THE PASSION OF OUR BROTHER, THE POILU Done into English by Arthur Guiterman
BY MARC LECLERC
With Drawings by Oliver Herford
We often talk of the best poem which the war has produced, and opinions usually vary. My own vote, so far as England is concerned, is still given to Julian Grenfell's lyric of the fighting man; but if France is to be included too, one must consider very seriously the claims of "La Passion de Notre Frère le Poilu", by Marc Leclerc, which may be had in a little slender paper-covered book, at a cost, in France, where is has been selling in its thousands, of one franc twenty-five. This poem I have been reading with a pleasure that calls to be shared with others, for it is not only very touching and very beautiful, but it has also certain of those qualities which are more thoroughly appreciated in company. Beauty and tenderness can make their appeal alone; but humor demands two at least and does not resent a crowd, and the humor of this little masterpiece is very deep and true.
Did I say I had been reading it? That is to use words with unjustifiable looseness; rather should I say that I have been in part reading and in part guessing at it; for it is written in the Angevin patois, which is far beyond my linguistic capacity. Not that Captain Leclerc is a rustic; on the contrary, he is a man of culture and the author of several books, chiefly on and about Anjou, one of which has illustrations from his own hand; but it has amused him in this poem to employ his native dialect, while, since he, like so many French authors, is fighting, the soldierly part of it is authentic.-E. V. Lucas in "A Boswell of Baghdad".
T was a poor Poilu, who
dragged
His bones through all
the bang and rattle.
Oh, yes; poor beggar! he had
bragged
Of how he longed to be in battle
And nowhere else, and all that prattle;
But when he learned that he was sent
And had to go, he simply went.
There isn't any argument
About an order, when one serves;
Then, those that till the soil, he knew,
Are those who must defend it, too,
Though they are only poor reserves.
Not every one, you see, is fit
For making shells and suchlike work;
It takes a laborer, a clerk,
Or notary to do his bit
In ammunition places, near
The foremost forefront of the rear.
The danger at the front, of course-
That is, the real front-is greater.
The shells the soldier sees out there,
That burst with such tremendous force
And where they land heave out a crater,
Are those the Boche sends through the
air.
Our shells are better-anyway
That's what the powder-people say,
And who should know as well as they?
Our Poilu and his mates, together,
Were busy carrying grenades.
'Twas blacker than the ace of spades
That night, and mean and nasty weather,
With snow and rain and wind and sleet;
And there were shell holes for your feet,
Big holes to crack your legs or strain
them,
Then bigger holes-it seemed to rain
them!
Now suddenly there came a shell;
It burst perhaps within a rod.
The Poilu cried, "I'm hit, my God!"
And first upon his knees he fell
And then he fell upon his back,
While from his side, upon his sack,
The blood gushed forth and clotted there.
He called his corporal: "Old Pierre,
My friend", he said, "you'll have to tell
My wife: first say I'm not quite well,
Then very sick,...to break the news...
And there's my purse;...the hundred
You'll give...my pals...and take the sack...
Of hand-grenades...that's on my
Thus, having made his testament, He yielded up his soul, content.
Above the night his spirit flew,
Without a compass winning through
To Heaven's very gate, whereat,
Upon the golden step, he spied
Saint Peter beating out the mat.
"First wipe your feet!" Saint Peter cried
In tones that might be heard by all;
"Then take the right-hand passage,
straight,
Until you reach the Judgment Hall;
There sit you on the bench and wait!"
The Poilu summoned strength to crawl
Along until he reached a stall
At which an angel, white and great,
Demanded his credentials, yes,
His name, his class and everything.
The poor chap gave them, shivering,
And stood there, cold and comfortless
For some few minutes, palpitating,
Until the angel said, "They're waiting!"
He found himself, in sudden awe, Within a church-and such a one! "Twas all in gold and purple done; And, gazing, at the end he saw The good God, throned above a sun, 'Twixt Mary and the Christ who died;
And candles blazed on every side
In candelabra, row on row.
And many saints were thronged below-
All kinds of saints in grand array,
But mostly soldier-saints were they
In casques and breastplates all complete:
Saint George, Saint Michael, armed to
quell
His devil, prone beneath his feet;
Saint Leonard, Hubert, Saint Marcel,
Saint Charlemagne with beard that
flowed,
Saint Martin, brave Saint Barbe who showed
His little cannon, primed to shoot;
Saint Maurice and his band to boot,
And Joan of Arc with banner proud.
And, seeing all the martial crowd,
The Poilu muttered, "Here's perdition!
A military court, I see!
Whatever will they do to me!"...
And then began the inquisition:
"Now tell your tale, and tell it true!" The good God said to the poor Poilu. "Before the war what did you do?" "My God, I toiled with plough and hoe, Which doesn't make one rich, you know; And, as for me, my goods were few. Still, work will give you what you need; We weren't badly off; of course
I had two oxen, and a horse,
A cow, a wife, some fowl-indeed
A pig-with due respect to all—"
"Ah", cried Saint Anthony, "I'm bound
I know as well as any other
These little pigs!-Be blest, my brother!" The good God bent his brows and frowned;
And, shrinking back against the wall, Saint Anthony looked mighty small.... "Well, since you've been a soldier, pray, Have you not sinned too much for grace?"
"Well, my good God, I wouldn't say
"Too much', nor would I have the face
To say I hadn't sinned at all.
To tell the truth about the case,
I did get drunk;-I own my fall.
Still, since I am an Angevin,
And as the wine was poor and thin
It might not be so great a sin;
You'd maybe call it very small."
Here Noah cried, the patriarch,
"Why, that's no crime that I can see!
Right often, if it lay with me
To pass upon a little spree,
I'd wink and wave, 'Sail on, O Ark!'"
The Poilu said: "Another time
They put me in the jug one night
For what they seemed to think a crime;
And still I feel that I was right.
I'd ripped my breeches; so to screen
The tear, to patch it neat and clean
And cover up the end in sight,
I clipped my cloak-the tail, I mean.
My captain clapped me into jail,
Because, in cutting off that tail,
He charged I'd damaged, with intent,
Belongings of the Government!"
"Why", said Saint Martin, "when I rent My cloak to clothe the poor and lame,
It seems to me I did the same;
And me they set above the stars!" "And me they shoved be
hind the bars",
The Poilu said; "but then,
good brother,
I clothed myself, you
clothed another,
Which makes a somewhat
different matter.
Besides, I know this isn't nice-
But once I had so many lice
I couldn't kill them!"...In a trice
Saint Labre cried, "I kept mine, too;
I kept as many as were hatched;
That was the proper thing to do.
You should have done as I, and
scratched;
For scratching proves of great utility
In cultivating true humility!”
(Saint Michael, with disgusted cough,
His sabre waved and shooed him off.)
"And so, my Lord, if I have sinned,
I've suffered many tribulations
And miseries in cold and wind.
I've often borne with scanty rations
And want of sleep, and burning heat.
And when the sun in August glowed,
Oh, many times along the road
I've had to drag my poor, flayed feet
On long, hard marches, never stopping,
The salt sweat pouring out and drop-
ping,
While heavy, heavy grew my pack.
Yet, sometimes where the roads were steepest,
Or where the mud or sand was deepest,
I've turned to help my weaker brothers.
Oh, yes, upon my burdened back
I've often borne the loads of others
That they might go a little faster,
Though my own weary feet were slow!"
Whereat Saint Simon whispered low,
"Like us at Golgotha, O Master!"
"So thus I stand before you here,
A soul without a habitation.
If I have sinned, oh, Father dear,
Have I not offered expiation?
See, I am bloodless, pale and drear
With all that man in death endures.
The wound within my side is red."...
"Yea, verily", Saint Thomas said,
"Lord Jesus, it is just like yours!"
Still silent sat the Lord of Light;
And then the Poilu cried anew,
With sudden gesture pointing to
The Virgin Mother's mantle blue,
And God the Father's beard so white,
And Christ's full robe of crimson red-
"There are my colors, Lord!" he said;
Those are the colors of my Flag,
The colors of my country, France!
It was for her I bore mischance
Of war, of hardship, of disease,
Of marches when I scarce could drag
My feet along, of pain and fear,
This wound-it was for her I bled;
For her I died, my country dear;
For her I bow before you here,
Eternal Father, on my knees!"
Then smiled the Lord; and, glorified,
The inmost Heavens opened wide.
Among the hosts of Paradise
The Poilu saw with gladdened eyes
A crowd of Poilus mingling there,
And each had such a happy air!
And each one had a cloak of azure
That looked as if 'twere made to meas-
A golden helmet on his head,
And mighty wings that he could spread
To fly a hundred leagues at pleasure,
Nor wet his feet, nor ever feel
The smallest blister on his heel!
And there where angel pinions beat,
Our happy Poilu found a seat
And sang and sang in true accord
(At least with, those that sat the
nighest),
"Glory, glory to the Lord!
"Glory, glory in the Highest!"
And all the host responded then,
"Peace on earth, good will to men!"
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