We walk languidly. The afternoon lies heavy on the drowsy land and
on stomachs richly provided and embellished with food. The remarks
we exchange are infrequent.
Over there, we hear noises. Barque has fallen a victim to a
menagerie of housewives; and the scene is pointed by a pale little
girl, her hair tied behind in a pencil of tow and her mouth
embroidered with fever spots, and by women who are busy with some
unsavory job of washing in the meager shade before their doors.
Six men go by, led by a quartermaster corporal. They carry heaps of
new greatcoats and bundles of boots. Lamuse regards his bloated and
horny feet--"I must have some new sheds, and no mistake; a bit more
and you'll see my splay-feet through these ones. Can't go marching
on the skin of my tongs, eh?"
An aeroplane booms overhead. We follow its evolutions with our faces
skyward, our necks twisted, our eyes watering at the piercing
brightness of the sky.
Lamuse declares to me, when we have brought our gaze back to earth,
"Those machines'll never become practical, never."
"How can you say that? Look at the progress they've made already,
and the speed of it."
"Yes, but they'll stop there. They'll never do any better, never."
This time I do not challenge the dull and obstinate denial that
ignorance opposes to the promise of progress, and I let my big
comrade alone in his stubborn belief that the wonderful effort of
science and industry has been suddenly cut short.
Pages:
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112