The sun. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1916-1920, 1918-10-13
One Who Counts
By GEORGE GORDON.

By GEORGE GORDON.
CROWNED by the French Academy |
~ and yet such is the scope Of youi
nihilism, you no longer count, Monsieur
Boylesve.
Now when the fields that in the old days
offered daisies are SCARED with shell
craters and the burrows turned BY the
graceful plough are torn with dynamite;
now when the strongest men are manned
irreparably and the loveliest women put
OF their pleasant red and gold to don the
black Of mourning; when beauty seems as
rare as sleep without dreams and in the
mud Of France the peoples, Migrants Of
the hedgerow, take on an added lowell
ness because so unexpected; now when, if
ever, smiles are precious and the kiss of
sweet mouth to be desired above the
wealth Of empires you write
novel to prove these things are nothing
you Monsieur
Boylesve, and receive as the prophet Of q
moment the homage Of neurotics, the
praise Of fools.
You tell Of Odette and Jean, but lately
married, and of their love that filed their
home with perfume Of content; how in
the first month Of war he was killed, leav-
ing her desolate, weeping and not to be
consoled you make Of her a
maudlin and spoiled child, pretty and
selfish almost beyond belief. Then all
about her husbands and lovers Of her
women friends die and overshadow in
numbers her SO poignant grief. She flies
to Surville, where she had last summered
with Jean, to escape the shame with which
their calm and selfess resignation &c
eentuates the fury of her own despair.
And even there kilograms and letters tell
ing Of heroic self-sacrifce and death
the deaths Of others equally brave and de-
sirable with her Jean-come to disturb
her retreat, to make futile her unappeas-
able anguish. Gradually, because she
cannot endure her thoughts, she Is drawn
into hospital work &.
But you are not fair to her. She moves
in beauty though the night be doubly
black with clouds Of thunder. Surely it
is something in 9 world Of horror to in
caznate the mystery and beauty Of hap
pier times, to appear before men whose
eyes are wide with peering upon brutal
tiles unspeakable, whose hands are red
with blood, and appeal only to their
dreams of home, to rouse their love Of
domesticity and peace. But she is moth
ing to you. Her loosened hair but tangled
vanity, her white and rose skin Of no
concern, her loveliness-to prove your
sick philosophy, you marry her Though
not in love) to q blind officer.
YOURSELF Do you not know that we do
war against ugiiness in the form of Pr1s-
sian barbarismf
And the individuali What purpose do
medals and honorable mention serve if
not to reassert the worth of the individ-
ual who by unaided gallantry and self
assurance lifts himself above the smoke
of battle, standing out lone and splendid
among his fellowsi One man may turn
the tide of battle or lift a regiment
against odds over the top to victory, one
woman trail in the light of her beauty
more comfort than q dozen orderlies.
You no longer count Monsieur Boyl-
esve, you count to such an extent that you
could, with your parable, damp the ardOr
of the happiest singer. Every letter we
write, every word we speak, every tear we
shed is heavy with its effect upon another
.. now more than ever.
YOU NO LONGER COUNT. BY RENE
BOYLEsvE Charles Scribner's Sons.