THE PRUSSIAN OFFICER
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 off 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 barrier 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, stiff 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. With the men, however, he was merely impersonal, though a devil when roused; so that, on the whole, they feared him, but had no great aversion from him. They accepted him as the inevitable.
To his orderly he was at first cold and just and indifferent: he did not fuss over trifles. So that his servant knew practically nothing about him, except just what orders he would give, and how he wanted them obeyed. That was quite simple. Then the change gradually came.
The orderly was a youth of about twenty-two, of medium height, and well built. He had strong, heavy limbs, was swarthy, with a soft, black, young moustache. There was something altogether warm and young about him. He had firmly marked eyebrows over dark, expressionless eyes, that seemed never to have thought, only to have received life direct through his senses, and acted straight from instinct.
Gradually the officer had become aware of his servant's young, vigorous, unconscious presence about him. He could not get away from the sense of the youth's person, while he was in attendance. It was like a warm flame upon the older man's tense, rigid body, that had become almost unliving, fixed. There was something so free and self-contained about him, and something in the young fellow's movement, that made the officer aware of him. And this irritated the Prussian. He did not choose to be touched into life by his servant. He might easily have changed his man, but he did not. He now very rarely looked direct at his orderly, but kept his face averted, as if to avoid seeing him. And yet as the young soldier moved unthinking about the apartment, the elder watched him, and would notice the movement of his strong young shoulders under the blue cloth, the bend of his neck. And it irritated him. To see the soldier's young, brown, shapely peasant's hand grasp the loaf or the wine-bottle sent a flash of hate or of anger through the elder man's blood. It was not that the youth was clumsy: it was rather the blind, instinctive sureness of movement of an unhampered young animal that irritated the officer to such a degree.
Once, when a bottle of wine had gone over, and the red gushed out on to the tablecloth, the officer had started up with an oath, and his eyes, bluey like fire, had held those of the confused youth for a moment. It was a shock for the young soldier. He felt something sink deeper, deeper into his soul, where nothing had ever gone before. It left him rather blank and wondering. Some of his natural completeness in himself was gone, a little uneasiness took its place. And from that time an undiscovered feeling had held between the two men.
Henceforward the orderly was afraid of really meeting his master. His subconsciousness remembered those steely blue eyes and the harsh brows, and did not intend to meet them again. So he always stared past his master, and avoided him. Also, in a little anxiety, he waited for the three months to have gone, when his time would be up. He began to feel a constraint in the Captain's presence, and the soldier even more than the officer wanted to be left alone, in his neutrality as servant.
He had served the Captain for more than a year, and knew his duty. This he performed easily, as if it were natural to him. The officer and his commands he took for granted, as he took the sun and the rain, and he served as a matter of course. It did not implicate him personally.
But now if he were going to be forced into a personal interchange with his master he would be like a wild thing caught, he felt he must get away.
But the influence of the young soldier's being had penetrated through the officer's stiffened discipline, and perturbed the man in him. He, however, was a gentleman, with long, fine hands and cultivated movements, and was not going to allow such a thing as the stirring of his innate self. He was a man of passionate temper, who had always kept himself suppressed. Occasionally there had been a duel, an outburst before the soldiers. He knew himself to be always on the point of breaking out. But he kept himself hard to the idea of the Service. Whereas the young soldier seemed to live out his warm, full nature, to give it off in his very movements, which had a certain zest, such as wild animals have in free movement. And this irritated the officer more and more.
In spite of himself, the Captain could not regain his neutrality of feeling towards his orderly. Nor could he leave the man alone. In spite of himself, he watched him, gave him sharp orders, tried to take up as much of his time as possible. Sometimes he flew into a rage with the young soldier, and bullied him. Then the orderly shut himself off, as it were out of earshot, and waited, with sullen, flushed face, for the end of the noise. The words never pierced to his intelligence, he made himself, protectively, impervious to the feelings of his master.
He had a scar on his left thumb, a deep seam going across the knuckle. The officer had long suffered from it, and wanted to do something to it. Still it was there, ugly and brutal on the young, brown hand. At last the Captain's reserve gave way. One day, as the orderly was smoothing out the tablecloth, the officer pinned down his thumb with a pencil, asking:
"How did you come by that?"
The young man winced and drew back at attention.
"A wood axe, Herr Hauptmann," he answered.
The officer waited for further explanation. None came. The orderly went about his duties. The elder man was sullenly angry. His servant avoided him. And the next day he had to use all his will-power to avoid seeing the scarred thumb. He wanted to get hold of it and--A hot flame ran in his blood.
He knew his servant would soon be free, and would be glad. As yet, the soldier had held himself off from the elder man. The Captain grew madly irritable. He could not rest when the soldier was away, and when he was present, he glared at him with tormented eyes. He hated those fine, black brows over the unmeaning, dark eyes, he was infuriated by the free movement of the handsome limbs, which no military discipline could make stiff. And he became harsh and cruelly bullying, using contempt and satire. The young soldier only grew more mute and expressionless.
"What cattle were you bred by, that you can't keep straight eyes? Look me in the eyes when I speak to you."
And the soldier turned his dark eyes to the other's face, but there was no sight in them: he stared with the slightest possible cast, holding back his sight, perceiving the blue of his master's eyes, but receiving no look from them. And the elder man went pale, and his reddish eyebrows twitched. He gave his order, barrenly.
Once he flung a heavy military glove into the young soldier's face. Then he had the satisfaction of seeing the black eyes flare up into his own, like a blaze when straw is thrown on a fire. And he had laughed with a little tremor and a sneer.
But there were only two months more. The youth instinctively tried to keep himself intact: he tried to serve the officer as if the latter were an abstract authority and not a man. All his instinct was to avoid personal contact, even definite hate. But in spite of himself the hate grew, responsive to the officer's passion. However, he put it in the background. When he had left the Army he could dare acknowledge it. By nature he was active, and had many friends. He thought what amazing good fellows they were. But, without knowing it, he was alone. Now this solitariness was intensified. It would carry him through his term. But the officer seemed to be going irritably insane, and the youth was deeply frightened.
The soldier had a sweetheart, a girl from the mountains, independent and primitive. The two walked together, rather silently. He went with her, not to talk, but to have his arm round her, and for the physical contact. This eased him, made it easier for him to ignore the Captain; for he could rest with her held fast against his chest. And she, in some unspoken fashion, was there for him. They loved each other.
The Captain perceived it, and was mad with irritation. He kept the young man engaged all the evenings long, and took pleasure in the dark look that came on his face. Occasionally, the eyes of the two men met, those of the younger sullen and dark, doggedly unalterable, those of the elder sneering with restless contempt.
The officer tried hard not to admit the passion that had got hold of him. He would not know that his feeling for his orderly was anything but that of a man incensed by his stupid, perverse servant. So, keeping quite justified and conventional in his consciousness, he let the other thing run on. His nerves, however, were suffering. At last he slung the end of a belt in his servant's face. When he saw the youth start back, the pain-tears in his eyes and the blood on his mouth, he had felt at once a thrill of deep pleasure and of shame.
But this, he acknowledged to himself, was a thing he had never done before. The fellow was too exasperating. His own nerves must be going to pieces. He went away for some days with a woman.
It was a mockery of pleasure. He simply did not want the woman. But he stayed on for his time. At the end of it, he came back in an agony of irritation, torment, and misery. He rode all the evening, then came straight in to supper. His orderly was out. The officer sat with his long, fine hands lying on the table, perfectly still, and all his blood seemed to be corroding.
At last his servant entered. He watched the strong, easy young figure, the fine eyebrows, the thick black hair. In a week's time the youth had got back his old well-being. The hands of the officer twitched and seemed to be full of mad flame. The young man stood at attention, unmoving, shut off.
The meal went in silence. But the orderly seemed eager. He made a clatter with the dishes.
"Are you in a hurry?" asked the officer, watching the intent, warm face of his servant. The other did not reply.
"Will you answer my question?" said the Captain.
"Yes, sir," replied the orderly, standing with his pile of deep Army plates. The Captain waited, looked at him, then asked again:
"Are you in a hurry?"
"Yes, sir," came the answer, that sent a flash through the listener.
"For what?"
"I was going out, sir."
"I want you this evening."
There was a moment's hesitation. The officer had a curious stiffness of countenance.
"Yes, sir," replied the servant, in his throat.
"I want you to-morrow evening also--in fact, you may consider your evenings occupied, unless I give you leave."
The mouth with the young moustache set close.
"Yes, sir," answered the orderly, loosening his lips for a moment.
He again turned to the door.
"And why have you a piece of pencil in your ear?"
The orderly hesitated, then continued on his way without answering. He set the plates in a pile outside the door, took the stump of pencil from his ear, and put it in his pocket. He had been copying a verse for his sweetheart's birthday card. He returned to finish clearing the table. The officer's eyes were dancing, he had a little, eager smile.
"Why have you a piece of pencil in your ear?" he asked.
The orderly took his hands full of dishes. His master was standing near the great green stove, a little smile on his face, his chin thrust forward. When the young soldier saw him his heart suddenly ran hot. He felt blind. Instead of answering, he turned dazedly to the door. As he was crouching to set down the dishes, he was pitched forward by a kick from behind. The pots went in a stream down the stairs, he clung to the pillar of the banisters. And as he was rising he was kicked heavily again, and again, so that he clung sickly to the post for some moments. His master had gone swiftly into the room and closed the door. The maid-servant downstairs looked up the staircase and made a mocking face at the crockery disaster.
The officer's heart was plunging. He poured himself a glass of wine, part of which he spilled on the floor, and gulped the remainder, leaning against the cool, green stove. He heard his man collecting the dishes from the stairs. Pale, as if intoxicated, he waited. The servant entered again. The Captain's heart gave a pang, as of pleasure, seeing the young fellow bewildered and uncertain on his feet, with pain.
"Schöner!" he said.
The soldier was a little slower in coming to attention.
"Yes, sir!"
The youth stood before him, with pathetic young moustache, and fine eyebrows very distinct on his forehead of dark marble.
"I asked you a question."
"Yes, sir."
The officer's tone bit like acid.
"Why had you a pencil in your ear?"
Again the servant's heart ran hot, and he could not breathe. With dark, strained eyes, he looked at the officer, as if fascinated. And he stood there sturdily planted, unconscious. The withering smile came into the Captain's eyes, and he lifted his foot.
"I -I forgot it- sir," panted the soldier, his dark eyes fixed on the other man's dancing blue ones.
"What was it doing there?"
He saw the young man's breast heaving as he made an effort for words.
"I had been writing."
"Writing what?"
Again the soldier looked up and down. The officer could hear him panting. The smile came into the blue eyes. The soldier worked his dry throat, but could not speak. Suddenly the smile lit like a flame on the officer's face, and a kick came heavily against the orderly's thigh. The youth moved a pace sideways. His face went dead, with two black, staring eyes.
"Well?" said the officer.
The orderly's mouth had gone dry, and his tongue rubbed in it as on dry brown-paper. He worked his throat. The officer raised his foot. The servant went stiff.
"Some poetry, sir," came the crackling, unrecognizable sound of his voice.
"Poetry, what poetry?" asked the Captain, with a sickly smile.
Again there was the working in the throat. The Captain's heart had suddenly gone down heavily, and he stood sick and tired.
"For my girl, sir," he heard the dry, inhuman sound.
"Oh!" he said, turning away. "Clear the table."
"Click!" went the soldier's throat; then again, "click!" and then the half-articulate:
"Yes, sir."
The young soldier was gone, looking old, and walking heavily.
The officer, left alone, held himself rigid, to prevent himself from thinking. His instinct warned him that he must not think. Deep inside him was the intense gratification of his passion, still working powerfully. Then there was a counter-action, a horrible breaking down of something inside him, a whole agony of reaction. He stood there for an hour motionless, a chaos of sensations, but rigid with a will to keep blank his consciousness, to prevent his mind grasping. And he held himself so until the worst of the stress had passed, when he began to drink, drank himself to an intoxication, till he slept obliterated. When he woke in the morning he was shaken to the base of his nature. But he had fought off the realization of what he had done. He had prevented his mind from taking it in, had suppressed it along with his instincts, and the conscious man had nothing to do with it. He felt only as after a bout of intoxication, weak, but the affair itself all dim and not to be recovered. Of the drunkenness of his passion he successfully refused remembrance. And when his orderly appeared with coffee, the officer assumed the same self he had had the morning before. He refused the event of the past night--denied it had ever been--and was successful in his denial. He had not done any such thing--not he himself. Whatever there might be lay at the door of a stupid, insubordinate servant.
The orderly had gone about in a stupor all the evening. He drank some beer because he was parched, but not much, the alcohol made his feeling come back, and he could not bear it. He was dulled, as if nine-tenths of the ordinary man in him were inert. He crawled about disfigured. Still, when he thought of the kicks, he went sick, and when he thought of the threat of more kicking, in the room afterwards, his heart went hot and faint, and he panted, remembering the one that had come. He had been forced to say, "For my girl." He was much too done even to want to cry. His mouth hung slightly open, like an idiot's. He felt vacant, and wasted. So, he wandered at his work, painfully, and very slowly and clumsily, fumbling blindly with the brushes, and finding it difficult, when he sat down, to summon the energy to move again. His limbs, his jaw, were slack and nerveless. But he was very tired. He got to bed at last, and slept inert, relaxed, in a sleep that was rather stupor than slumber, a dead night of stupefaction shot through with gleams of anguish.
EL OFICIAL PRUSIANO
Habían andado más de treinta kilómetros, desde el amanecer, bajo el gran sol apenas suavizado aquí y allí por grupos de árboles, raros momentos de sombra. Por ambos lados, el valle ancho y llano centelleaba de calor; las manchas de un verde oscuro del centeno, el joven trigo pálido, las landas, las praderas y los negros bosques de pinos se extendían en un melancólico diagrama bajo un cielo resplandeciente. Enfrente aparecían las montañas, de un azul pálido y muy tranquilas; brillaba la nieve suavemente por encima del espeso calor. Y hacia las montañas, siempre, siempre, marchaba el regimiento, en medio de los campos y de las praderas, entre los flacos árboles frutales que uniformemente bordeaban la carretera. El centro moreno reflejaba un hálito sofocante; poco a poco se acercaban las montañas, precisaban más su perfil. Los pies de los soldados echaban fuego, goteaba el sudor por su pelo, bajo los cascos, y en lugar de la quemadura de los morrales, sentían ahora un frío picante entre los hombros.
El soldado marchaba en silencio, con el rostro alzado hacia las montañas que se erguían limpiamente sobre el paisaje, en desfile sus crestas, límites de la tierra y del cielo, valla de pálidos picos azulados, con derrames de nieve pura.
Ahora podía andar sin apenas sufrir. A la salida, había él decidido no cojear. Había creído desmayarse a los primeros pasos, y durante el primer kilómetro su respiración fue más angustiosa y gotas de frío sudor habían perlado su frente. Pero eso había pasado andando. Después de todo, ¿eran algo más que contusiones? Las había mirado al levantarse; unas profundas magulladuras detrás de los muslos. Desde su primer paso, a la mañana, le habían dolido, hasta este momento en que su mal parecía haberse refugiado en un punto estrecho y ardiente de su pecho. No encontraba aire al respirar. Pero andaba casi ligeramente.
Esta mañana la mano del capitán había temblado sobre la taza de café: su ordenanza lo veía aún. Y advirtió la fina silueta del capitán, a caballo, deslizándose hacia la granja, a la cabeza, airosa figura en su uniforme azul pálido con solapas escarlata, un centelleo metálico en el casco negro y la funda, y los oscuros surcos de sudor que descendían por los flancos sedosos del caballo bayo. El ordenanza se sentía vinculado a este jinete que acababa de advertir; lo seguía como una sombra maldita, torturado, mudo. Y el oficial no perdía ni un instante la conciencia de las pisadas de todos estos hombres tras él, con su ordenanza entre ellos.
Era el capitán un hombre que frisaba en los cuarenta años, alto, ya con las sienes grises. Era bien conformado, fino de movimientos, uno de los mejores jinetes del Oeste. Su ordenanza, cuando lo friccionaba, admiraba la musculatura de sus riñones. Por lo demás, no prestaba mucha más atención al oficial que a sí mismo. Veía raras veces el rostro de su amo, no lo miraba. El capitán tenía el pelo de un moreno rojizo, duro, que él llevaba rapado al cero; también el bigote lo llevaba muy corto y erizado encima de una gran boca brutal. Su tez era ruda, flacas sus mejillas. Quizás la mayor belleza de este rostro se refugiaba en estas arrugas profundas, en esta frente ceñuda y tensa que le daba el aspecto de un luchador a vueltas con la vida. Sus rubias cejas espesas protegían los ojos azul pálido en que parecía brillar siempre una llama fría.
Era un aristócrata prusiano, altanero e imperioso. Pero su madre era una condesa polaca. Durante su juventud, las deudas de juego habían arruinado su porvenir en el ejército: se había quedado en capitán de infantería. Nunca se había casado, su situación no se lo permitía, y ninguna mujer le había inclinado a ello. Pasaba su vida a caballo —a veces montaba uno de sus caballos en las carreras— y en la mesa de oficiales. De vez en cuando tomaba una querida y después volvía a empezar la vida acostumbrada, con la expresión aún más sombría, la mirada más tensa y más dura. De ordinario, con los hombres era absolutamente impersonal, pero diabólico cuando se decidía a serlo; de modo que se acababa por temerle, sin gran aversión: se le aceptaba tal como era.
Para con su ordenanza, al principio, se mostró frío, justo y completamente neutral; no era quisquilloso. De suerte que su sirviente nada sabía de él, salvo cómo quería ser obedecido. Nada más sencillo. Pero poco a poco aquello cambió.
Era el ordenanza un muchacho de unos veintidós años, de mediana estatura, bien conformado. Sus miembros eran pesados y vigorosos, su rostro moreno, con un inocente bigotito negro. Había en él algo cálido y juvenil. Con las cejas limpiamente trazadas por encima de los ojos, de mirada sombría, sin profundidad, donde no se vislumbraba ningún pensamiento, parecía que el mozo sólo por los sentidos absorbía la vida, que obraba directamente por instinto.
Poco a poco, el oficial se había dado cuenta de esta presencia juvenil, vigorosa, inocente. Le era imposible no tomar aquello en cuenta, mientras le servía el muchacho. Era como una llama cálida frente a él, hombre maduro, rígido, cuajado ya, en quien la vida se había estancado en un preestablecido automatismo. Él sentía allí una libertad, un hervor contenido, algo en los ademanes del mozo que le obligaba a fijarse en él. Y aquello irritaba al prusiano. Le fastidiaba que un subalterno pudiera hacerle volver a la viva realidad. Y hubiera podido cambiar fácil¬mente de ordenanza, pero no lo hizo.
Ahora casi nunca lo miraba de frente, pero volvía la cara para evitar el choque de sus ojos. Sin em¬bargo, como el joven soldado iba y venía tranquila¬mente por la habitación, lo miraba, se fijaba en el movimiento de sus hombros juveniles pero vigorosos bajo la tela azul, la curva de su nuca, y eso le irritaba. Ver esta mano campesina, morena y joven y bien construida, sobre el pan o la botella de vino, provocaba un relámpago de odio o de ira en la sangre del hombre. No es que el mozo fuese torpe o inhábil, era esta instintiva seguridad de movimientos del joven animal salvaje lo que le daba rabia.
Un día en que la botella de vino se volcó y sobre la mesa se había extendido un charco rojo, el oficial había estallado en juramentos, y sus ojos, como la llama azul, se habían clavado un segundo en los del mozo confuso. Fue un choque para el joven soldado. Algo sintió que se hundía profundamente en su alma, en un sitio donde nada había aún penetrado. Aquello le dejó en pleno desconcierto. Un poco de su serenidad natural se le había ido, una inquietud había venido a relevarla. Y desde aquel instante, un sentimiento indefinible se había instalado entre ambos hombres.
A partir de entonces, el ordenanza tuvo miedo de afrontar a su amo. Su subconsciente recordaba aquellos ojos de acero bajo las duras cejas, y temía encontrarlos de nuevo. Ahora su mirada se deslizaba por encima del hombro de su amo, y lo evitaba. Esperaba con una impaciencia creciente el fin de los tres meses de servicio que le quedaban por hacer. Se sentía molesto en presencia del capitán, y aun más que él deseaba estar solo, en su neutralidad de subalterno. Hacía más de un año que estaba bajo sus órdenes, y conocía su servicio. Para él, el oficial y sus órdenes constituían una fatalidad, como el sol o la lluvia; le había obedecido naturalmente. Eso no le concernía personalmente. Pero ahora, si algo particular debía existir entre ellos, iba a sentirse como un animal en jaula; no podría aguantarlo.
Y la irradiación de esta vida joven había penetrado en la rígida disciplina del oficial y había profundamente perturbado la intimidad de aquel hombre. Pero él era un caballero de largas manos finas y modales refinados. Se negaba absolutamente a admitir una intrusión de esta especie. Era un temperamento violento que siempre se había contenido. A veces había tenido un duelo, o una explosión de cólera ante los soldados. Sabía que estaba siempre al borde de un estallido, pero se atenía inflexiblemente a la idea del deber. Mientras, el joven soldado parecía vivir su vida sencilla y cálida, gastarla naturalmente en sus movimientos, de una gracia fácil, como los de los animales salvajes en libertad. Y eso le irritaba cada vez más.
A despecho de sí mismo, el capitán no conseguía reconquistar de nuevo su indiferencia hacia el muchacho. Y no podía dejarlo tranquilo.
A pesar de él, lo vigilaba, lo reprendía con un tono hiriente, no lo dejaba respirar un segundo. A veces, montaba en cólera contra él, lo tiranizaba. Entonces el otro se replegaba, como si nada oyese, y con el rostro colorado y melancólico, esperaba el fin del estallido. Las palabras no llegaban a su entendimiento, se hacía impermeable, se ponía fuera del alcance de su amo. Tenía una cicatriz en el pulgar izquierdo, un profundo surco que atravesaba la juntura. Desde hacía mucho tiempo, ver aquello le resultaba insoportable al oficial, era algo así como el foco de su malevolencia. La buscaba siempre con los ojos, fea y profunda en la joven mano curtida. Al fin, no pudo contenerse más. Un día, cuando el ordenanza estaba recogiendo las migas del mantel, colocó encima un lápiz y preguntó:
—¿Cómo le ocurrió eso?
El joven se estremeció y contestó, juntando los talones:
—Con un hacha, mi capitán.
El oficial esperaba otros detalles que no vinieron; el ordenanza prosiguió su faena. Se sentía dominado por una rabia fría. Su servidor lo evitaba. Al día siguiente apeló a toda su energía para no mirar la cicatriz. Hubiera querido saltar encima y. . . Una llama ardiente recorrió sus venas.
Sabía que su ordenanza en breve quedaría libre, y feliz en serlo. Hasta ahora le había huido. El capitán entró en un período de furiosa irritación. No descansaba, en ausencia del soldado, y tan pronto como él estaba allí, lo consideraba como una rencorosa angustia. Odiaba estas finas cejas negras, sobre los ojos oscuros, sin expresión; sentía rabia frente a la libertad, a la flexibilidad de aquellos movimientos, que ninguna disciplina militar había podido envarar. Era cada vez más áspero, lo atormentaba cruelmente, con palabras despectivas y burlonas. Aunque, por ello, el joven no hacía más que encerrarse en su mudez inexpresiva.
—¿En qué establo se ha criado, que no sabe mirar de frente? Míreme a los ojos cuando le hablo.
Y el soldado volvía sus ojos oscuros hacia el rostro del otro, pero no había en ellos mirada, sino cierto reflejo poco menos que inasible: advertía el azul de los ojos de su amo, y nada más. El otro palideció y sus pestañas rojizas parpadearon. Dio sus órdenes, secamente.
Un día arrojó un pesado guante de uniforme a la cara del joven soldado. Entonces tuvo la alegría de ver encenderse en los ojos negros una llama, como cuando se echa paja al fuego. Y se había reído con un pequeño temblor y un despectivo aleteo de la nariz.
En fin, ya no quedaban más que dos meses. El muchacho trataba, instintivamente, de mantenerse a distancia. Se esforzaba por servir a su amo como una fuerza abstracta, no como un hombre. Su único propósito era evitar toda relación personal, aun la creada por un odio establecido. Pero, a pesar suyo, el odio crecía, en respuesta al otro odio. Sin embargo, lo mantenía aparte. Cuando abandonase el ejército podría mirarlo de frente. Era de una naturaleza muy vivaz y tenía muchos amigos. Se maravillaba de verlos a todos tan cabales. Pero sin saberlo, estaba solo, y lo estaba cada vez más. Esto continuaría así hasta el fin. Pero el furor del oficial parecía llegar a la locura, y el mozo sentía un miedo horrible.
Tenía una novia, una ruda muchacha de las montañas. Se paseaban uno junto al otro, lentamente. Deseaba su presencia, no para hablar, sino para llevarla del brazo, para el contacto físico. Eso lo reconfortaba y le ayudaba a olvidar al capitán, el tenerla así apretada contra su pecho. Y ella le pertenecía, sin palabras. Se amaban. El capitán se dio cuenta de ello y se volvió loco de rabia. Prohibió al joven salir de noche, y gozaba viendo la sombría expresión de su cara. A veces sus ojos se encontraban, unos oscuros y melancólicos, obstinadamente vacíos; otros, desbordando de continuo desprecio.
El oficial se empeñaba en no reconocer lo obstinado de su pasión. No quería ver tal sentimiento hacia su subordinado, sino la actitud de un hombre exasperado por la estupidez de su sirviente. Justificado así ante sus propios ojos, dejaba desarrollarse los sucesos. Sin embargo, estaba ya en el remate de su excitación nerviosa. Al fin le arrojó a la cara una hebilla del cinturón. Cuando vio al mozo dar un paso atrás, con lágrimas en los ojos y sangre en la boca, sintió un profundo estremecimiento de placer mezclado de vergüenza.
Pero eso —pensó para excusarse a sí mismo— era una cosa que nunca hizo hasta ahora. El individuo era demasiado irritante. Sus nervios iban a estallar.
Se marchó unos días con una mujer.
Fue una farsa de placer. Ni siquiera la deseaba. Pero continuó ausente el tiempo de su permiso. Volvió de él con una agonía de cólera y de dolor. Montó a caballo toda la tarde, luego volvió directamente a cenar. Su ordenanza había salido. El oficial se sentó, con sus largas manos finas estiradas sobre la mesa, perfectamente inmóvil, pero su sangre parecía roer sus venas. Al fin, el ordenanza entró. El oficial observó la silueta fina y robusta, las finas cejas, el espeso pelo negro. En una semana había vuelto a encontrar su primitivo porte. Las manos del oficial se crisparon y sintieron una salvaje quemadura. El muchacho se mantenía en guardia, inmóvil, hermético. La comida comenzó en silencio. Pero el ordenanza parecía querer apresurarse: rozaba ligeramente la vajilla.
—¿Tanta prisa tiene usted? — preguntó el oficial, espiando el rostro consternado del mozo, que no contestó.
—¿Quiere usted contestarme? — dijo el capitán.
—Sí, mi capitán —contestó, de pie, tras una pila de pesados platos militares.
El capitán esperó, lo miró, y preguntó de nuevo:
—¿Tanta prisa tiene usted?
—Sí, mí capitán — fue la contestación, que lo atravesó como una descarga eléctrica.
—¿Por qué?
—Debía salir, mi capitán.
—Lo necesito a usted esta noche.
Hubo entonces un momento de vacilación. El oficial continuaba extrañamente rígido.
—Bien, mi capitán — contestó el hombre desde el fondo de su pecho.
—También lo necesitaré mañana a la noche. En suma, puede usted ir pensando en no tener libres sus noches, a menos que yo le dé permiso.
Bajo el juvenil bigote, los labios quedaban ce¬rrados.
—Sí, mi capitán — dijo el ordenanza, abriendo un instante la boca.
Se volvió hacia la puerta.
—¿Y por qué lleva usted ese trozo de lápiz en la oreja?
El ordenanza vaciló; después siguió su camino sin contestar. Una vez fuera, colocó los platos en un montón, se quitó el trozo de lápiz de la oreja y se lo metió en el bolsillo. Había copiado unos versos para el santo de su novia. Volvió a servir. Los ojos del oficial brillaban, tenía una sonrisita alerta.
—¿A qué fin ese trozo de lápiz en la oreja? — preguntó.
El ordenanza recogió toda la vajilla. Su amo esta¬ba cerca de la gran estufa verde, con la sonrisita en los labios, y la barbilla hacia adelante. Cuando el joven lo vio, su sangre comenzó de repente a arder. Ya no veía. En lugar de contestar, giró como deslumbrado hacia la puerta. Al salir para dejar su carga, un puntapié lo arrojó de bruces contra el suelo. Los platos rodaron en cascada por la escalera. Se asió fuertemente a la barandilla; pero, cuando iba a levantarse, recibió nuevos puntapiés, tan formidables, que tuvo que agarrarse largo tiempo, embotado por el dolor. Su amo había vuelto en seguida a la habitación y había cerrado la puerta. Abajo, la cocinera contemplaba riendo el desastre de la vajilla por la escalera.
El corazón del oficial parecía romperse. Se sirvió un vaso de vino, derramando la mitad por el suelo, y se engulló el resto, apoyado en la fresca estufa verde. Oyó al hombre recoger los platos en la escalera. Pálido, como asfixiado, esperó. El ordenanza entró. Sintió una onda de placer al verlo tropezar, estúpido, dolorido.
—Schöner — dijo.
El soldado tardó un poco más de tiempo en salir de su embotamiento.
—Sí, mi capitán.
El muchacho se mantenía delante de él, con su bigotito patético y sus finas cejas muy negras en su frente de oscuro mármol.
—Le hice una pregunta.
—Sí, mi capitán.
La voz del capitán mordía como un ácido.
—¿Por qué llevaba usted un lápiz en la oreja?
Una vez más la sangre del mozo devino ardiente y su respiración se detuvo. . . Con ojos sombríos, cansados, como fascinados, miró al oficial. Se hubiese dicho que había allí echado raíces, inconsciente. Volvió a los ojos del capitán la fría sonrisa y su pie se alzó.
—Yo... Yo lo había olvidado, mi capitán — jadeó el soldado, clavados sus ojos negros en la llama bailarina de los del otro.
—¿Qué hacía ese lápiz ahí?
El pecho del joven se infló, esforzándose a cada palabra.
—Estaba escribiendo.
—¿Escribiendo qué?
De nuevo el soldado le miró de arriba abajo. El oficial oyó aquel jadeo. Volvió la sonrisa a sus ojos azules. El asistente removió su seca garganta, sin poder hablar. De repente, la sonrisa iluminó plenamente el rostro del oficial y un puntapié vino pesadamente a caer en el muslo del mozo. Dio un paso de costado. Su cara pareció como muerta; oscuras, fijas las pupilas.
—Bien, ¿y qué? — dijo el oficial.
La boca del ordenanza estaba seca, y dentro, su lengua frotaba como sobre papel de lija. Tragaba saliva. El oficial levantó el pie. El mozo quedó rígido.
—Una poesía, mi capitán — emitió la voz ronca, desconocida.
—¿Una poesía? ¿Qué poesía? — preguntó el capitán, con una sonrisa de loco.
Otra vez la misma fatiga en la garganta. El corazón del capitán se hizo súbitamente de plomo, se sentía cansado, molesto.
—Para mi novia, mi capitán — oyó decir en un tono sin timbre, inhumano.
—¡Ah! —dijo, volviéndose—. Quite la mesa.
"¡Clic!" en la garganta del soldado; otra vez "¡clic!" Y, por fin, apenas articulados:
—Sí, mi capitán.
El muchacho se fue pesadamente, diez años más viejo.
El oficial, ya solo, se envaró, para ahuyentar el pensamiento. Su instinto le advertía el peligro de pensar. El triunfo intenso de su pasión se alzaba potente dentro de él. Luego una reacción, una espantosa grieta, una tortura antagonista. Se quedó allí, sin moverse, durante una hora, preso en un caos de sensaciones, pero rígido, en su decisión de mantener vacía su mente, de impedir a su razón apoderarse de nada. Se quedó allí hasta dejar pasar lo peor de la crisis; entonces se puso a beber, hasta caer como una masa. Al despertar, por la mañana, se sintió removido en lo más hondo de sí mismo. Pero había rechazado la imagen de cuanto había hecho. Había impedido a su razón el admitirlo, y su conciencia no tenía ya nada que hacer con eso. Se sentía debilitado, cansado como después de una orgía, pero la cosa estaba arreglada, ya no había por qué volver a ello. Consiguió rechazar todo recuerdo de embriaguez de su cólera. Y cuando entró el ordenanza trayendo el café con leche, volvió a encontrar muy natural su actitud de la mañana anterior. Suprimía el acontecimiento de la víspera, negaba que jamás hubiese ocurrido, llegaba a persuadirse de ello. Era imposible que hubiese hecho, él, una cosa semejante. En todo caso, era la culpa de este sirviente obstinado, mal espíritu.
El ordenanza había pasado toda la noche en pleno estupor. Estaba sediento y bebió cerveza, aunque poca, pues el alcohol le devolvería el sentimiento de la realidad, y no podría soportarlo. Estaba embrutecido, como privado de las nueve décimas partes de sus facultades ordinarias. Se arrastraba como un enfermo. El pensamiento de los puntapiés le hacía desfallecer, y al recuerdo de su espanto en la habitación, después, cuando aquello había empezado otra vez, el corazón le fallaba y jadeaba, recordando el último que entonces había recibido. Había sido forzado a contestar: "Para mi novia". Estaba demasiado aterrado para llorar. Su mandíbula colgaba un poco, como la de un idiota. Se sentía vacío, desposeído, Realizó penosamente su faena, torpe, lento, agarran¬do a tientas los cepillos, dejándose caer de vez en cuando en una silla, sin encontrar ya fuerzas para de nuevo levantarse. Sus miembros, su mandíbula estaban blandos, flojos. Estaba muy cansado: al fin se fue a acostar, y cayó inerte, en un estado de embotamiento más bien que de sueño; en una sima de estupor atravesada por fulgurantes congojas.
Traducción de LEONOR ACEVEDO DE BORGES La mujer que se fue con el caballo y otros cuentos (1939).
