the destination of those

y apron round his body

clouds of dust arise from the ground. Some twenty iron beds are there, not more; and beyond those a pile of mattresses, on which men are lying, rolled

tween his teeth, without heeding

the earth; these are full of vermin; they throw on us s

out on your trembling limbs into the sun, you feel so feeble, so exhausted, so helpless, you cannot walk a step. You sit down in the torrid heat; you are chilly, despite the high temperature; your teeth chatter, your body is drenched with sweat. And at evening you are obliged to return to the tent, where you pass such hideous nights

riek with rage and fear as though they saw an enemy descend on them! These nights in which one hears the chi

er at first, broken with choking tears, ending in screams which make one's hair stand up on one's skull with horror. The desperate screams of a perishing life which has

and they dig a hole in the red clay und

your death alone, forsaken, without a friend to soothe your last struggle, without a hand to close your eyelids, except the brutal hand of the hospital servant, which shut on your mouth like a muzzle when your desperate cries disturbed his sleep. Ah, I know why your sickness was mortal; I know it

otaur which devours them! Know you not that the she-wolves let themselves be slain sooner than lose their offspring; that there are beasts which die of grief when their cubs are borne away from them? Do you not understand that it would be better to tear your new-born creatures limb from limb than to bri

ay in which he flings from him for ever the grey coat and kepi of the punishment-battalion. In that punishment-battalion he has been placed, let the reader remember, for no especial crime against law or decency, but for those offences against the military code (the unwritten code) which make the offender more guilty in the eyes of a court-martial than any actually criminal accusation: to have lost a regimental article, to have forgotten to salute a superior, to have stopped to drink at a brook on a march, to have omitted to put the regulation number on a clothes brush or a pewter platter, to have been out without leave, to have lost cartridges or buttons-any one of those innumerable and incessantly recurring actions or omissions which make a soldier an insoumis to his military superior, whether sergeant or general, corporal or colonel, which to the military mind constitute crimes too heinous to be named, offences which fill a punishment-book with accusations of acts in which only the semi-insanity of perverted authority c

speak of his purely intellectual qualities. It is difficult to treat of either of these works in a coldly critical spirit. Fo

conquerors as there are Versaillais ready to do so in the volume called Bas les C?urs. There is a moral motor ataxy in the spinal marrow of modern nationalities; the love of money, the fear of poverty, and the continual concentration of the mind on personal interests taught by modern education and by modern commerce make up a large percentage of human beings, who are mere time-servers, always ready to hold the stirrup-leather of the strongest. It is not alone the French bourgeois of 1870 who is satirised in these pictures of Versailles under German domination; it is the whole modernity of the last quarter of the nineteenth century under the teaching of modern science, modern trade, and modern morality. All humanity has been in

e. It is only by means of fear that the military system has been able to establish itself. It is only by such fear that it maintains its position. It is obliged to affect the imagination by terror, as it must extinguish the soul and sense of nations to prevent each from seeing farther than the stupid limit of a frontier. It is obliged to surround itself with a mysterious ceremony, with a religious pomp in which horror is united to magnificence; in which the trumpet-blast joins in the death-shrieks; in which one can see confused together the blood-stained robe of glory, the plume of generals, the handcuffs of gendarmes, the marshal's baton, and the dozen balls of the execution-volley, the golden

lic, but like many other insults which carry an intolerable sting in

, only come from the intimate persuasion that w

ntinually recurring sentence in the military code; if the man does not bend he must be broken: broken in two with a volley which smashes his spine. The punishment-battalions, the workshops of the Travaux Forcés, are the immediate consequences of the standing armies. Society, to protect its interests, makes of a young citizen a soldier, and of the soldier a galley slave at the first effort in him to shake off the yoke of that discipline which degrades and brutalises him, requiring like all tyrants and usurpers to support its rule by terror, to make itself dreaded that its prestige may dazzle and its tottering throne be secured. What society requires is an obedience passive and blind, a total imbecility, a humiliation which has no limit or hesitation; the response of

se in authority; those who, whether as sovereigns, ministers, financiers, professi

y whom he is ordered to attack. The army is the incarnation of fear. The soldier must dread his commanders as a burnt child dreads the fire. He must never laugh at their absurdities, nor raise a voice against their injustice or thei

ake to this abuse of them, and will see that the military caste is established on prejudices a

of the world before the people will have ceased to

e blood-stained car to atoms. Darien has but little hope in the resistance of the people. He fears that the majority of them will always continue to be daunted, dazzled, made dumb and helpless by the powers which ruin a

lie down to be stamped on thus? which lick

s her 'civilisation' there she introduces also her quick-firing cannon, her numbered battalions of slaves, her

will she be able, or be allowed, to be free from enforced service? The present field-marshal, commanding-in-chief, Lord Wolesley, des

olutism! The army incarnates the nation, you say? No. It diminishes it. It incarnates nothing but force, brutal and blind, which lies at the service of whoever most pleases it; or-sad to say-whoever pays it highest. The

le, and intangible, because it has had the force and the cunning to so establish itself. It is language which may, of course, be challenged by adverse argument, which may at anyrate be met by counter-