stuff your pockets with sweets—like a schoolboy—even in the field?
MAN. Yes. Isn’t it contemptible? [Raina stares at him, unable to utter her feelings. Then she sails away scornfully to the chest of drawers, and returns with the box of confectionery in her hand.]
RAINA. Allow me. I am sorry I have eaten them all except these. [She offers him the box.]
MAN. [Ravenously.] You’re an angel! [He gobbles the comfits.] Creams! Delicious! [He looks anxiously to see whether there are any more. There are none. He accepts the inevitable with pathetic goodhumor, and says, with grateful emotion.] Bless you, dear lady. You can always tell an old soldier by the inside of his holsters and cartridge boxes. The young ones carry pistols and cartridges; the old ones, grub. Thank you. [He hands back the box. She snatches it contemptuously from him and throws it away. This impatient action is so sudden that he shies again.] Ugh! Don’t do things so suddenly, gracious lady. Don’t revenge yourself because I frightened you just now.
RAINA. [Superbly.] Frighten me! Do you know, sir, that though I am only a woman, I think I am at heart as brave as you.
MAN. I should think so. You haven’t been under fire for three days as I have. I can stand two days without shewing it much; but no man can stand three days: I’m as nervous as a mouse. [He sits down on the ottoman, and takes his head in his hands.] Would you like to see me cry?
RAINA. [Quickly.] No.
MAN. If you would, all you have to do is to scold me just as if I were a little boy and you my nurse. If I were in camp now they’d play all sorts of tricks on me.
RAINA. [A little moved.] I’m sorry. I won’t scold you. [Touched by the sympathy in her tone, he raises his head and looks gratefully at her: she immediately draws hack and says stiffly.] You must excuse me: our soldiers are not like that. [She moves away from the ottoman.]
MAN. Oh, yes, they are. There are only two sorts of soldiers: old ones and young ones. I’ve served fourteen years: half of your fellows never smelt powder before. Why, how is it that you’ve just beaten us? Sheer ignorance of the art of war, nothing else. [Indignantly.] I never saw anything so unprofessional.
RAINA. [Ironically.] Oh, was it unprofessional to beat you?
MAN. Well, come, is it professional to throw a regiment of cavalry on a battery of machine guns, with the dead certainty that if the guns go off not a horse or man will ever get within fifty yards of the fire? I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw it.
RAINA. [Eagerly turning to him, as all her enthusiasm and her dream of glory rush back on her.] Did you see the great cavalry charge? Oh, tell me about it. Describe it to me.
MAN. You never saw a cavalry charge, did you?
RAINA. How could I?
MAN. Ah, perhaps not—of course. Well, it’s a funny sight. It’s like slinging a handful of peas against a window pane: first one comes; then two or three close behind him; and then all the rest in a lump.
RAINA. [Her eyes dilating as she raises her clasped hands ecstatically.] Yes, first One!—the bravest of the brave!
MAN. [Prosaically.] Hm! you should see the poor devil pulling at his horse.
RAINA. Why should he pull at his horse?
MAN. [Impatient of so stupid a question.] It’s running away with him, of course: do you suppose the fellow wants to get there before the others and be killed? Then they all come. You can tell the young ones by their wildness and their slashing. The old ones come bunched up under the number one guard: they know that they are mere projectiles, and that it’s no use trying to fight. The wounds are mostly broken knees, from the horses cannoning together.
RAINA. Ugh! But I don’t believe the first man is a coward. I believe he is a hero!
MAN. [Good-humoredly.] That’s what you’d have said if you’d seen the first man in the charge to-day.
RAINA. [Breathless.] Ah, I knew it! Tell me—tell me about him.
MAN. He did it like an operatic tenor—a regular handsome fellow, with flashing eyes and lovely moustache, shouting a war-cry and charging like Don Quixote at the windmills. We nearly burst with laughter at him; but when the sergeant ran up as white as a sheet, and told us they’d sent us the wrong cartridges, and that we couldn’t fire a shot for the next ten minutes, we laughed at the other side of our mouths. I never felt so sick in my life, though I’ve been in one or two very tight places. And I hadn’t even a revolver cartridge—nothing but chocolate. We’d no bayonets—nothing. Of course, they just cut us to bits. And there was Don Quixote flourishing like a drum major, thinking he’d done the cleverest thing ever known, whereas he ought to be courtmartialled for it. Of all the fools ever let loose on a field of battle, that man must be the very maddest. He and his regiment simply committed suicide—only the pistol missed fire, that’s all.
RAINA. [Deeply wounded, but steadfastly loyal to her ideals.] Indeed! Would you know him again if you saw him?
MAN. Shall I ever forget him. [She again goes to the chest of drawers. He watches her with a vague hope that she may have something else for him to eat. She takes the portrait from its stand and brings it to him.]
RAINA. That is a photograph of the gentleman—the patriot and hero—to whom I am betrothed.
MAN. [Looking at it.] I’m really very sorry. [Looking at her.] Was it fair to lead me on? [He looks at the portrait again.] Yes: that’s him: not a doubt of it. [He stifles a laugh.]
RAINA. [Quickly.] Why do you laugh?
MAN. [Shamefacedly, but still greatly tickled.] I didn’t laugh, I assure you. At least I didn’t mean to. But when I think of him charging the windmills and thinking he was doing the finest thing—[Chokes with suppressed laughter.]
RAINA. [Sternly.] Give me back the portrait, sir.
MAN. [With sincere remorse.] Of course. Certainly. I’m really very sorry. [She deliberately kisses it, and looks him straight in the face, before returning to the chest of drawers to replace it. He follows her, apologizing.] Perhaps I’m quite wrong, you know: no doubt I am. Most likely he had got wind of the cartridge business somehow, and knew it was a safe job.
RAINA. That is to say, he was a pretender and a coward! You did not dare say that before.
MAN. [With a comic gesture of despair.] It’s no use, dear lady: I can’t make you see it from the professional point of view. [As he turns away to get back to the ottoman, the firing begins again in the distance.]
RAINA. [Sternly, as she sees him listening to the shots.] So much the better for you.
MAN. [Turning.] How?
RAINA. You are my enemy; and you are at my mercy. What would I do if I were a professional soldier?
MAN. Ah, true, dear young lady: you’re always right. I know how good you have been to me: to my last hour I shall remember those three chocolate creams. It was unsoldierly; but it was angelic.
RAINA. [Coldly.] Thank you. And now I will do a soldierly thing. You cannot stay here after what you have just said about my future husband; but I will go out on the balcony and see whether it is safe for you to climb down into the street. [She turns to the window.]
MAN.
