The Cornhill Magazine (vol. XLII, no. 250 new series, April 1917)Various
History
The Cornhill Magazine (vol. XLII, no. 250 new series, April 1917)
Various
England -- Periodicals; English literature -- Periodicals; Short stories, English -- Periodicals
‘I don’t know what your private feelings are, Forsyth,’ he plunged
boldly; and Mark started as if he had been waked from a dream. ‘But the
more I look at this business of enlisting and going out to slaughter
Germans—not to mention the chance of their returning the compliment—the
more heartily I hate the whole thing. It’s nothing so simple as mere
funk. And it’s not that I’m shirking—you understand.’
‘Oh, yes. I understand,’ Mark rejoined, setting his teeth on the stem of
his pipe.
But he did not seem disposed to enlarge on his understanding of his
private feelings; and Maurice, whose mixed emotions were clamouring for
expression, went on: ‘Mere funk would at least give one something to
tackle and overcome. It’s this cursed inferno going on inside one’s head
that does the damage. And the beastly thing seems quite independent of
one’s thoughts or attention. Just keeps on automatically at the back of
my brain. Even when I’m reading or talking, I can hear those infernal
guns and shells. I can see the mangled fragments that once were men—the
wounds—the blood—the slopes of the Liége forts—’
‘Damn you! Shut _up_!’ Mark leaned forward suddenly, a spark of anger
in his eyes. ‘D’you suppose you’re the only one that’s plagued with an
imagination?’
Maurice sighed.
‘Sorry, old chap,’ he said, disappointed, but contrite. ‘It’s a relief
all the same. And I thought—you understood—’
‘Of course I do: a long sight too well.’ Mark’s tone was gentler now. ‘If
it’s relief you’re after, you’ll get that most effectively by going out
yourself; seeing things with your actual eyes: doing things with your
actual hands that’ll give you no time for cinematographs in your head.
You can thank your stars you’re a _man_. It’s the women given that way
who’ll have the devil’s own time of it. My mother’s one, worse luck; and
it’ll come hard on her—when I’m gone.’
Maurice ventured no comment on a subject so poignantly intimate as Lady
Forsyth’s anxiety for her one remaining son; nor did Mark seem to expect
any. He took a few pulls at his pipe, then reverted to generalities.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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