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The Prussian Officer By: D. H. Lawrence (1885-1930) |
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By D. H. Lawrence LONDON DUCKWORTH & CO, 3 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN Published December 1914 THE PRUSSIAN OFFICER
I They had marched more than thirty kilometres since dawn, along the
white, hot road where occasional thickets of trees threw a moment of
shade, then out into the glare again. On either hand, the valley, wide
and shallow, glittered with heat; dark green patches of rye, pale young
corn, fallow and meadow and black pine woods spread in a dull, hot
diagram under a glistening sky. But right in front the mountains ranged
across, pale blue and very still, snow gleaming gently out of the deep
atmosphere. And towards the mountains, on and on, the regiment marched
between the rye fields and the meadows, between the scraggy fruit trees
set regularly on either side the high road. The burnished, dark green
rye threw on a suffocating heat, the mountains drew gradually nearer
and more distinct. While the feet of the soldiers grew hotter, sweat ran
through their hair under their helmets, and their knapsacks could burn
no more in contact with their shoulders, but seemed instead to give off
a cold, prickly sensation. He walked on and on in silence, staring at the mountains ahead, that
rose sheer out of the land, and stood fold behind fold, half earth, half
heaven, the heaven, the banner with slits of soft snow, in the pale,
bluish peaks. He could now walk almost without pain. At the start, he had determined
not to limp. It had made him sick to take the first steps, and during
the first mile or so, he had compressed his breath, and the cold drops
of sweat had stood on his forehead. But he had walked it off. What were
they after all but bruises! He had looked at them, as he was getting
up: deep bruises on the backs of his thighs. And since he had made his
first step in the morning, he had been conscious of them, till now he
had a tight, hot place in his chest, with suppressing the pain, and
holding himself in. There seemed no air when he breathed. But he walked
almost lightly. The Captain's hand had trembled at taking his coffee at dawn: his
orderly saw it again. And he saw the fine figure of the Captain wheeling
on horseback at the farm house ahead, a handsome figure in pale blue
uniform with facings of scarlet, and the metal gleaming on the black
helmet and the sword scabbard, and dark streaks of sweat coming on the
silky bay horse. The orderly felt he was connected with that figure
moving so suddenly on horseback: he followed it like a shadow, mute
and inevitable and damned by it. And the officer was always aware of the
tramp of the company behind, the march of his orderly among the men. The Captain was a tall man of about forty, grey at the temples. He had
a handsome, finely knit figure, and was one of the best horsemen in
the West. His orderly, having to rub him down, admired the amazing
riding muscles of his loins. For the rest, the orderly scarcely noticed the officer any more than he
noticed, himself. It was rarely he saw his master's face: he did not
look at it. The Captain had reddish brown, stilt hair, that he wore
short upon his skull. His moustache was also cut short and bristly
over a full, brutal mouth. His face was rather rugged, the cheeks thin.
Perhaps the man was the more handsome for the deep lines in his face,
the irritable tension of his brow, which gave him the look of a man who
fights with life. His fair eyebrows stood bushy over light blue eyes
that were always flashing with cold fire. He was a Prussian aristocrat, haughty and overbearing. But his mother
had been a Polish Countess. Having made too many gambling debts when
he was young, he had ruined his prospects in the Army, and remained an
infantry captain. He had never married: his position did not allow
of it, and no woman had ever moved him to it. His time he spent
riding occasionally he rode one of his own horses at the races and at
the officers club. Now and then he took himself a mistress. But after
such an event, he returned to duty with his brow still more tense, his
eyes still more hostile and irritable... Continue reading book >>
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Fiction |
Literature |
Short stories |
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