Tuesday, March 12, 2024

Story :The pin

 

 

The pin



Ventura Garcia Calderon





 

The beast fell on its face, dying, oozing sweat and blood, while the rider, in a flash, jumped to the ground at the foot of the monumental staircase of the Ticabamba hacienda. From the obese cedar balcony the dark head of the landowner Don Timoteo Mondaraz appeared, questioning the trembling newcomer.

 

The tremendous old man's sochanter's voice was mocking:

 

—What's wrong with you, Borradito? You're getting banged around... If we don't eat people here. Speak, no more...

 

El Borradito, called that in the valley because of his pockmarked face, grabbed the jipijapa hat with a desperate hand and wanted to explain so many things at once—the sudden misfortune, his twenty-league night gallop, the order to arrive in a few hours. , even if the beast burst on the way—, who was silent for a minute. Suddenly, without breathing, he exhaled his naive refrain:

 

—Well, I'll tell my friend that the boy Conrado told me to tell him that last night the Grimanesa girl caught and died.

 

If Don Timoteo did not take out his revolver, as always when he was moved, it was, without a doubt, by special command of Providence; but he squeezed the servant's arm, wanting to extract a thousand details from him.

 

—Last night?... Is she dead?... Grimanesa?... Perhaps she noticed something in the dark explanations of the Borradito, then, without saying a word, praying that they would not wake up her daughter, "the girl Ana María" , he went down himself to saddle his best "gait horse."

 

Moments later he galloped to the ranch of his son-in-law Conrado Basadre, whom last year he married Grimanesa, the pretty, pale horsewoman, the best catch in the entire valley. Those weddings were a celebration like no other, with its Bengal fires, its dancing Indian women in purple nightgowns, its Indian women who still mourn the death of the Incas, which occurred in remote centuries; but revived in the dirge of the humiliated race, like the songs of Zion in the sublime stubbornness of the Bible. Then, along the best fields of crops, the procession of saints had wandered very ancient, which displayed the stuffed heads of savages in the crimson hairy ring. And the very happy marriage of a pretty girl with the nice and arrogant Conrado Basadre ended like this... Clapper!...

 

Driving his Nazarene spurs, Don Timoteo thought, terrified, of that tragic celebration. He wanted to reach Sincavüca, the old Basadre fiefdom, in four hours.

 

In the late afternoon another resonant and laborious gallop was heard over the boulders of the mountain. Out of caution, the old man shot into the air, shouting:

 

-Who lives ?

 

He checked the race of the next rider, and with a voice that poorly concealed his anguish, he shouted in turn:

 

-Friend! It's me, don't you know me? The administrator of Sincavilca. I'm going to look for the priest for the funeral.

 

The landowner was so disturbed that he did not ask why there was such a rush to call the priest if Grimanesa was dead and why the chaplain was not at the farm. He waved goodbye and encouraged his horse, which he started galloping with its flank full of blood.

 

From the immense gate that closed the patio of the hacienda, that silence was distressing. Even the dogs, silent, sniffed out death. In the colonial house, the large silver-studded doors already displayed cross-shaped crepes. Don Timoteo crossed the large deserted halls, without removing his Nazarene spurs, until he reached the dead woman's bedroom, where Conrado Basadre was sobbing. With a voice clouded by tears, the old man begged his son-in-law to leave him alone for a moment. And when he had closed the door with his hands, he roared in pain for hours, insulting the saints, calling Grimanesa by her name, kissing the inanimate hand, which fell again on the sheets, among the Cape jasmines and wallflowers. . Serious and frowning for the first time, Grimanesa reposed like a saint, with her braids hidden in the Carmelites' cornet and her pretty waist imprisoned in her habit, according to the religious custom of the valley, to sanctify the pretty dead women. On her chest they placed a barbaric silver crucifix that had been used by one of her grandfathers to defeat rebels in an ancient Indian uprising. When Don Timoteo kissed the holy image, the dead woman's habit was left ajar, and he noticed something, because his tears suddenly dried up and he walked away from the corpse as if mad, with strange repulsion. Then he looked everywhere, hid an object in his poncho and, without saying goodbye to anyone, remounted, returning to Ticabamba in the dead of night.

 

***

 

For six months no one went from one farm to another nor could they explain this silence. They hadn't even attended the funeral! Don Timoteo lived cloistered in the storax-smelling bedroom, without speaking for whole days, deaf to the pleas of Ana María, as beautiful as her sister Grimanesa, who lived adoring and fearing her stubborn father. He was never able to find out the cause of the strange detour or why Conrado Basadre was not coming.

 

But one clear Sunday in June, Don Timoteo got up in a good mood and proposed to Ana María that they go together to Sincavüca, after mass. That resolution was so unexpected that the little girl walked around the house for the entire morning as if crazy, trying on in the mirror her long Amazon skirts and the jipijapa hat, which had to be fixed on the oily locks with a long gold stiletto. The father saw her like this, and said, embarrassed, looking at the pin:

 

—You're going to get rid of that eyesore!...

 

Ana María obeyed with a sigh, determined, as always, not to guess the mystery of that violent father.

 

When they arrived at Sincavilca, Conrado was breaking in a new colt, bare-headed in the full sun, beautiful and arrogant on the black saddle with silver nails and rivets. He jumped down, and when he saw Ana María so similar to her sister in her sweet grace, he looked at her for a long time, enthralled.

 

No one spoke about the misfortune that occurred or mentioned Grimanesa; but Conrado cut his splendid and carnal Cape jasmines to give them to Ana María. They didn't even go to visit the dead woman's grave, and there was an annoying silence when the old nurse came to hug "the girl" crying:

—Jesus, Mary and Joseph, as pretty as my little friend! A chapuli! Since then, every Sunday the visit to Sincavilca was repeated. Conrado and Ana María spent the day looking into each other's eyes and gently squeezing each other's hands when the old man turned his face to contemplate a new cut of the ripe cane. And one festive Monday, after the fiery Sunday on which they kissed for the first time, Conrado arrived in Ticabamba displaying the showy elegance of fair days, his violet poncho draped over his sheep's hair, his mane well combed and shining. his horse, which "braced" with elegant foreshortening and stuck its foaming nose into his chest, like the palfreys of the liberators.

 

With the solemnity of the great hours, he asked about the landowner, and did not call him, with the usual respect, "Don Timoteo", but he murmured, as in ancient times, when he was Grimanesa's boyfriend:

 

—I want to talk to you, my father.

 

They locked themselves in the colonial room, where the portrait of their dead daughter was still there. The old man, silent, waited for Conrado, very embarrassed, to explain to him, in an indecisive and embarrassing voice, his desire to marry Ana María. He paused so long that Don Timoteo, with his eyes closed, seemed to be sleeping. Suddenly, agilely, as if the years had no weight on that iron constitution of a Peruvian landowner, he went to open an old-style iron box with a complicated key chain, which had to be requested with a thousand tricks and a "password" written on a padlock. Then, always silent, he picked up a gold pin there. It was one of those moles that close the mantle of the Indian women and end in a coca leaf; but longer, sharper, and stained with black blood. Upon seeing him, Conrad fell to his knees, whimpering, like a confessed prisoner.

 

—Grimanesa, my poor Grimanesa!

 

But the old man warned, with a violent gesture, that it was not the time to cry. Disguising his growing confusion with a superhuman effort, he murmured, in a voice so muffled that he could barely be understood:

 

—Yes, I took it from her chest when she was dead... You had stuck this pin in her heart... Isn't that true?... Maybe she missed you...

 

-Yes my father. -Yes my father.

 

-Nobody knows?

 

—No, my father.

 

—Did he go with the administrator?

 

-Yes my father.

 

—Why didn't you kill him too?

 

He ran away like a coward. "Do you swear to kill him if he returns?"

 

-Yes my father.

 

The old man cleared his throat loudly, squeezed Conrad's hand, and said, already out of breath:

 

—If this one also deceives you, do the same... Here!...

 

He solemnly presented the golden pin, as grandfathers gave the sword to the new knight; and with brutal rejection, clutching his failing heart, he told his son-in-law to leave immediately, because it was not good for anyone to see the tremendous and righteous Don Timoteo Mondaraz sobbing.

VENTURA GARCÍA CALDERÓN.




With affection,

 Ruben

Sunday, March 3, 2024

The last interview with Colonel Francisco Bolognesi

 





 The last interview with Colonel Francisco Bolognesi

Published on 06-07-2020 Current source: La Crónica Viva Newspaper 2024

 

 

Two weeks before his immolation, on June 7, 1880 in the Battle of Arica, Colonel Francisco Bolognesi was interviewed by a correspondent from the newspaper “Rejistro Official” of Ayacucho. Another treasure of the thousands that can be found in libraries. 140 years later, the colonel does have someone to read it.

 

The heroism of duty

 

It was May 23, 1880. The Peruvian-Bolivian Army, gathered in Tacna, had taken its positions in the “Campo de la Alianza” and was awaiting the attack of the invader, who could be seen with the help of a telescope. few miles away.

 

The writer of this line was sent that day to Arica, on an important commission, aboard the Monitor Manco-Cápac.

 

The extraordinary train left for the neighboring port at 5 pm in order to reach its destination at night and thus avoid the cannonade of the enemy squadron, which was positioned in front of the mouth of the Lluta and Chacalluta valleys and out of the reach of the ground batteries, prevented the convoy from moving.

 

The few passengers who were on the express, naturally, looked for the best accommodation and I headed to the house of D J de M., a notable resident of the place, a very dignified and respectable person, whose obsequious hospitality I will never be able to forget.

 

The Head of the Plaza had established his residence in the aforementioned house and had the greatest satisfaction in knowing that I came from the heights of Tacna and that I could give him reliable news of what was happening in the camp, since it is notable that despite the short distance that separates it from that city, and despite the telegraph and railway that connect them, in that city not the slightest was known regarding the enemy's movements, the number of troops it had and the greater or lesser probability of victory for the enemy. our parts.




 

Colonel Bolognesi, to whom I was introduced, after making the most pleasant memories of my father, of whom he was a companion and friend, entered into the following dialogue with me:

 

-Come on, you who come from Tacna will be able to give me certain news about our troops, since what we receive here is either very late or does not satisfy in any way.

 

-Sir, our Army occupies the same positions that General Campero took: its state of mind is satisfactory even for the most demanding patriotism and it has received greater encouragement, if possible, with the incorporation of the “Tacna Division”, commanded by the prefect Dr. Solar and which is made up of the Gendarmeries of the Departments of Tacna and Tarapacá, the Police forces and the National Guard, which includes people from all social conditions, who have not hesitated to offer their contingent of blood , in defense of our cause: everything, then, ensures an upcoming victory and it is believed that the Chileans, given the resolute attitude of the Allied Army, will not dare to advance and will change their plan of attack.

 

-What a crazy think! Is the number of the enemy's forces known?

 

-I don't know, sir, if our bosses are behind this, but I believe that nothing is known for certain and that the calculations made on the matter are risky.

 

-So, how do you want us to succeed? Is it possible, is it rational to trust in victory over an enemy, whose numerical strength is not known? Why hasn't an espionage service been organized near him, to communicate to us all the data that interests us? Why don't we imitate our enemies, who are aware of the least that happens in our camp and who are not even aware of the number of soldiers we have in the hospitals?

 

-It seems to me, sir, that, if our bosses lack that important information, instead they have taken their measures to counteract any advantage that the Chileans have over us, and for the same reason, no one doubts for a moment the victory.

Hey friend! You, like the majority of our compatriots, see everything rosy; But it is necessary to convince ourselves that our condition cannot be sadder: a series of errors in every sense have marked this war from the beginning, and, therefore, I do not see the outcome as favorable to our cause. When the enemy Army has decided to attack us in our own positions, it is because it has measured all the inconveniences that could arise in its path and has found the means to overcome them; It is because he has complete security of achieving victory, since this is guaranteed with his greater number of troops, with the relatively superior power of his three weapons and with the courage that is consequent to the advantages that have been acquired over the opponent. Why, before it overtook Sama, had a respectable force not been deployed on the coast of Tarapacá? With this measure, it is more than likely that his attention would have been drawn to that side, and that his plan would have changed completely.

 

-Apart from the serious risks that would have been presented for such an expedition, I believe that there were not sufficiently mobile elements to carry it out.

-No, well, you are wrong. During the time I have been in charge of Arica I have provided the Allied Army with more than 900 mules, taken from the valleys of Azapa and Lluta and Chacalluta. Having been given command of the expeditionary force, I would have sought the necessary mobility and would also have been responsible for its success. The current condition of this Plaza could not be more regrettable; Everyone believes it to be impregnable and yet it will not be able to resist the enemy, in a combined attack of sea and land: the number of its defenders is so small that they can easily be overwhelmed in a moment.

 

 

- Is it possible, sir, that such is its condition? When we all consider it as a bastion before which the enemy's efforts will crash, in the event of a disaster, all the more so since it is the point of retreat rather than the sole reason. advise.

 

-What I'm telling you, friend. If the next battle is unfavorable to us, as I fear most, Arica is lost and without remedy, because we will be isolated, because the enemy will bring here all his victorious troops, to attack us in combination with his squad, because we will have to resign ourselves to our situation. luck. I know how to tell you that, as a citizen and as Head of this Plaza; I will prefer to die rather than surrender, even so that our compatriots may be encouraged by our conduct, even so that History may say in its pages, when speaking of this war:

 

“The defenders of Arica, despite the desperate nature of their condition, fulfilled their duty, preferring to die in their position rather than implore the mercy of the victor.”

 

Pronouncing such sublime words, which revealed his refined patriotism and the greatness of his soul, we were interrupted by the arrival of two officers who came to report on a commission.

 

I said goodbye to Colonel Bolognesi so I would never see him again.

 

Juan Carlos Flórez Granda, director of SEHCAP (Coronel Arnaldo Panizo Historical Studies Society), found this gem while conducting research to prepare a historical profile of Colonel Francisco Bolognesi. The article does not have a signature and was published on January 7, 1882 in the “Registro Oficial” newspaper of Ayacucho.

 

Investigation: Walter Sosa Vivanco



With affection,

Ruben

Dialogue without barriers with Jorge Chavez

 

Dialogue without barriers with Jorge Chavez

Corriere della Sera interviews Jorge Chávez in the hospital after his tragic accident

On Friday, September 23, 1910, after the accident occurred while landing, after having conquered the Alps, Jorge Chávez was rescued from the remains of his Bleriot, which lay in the Domodossola field. Luigi Barzini, special envoy of Milan's Corriere della Sera to cover the Crossing of the Alps.

Source:Newspaper La Cronica Viva Lima Peru





 

Corriere della Sera interviews Jorge Chávez in the hospital after his tragic accident

There is silence in the hospital room where Jorge Chávez is in.

 

Then he, looking at his friends Arthur Duray and Joseph Christiaens, asked:

“And the others?”

 

Barzini: “The others? Who?”

 

Chávez: “The other aviators. Weymann…

Barzini: “Weymann and Farman left Briga this morning and headed to Milan.”

 

Chávez: “Ah! I thought… it's such a nice day today…”

 

Barzini: “Stay calm. “You have won, only you."

 

Chávez: “It has been hard. I have not passed the Monscera.... Do you know that?”

 

23 September 1910. Jorge Antonio Chávez Dartnell, also known as Géo Chávez, Franco-Peruvian aviator– left Ried-Brig, Switzerland and flew towards the Simplon Pass, becoming the first pilot to fly over the Swiss Alps.

— Ron Eisele (@ron_eisele) September 22, 2023

 

 

Barzini: “Stay calm.”You have won, only you."

 

 


The interview begins as follows:

Barzini: “I think you were going too low to overcome Monscera.”

 

Chávez: “None of that. I could have perfectly risen much higher... However, I have not dared, I haven't dared. Do you remember what winds we had on Monday, when I had problems in the Saltina Valley? Well, that same sudden and treacherous wind…”

 

Barzini: “Did he grab it from the side?”

 

Chávez: “No, it blew in all directions… it came in gusts, it went up, down, and it formed whirlwinds…”

 

Barzini: “At what point in the route did you catch it?”

Chávez: “When I started to climb, there was perfect stillness… I made it very well to the Simplón Pass… The day was so clear that I could see the hotel perfectly.

 I continued, therefore, with complete confidence, heading towards the Krammbach valley… Do you remember? That valley that we descended together in the morning with Paulhan…”

 

Barzini: “Perfectly.”

 

Chávez: “I have gone down a little to cover myself from the east wind…”

 

Barzini: “We have seen it.”

 

Chavez: “Ah! Were they you? I saw a car that was running…”

“Up, always up!”

Commanding the small monoplane Bleriot @CancilleriaPeru @PeruEnSuiza @JChavezCresta@swissinfo_es pic.twitter.com/X4dgDz8Mz7

 

— Markus Antonietti (@yetirhodanus) September 23, 2023

 

Barzini “Did you hear our screams?”

 

Chávez: “No… Well, I went down a little. I had just a few gusts of wind. He feared something more serious after what he had seen in the morning. The stillness continued to accompany me until the Furgenn pass, that high valley that can be seen from the village of Simplón.”

 

Barzini: “It is the beginning of the Monscera passage.”

Chávez: “Precisely… I was determined to go through there. He knew the route perfectly. He had climbed the top of Pioltone twice and I remembered all the steps... When I arrived at Furgenn I believed that the most difficult part of the journey had been done. But a first gust of wind hits me as I pass along the road… where it makes the last turns over the valley before heading towards Gondo… Are you following me?”

 

Barzini: “I see the place. Were you too high at that point?”

 

Chávez: “More than a thousand meters. I saw it as a tangled white ribbon... Until that moment, I had flown in a southerly direction. From there I headed southeast... But as soon as I found myself at the Furgenn Pass, between the Seehorn on the left and the Tschaggmatorn on the right, I suddenly felt myself caught by the wind... They were real hammer blows, unexpected, for here, there, up, down... Hell. I seemed to bounce like a ball. He made jumps of fifty and sixty meters. Ah! If the barometer had been able to record all that, you would see what kind of zigzags it would mark. The wind suddenly threw me towards the earth and a moment later grabbed me again to throw me against the sky... That's where I tired the device. I felt like the wind was carrying me and it seemed as if the airplane had to suddenly escape from me. I moved the balancers, I tried to spin, get out of those whirlwinds... It was a tremendous and stubborn fight..."

 

1/2 #Antique 1910 #Italian #RPPC shows crash site at #Domodossola of #Peruvian #Pioneer #Aviator #GeoChavez who_ 113 years ago on this date_ Sept 23, 1910 was officially declared #First #Pilot to cross the #Alps in the #Milano Air Race Circuit #deltiology #AviationHistory #Italy

pic.twitter.com/Jz9pOfoaZT

23, 2023

 

 

Barzini: “Were you scared?”

 

Chavez: “No.”

 

 

 

 

Barzini: “And you were not impressed by the vision of the mountain and its abysses?”

 

Chavez: “No. I did not think about that... I did not look down... I only looked at what was in front of me, I only thought that about five kilometres away was the Mons era pass, high, abrupt and I had a feeling that I wouldn't be able to fly there... winds swept it, penetrated it... To my left opened the Zwischberger valley that connects with the Gondo. It is a narrow gorge between steep mountains, enclosed between the Seehorn and the Pioltone, uglier and narrower than the Gondo. He is seen passing by on the road. And I got into it... I could not choose. I had to decide whether to continue… or land among the rocks…”

 

Barzini: “At what height were you flying?”

 

Chávez: “Above two thousand meters, maybe two thousand one hundred... I circled around the Seehorn and then entered the gorge.

Three minutes later, three long and endless minutes, I assure you; I was behind Pioltone and was following the valley, a little below the peaks... The wind was blowing quite strong, I had it behind me. It was flying fast, perhaps more than a hundred kilometres per hour. I felt some shakes, the gusts of wind carried me like a board in a stormy sea, but the jumps were smaller than the previous ones... I have travelled in this way about seven or eight kilometers to where the valley widens. I then made out, below and to my left, on the other side of the valley, the village of Varzo. I estimate it was about fifteen hundred meters above it. The heights on the other bank have seemed easier to fly over and I have headed over the Varzo, reducing my altitude to approximately five hundred meters, alternating the planned flight with some "reprises" (strokes) of the engine... And I have done well, because I have found a quieter area. After Varzo, I have always flown over the left bank... I have seen the Ossola valley in the distance. It was the end. I got there in a flash… I passed over Domodossola, going lower and lower. I could see the landing field, many people, a large white cross on the grass, the landing signal. Then… later, you know the rest.”

 

2/2 #Antique 1910 #Italian #postcard commemorating #Peruvian #pioneer #aviator #GeoChavez who was declared #First #Pilot to cross #Alps 113 years ago when he crashed at #Domodossola _on this date Sept. 23, 1910 during “#Milano Air Race Circuit” He died on the 27th #philately pic.twitter.com/eAgDZWeA2p

 

— Marje Molder (@MarjeMolder) September 23, 2023

 

Barzini: “No. Tell me until the end.”

Chávez: “I don't know. It went down very well; it went down regularly, a little in gliding flight and a little with the help of the engine so as not to be dragged by the blowing wind... It made a normal landing... It was almost touching the ground, happy... Then I don't know more. I don't remember what happened. I think about it, but I can't remember it... I see myself a few meters from the ground, in my device... and nothing more."

 

Barzini: “Have you not seen when the wings broke?”

 

Chávez “No, they say they have folded like the wings of a pigeon… Is that true, Duray?”

 

Duray: “Let's not talk about this anymore… Enough.”

 

Chávez remains silent… The hospital room remains silent.



 

With affection,

Ruben

 

 

 

Saturday, March 2, 2024

Anna Pavlova

 

Anna Pavlova



(Saint Petersburg, 1882 - The Hague, 1931) Russian dancer. She began her studies in 1891, at the age of ten, at the Ballet School of the Marinsky Theater in Saint Petersburg with Pavel Gerdt, Christian Johansson and Eugenia Sokolova. She debuted in the company on July 1, 1899 with The Vestal Virgin. She was a supporter of the reforms introduced by Fokine, and she aspired to an interpretation of the music at her dances.



 


 

Anna Pavlova



 

In 1905, Michel Fokine created The Death of the Swan for her, premiered in St. Petersburg and presented at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York five years later. Named prima ballerina in 1906, she premiered in the lead roles the ballets Armida's Pavilion (1907), Chopiniana (1908) and Egyptian Nights (1908) by Fokine, some of which she danced again in the debut of Diaghilev's Ballets Russes in Paris, the year 1909.

 

After several tours through London, New York, Prague and Berlin with Mikahil Mordkin as a partner, Anna Pavlova, still linked to the Marinsky Theatre, formed her own company in 1910. The group, initially made up of only eight dancers, was expanded in 1913 to tour throughout America. Harcourt Algenaroff, Hilda Butsova, Laurent Novikoff, Ruth Page, Pierre Vladimirov and Alexander Volinine were some of her collaborators. The First World War surprised her in Berlin, but she managed to move to London, where she had performed privately for King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra.

 

Pavlova's distaste for new choreographic trends, which had led her to reject the lead role in Michel Fokine's L'Oiseau de Feu (1910) in Diaghilev's Ballets Russes, was evident in her company's repertoire, made up of many of the 19th century classics, in addition to the ballets The Fairy Doll (1914), by Ivan Clustine, and others choreographed by Anna Pavlova herself, such as Dragonfly (Fritz Kreisler, 1914), California Poppy (Piotr Ilich Tchaikovsky, 1916) and Autumn Leaves (Frédéric Chopin, 1918).

 

Throughout its fifteen years of existence (from its creation in 1910 until the dancer's retirement in 1925), Ana Pavlova's company offered more than four thousand performances on five continents. These shows were organized by businessman Victor D'André, often described as her husband, although no certificate has been found to prove this. Anna Pavlova died in The Hague as a result of pneumonia. In 1924, actor Douglas Fairbanks filmed some of Pavlova's solos, which later became part of the film The Immortal Swan (1956).

 

Her most famous dance was The Death of the Swan, arranged for her by Fokine, to music by Camille Saint-Saëns. Pavlova often performed dances adapted especially to her, which expressed moods, symbolized seasons or characterized flowers or creatures: Autumn Leaves, Christmas, Oriental Impressions, The Dragon. She inspired an entire generation and spread her love of ballet throughout the world.



 

How to cite this article:

Fernández, Tomás and Tamaro, Elena. «Biography of Anna Pavlova». In Biographies and Lives. The online biographical encyclopedia [Internet]. Barcelona, Spain, 2004. Available at https://www.biografiasyvidas.com/biografia/p/pavlova.htm [access date: March 1, 2024].

With affection,

Ruben

Friday, March 1, 2024

Story : SOUVENIR

 

 SOUVENIR



Guy De Maupassant

...We had not eaten anything since the previous day. All day long we had stayed hidden in a barn, huddled together for warmth, the officers mixed with the soldiers and everyone dizzy with fatigue.

A few sentries, lying in the snow, surveilled the surroundings of the abandoned farm that we were using as a refuge, to guard against being surprised. We changed them every hour to prevent them from drowsing off.

Those of us who could sleep, slept; the others stayed still, sitting on the ground, saying a few words to their neighbors from time to time.

For three months now the invasion had pervaded everywhere, like an overflowing ocean. There were great waves of men one after the other, flowing constantly forward, leaving marauders in their wake.

As for us, reduced to two hundred irregulars from eight hundred soldiers a month before, we were fighting in retreat, surrounded by enemies, encircled, lost. We had to get to Blainville before the next day, where we still hoped find General C… If we didn’t manage to make it across the twelve leagues that separated us from the town during the night, or if the French division had left, there was no more hope left for us.

We couldn’t move during the day as the countryside was full of Prussians.

 

At five in the afternoon it was already night; a pallid, snow-filled night. The silent white flakes were ever falling, burying everything under an enormous frozen sheet that was constantly thickening under the countless mass and incessant accumulation of the vaporous specks of crystal-like wadding.

At six o’clock the detachment went on the move again.

Four men went forward as scouts three hundreds meters in front of us. Behind them came a platoon of ten men led by a lieutenant, followed by the rest of the troop in a mass, pell-mell, in varying disorder depending on the degree of tiredness and on the length of their strides. Four hundred meters away on each flank, a few soldiers were patrolling two by two.

The white dust falling from the clouds entirely covered us up, no longer melting on the caps or on the greatcoats, making phantoms of us, like the ghosts of dead soldiers.

From time to time we rested for a few minutes. Then we only heard that vague patter of falling snow, that elusive, almost imperceptible sound of interlacing flakes. Some men shook them off, others didn’t react. Then an order circulated in a low voice. Rifles were raised up on shoulders and we wearily took up the march again.

 

Suddenly the scouts fell back. Something was worrying them. The order «Halt!» circulated. In front of us was a large wood. Six men left to reconnoitre it. We waited in a gloomy silence.

All of a sudden a sharp scream, a woman’s scream, in that harrowing, vibrating tone that they throw out in their terrors, pierced the snow-thickened night.

A few minutes later two prisoners, an old man and a young girl, were brought in.

The captain questioned them in a low voice.

—Your name?

— Pierre Bernard.

— Your profession?

— Sommelier for the Count Roufé.

—Is this your daughter?

—Yes.

—What does she do?

—She’s a laundry-maid at the castle.

—Why are you prowling around like this at nighttime, for God’s sake?

—We are escaping.

—Why?

—Twelve uhlans passed by this evening. They shot three guards and hanged the gardener. I am afraid for the girl.

—Where are you going?

—To Blainville.

—Why?

—Because there’s supposed to be a French army there.

—Do you know the way?

—Absolutely.

—That’s enough, stay by my side!

 

And the advance across the countryside recommenced. The old man silently followed the captain. His daughter was at his side, dragging her feet. Suddenly, she stoped.

—Father, she said, I’m so tired that I can’t go any further.

And she fell. She was trembling with cold and seemed on the point of death. Her father wanted to carry her. He couldn’t even lift her up.

The captain stamped his foot, cursing, furious, and at the same time feeling pity for her. «In the name of God, no matter what, I just can’t let you die there!»

But some men had gone off and come back with cut branches. A minute later a stretcher had been made.

The captain was softened by this. «Dammit, that’s good! Come on men, who can give her his greatcoat now? It’s for a woman, for Christ’s sake!»

Twenty greatcoats were immediately taken off and thrown onto the stretcher. In an instant the young girl, wrapped in these warm military cloaks, was raised up by six robust arms that carried her off.

We went on again, more cheerful and joyful, as if we had drunken wine. Some jokes were even made, and the gaiety arose that a woman’s presence always awakens in French blood.

The soldiers were marching in step now, humming tunes, all of a sudden warmed up. And an old sharpshooter, who was following the stretcher waiting his turn to replace the first comrade who dropped out, opened his heart to his neighbour. «Me, I’m no longer young, but damnit, there’s nothing like the fair sex to turn your insides upside down!»

Until three o’clock in the morning we went on almost without any rest, but the order: «Halt!» was suddenly whispered again, like an abrupt gust of wind. Almost by instinct everyone flattened themselves on the ground.

 

Over there, in the middle of the plain, something was moving. It seemed to be running, and as the snow was no longer falling we could vaguely distinguish, still quite far away, a shape like a monster that was lying down like a snake, then suddenly seemed to recoil, to curl itself up in a ball and to stretch itself out again, taking rapid strides and then stopping again, and so on continuously.

Murmured orders circulated among the men stretched out on the ground, and from time to time the clacking of a little abrupt, metallic noise could be heard.

Suddenly the meandering shape approached and we could see coming toward us at a fast trot, one behind the other, twelve uhlans lost in the night.

They were so close now that we could hear the snorting of the horses, the clanking of the weapons and the creaking of the leather saddles.

Then the harsh voice of the captain cried out: «Fire, by God!»

And fifty gunshots shattered the frozen silence of the fields; four or five delayed detonations broke out again, then another one alone, the final one; and when the blinding, burning powder had been dispersed we saw that the twelve men, and nine horses, had fallen. Three animals had fled in a frantic galop, one of them dragging the corpse of its rider bounding along behind it, hanging by his foot from the stirrup.

The captain shouted joyfully: «Twelve fewer]of them, by God!» One of the soldiers commented: «There are widows there!» Another added «It doesn’t take long to take the leap!»

 

Then, from the bottom of the stretcher under the pile of greatcoats, a sleepy little voice was heard:

«What’s happening, father? Why’s there shooting?»

The old man answered:

«It’s nothing; sleep, my little one!»

We took up the route again.

We walked on for almost four hours.

The sky started to fade, the snow became clear, luminous, shining; a cold wind swept the clouds away and a pale rosiness, like a streak of weak watercolour, stretched towards the east.

A distant voice suddenly shouted: «Who goes there?»

Another voice answered. The whole detachment stopped. And the captain himself went forward.

We waited a long time. Then we moved on again. Soon we saw a small house with a French sentry, weapon at the ready, in front of it. An officer on horseback watched us march by. All of a sudden, he asked: «What are you carrying on that stretcher?» Then the greatcoats stirred, we saw two little hands come out, moving them aside, then a a cloud of hair, a tousled head, that was smiling and answered:

«It’s me, sir, I slept well, don’t worry. I’m not cold.»

A burst of laughter rose among the men, a laugh of satisfaction; and an enthusiast, to express his joy having vociferated: «Long live the Republic!», the whole troop trumpeted frenetically, as if they had gone crazy: «Long live the Republic!»

 

 

Twelve years have passed.

 

The other day at the theatre, the delicate head of a young blond woman awoke in me a confused memory, an obsessive memory but an inconclusive one. I was soon so troubled by the desire of know the name of the woman that I asked everyone about her.

 

Someone told me: «She’s the Viscountess of L…, the daughter of Count Roufé»

 

And all the details of that night of war rose up again in my mind, so clearly that I right away recounted them to my friend sitting next to me, so that he could write about it for the public. He has signed this account.

With affection,

Ruben