Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/247

tion. I'm sure you remember it. It was a gigantic male form raw and unfinished. It carried a strange name: Pourquoi? Why?

“Everybody stopped to look at this sculptured question. The body seemed to writhe in anguished contortion as it asked the ancient query. Why? Every muscle, every limb and fibre joined in the unanswered cry. I saw that the people who were looking at it were themselves torn by the questioning which the massive piece of sculpture stirred within them. I remember clearly the almost total stillness that reigned in the gallery, when suddenly our Paul tore himself away from us, and, rushing over to the sculpture, thrust his own little hand into the extended hand of the massive figure, as though he were reaching out to it the hand of brotherhood and understanding. People around laughed — and I laughed, too. But now I see that he was right. It is Necessary to be naive and answer the Pourquoi with a Comment ça va?

“I'm telling you all that because you, Gertrude dearest, are the only one who ties me to the outside world. All our friends have been scattered, like leaves in a storm. How trite the phrase — and yet it tears at the roots of my being. Our friends are part of ourselves, and we miss them like our own limbs. If any of them write to you, send me their letters. And write me whether the work you have to do is too much for you, and whether people ask about me.

“Be brave; that is the principal thing; and do not cry. If I am destined to come back I want to find your eyes as clear and shiny as I see them before me now. Kiss the children for me, and tell them we will be victorious. Tell them we will tear up the enemy by the roots, grind his face into the dust, and leave not even a remembrance of him on earth.

“I press all of you to my heart, and I bid you a loving good night.”