The Solitude of Compassion by Jean Giono Page A

the manor of Lady Macbeth. There are footsteps above us. I make a gesture to unbuckle my sack; I have chafed shoulders. The extended arm of the sentinel stops me.
    â€œMe, here, stay, signaling.”
    He does not understand (this is going to be laughable). We go down the stairs.
    The one who arrives is a fat little young man. Pink-faced like a
woman, well-traced lips. He has on a grey shirt correctly arranged, and a belt buckled around his waist.
    â€œWhat is it?” he says.
    (Ah, a friend, he speaks French.)
    But the sentinel rectifies the situation, salutes and speaks. It must be an officer.
    Finally:
    â€œWhat have you come here to do?”
    â€œ6th company of the 140th for the optical signaling…(just who is this officer, he does not have any braids.)
    â€œAh! The French liaison from the reserve, very good, very good, I have been forewarned. I was the one who asked for you. You know Morse code?”
    â€œYes, Monsieur.”
    (It came out suddenly without reflection.)
    And he does not laugh; it seems natural to him.
    â€œFollow me. Leave your sack, they will carry it for you.”
    The sentinel disappears. We ascend the Macbeth staircase. A black and narrow corridor. I follow. There is a steel door, that opens with a heavy scraping, then there is a gust of stifling air. Here things are lit with electricity. In the basement the electrogenerator unit beats like a heart. After two detours—(I should have brought my sack, they are going to steal my razor)—the groaning of an accordion greets us. The man-woman opens a casemate. At first tobacco smoke and the accordion—from the ceiling hangs a rudimentary oil lamp—then, silence and in the middle of a blue cloud a little silhouette rises along with an enormous one, broad and tall.
    â€œEnter,” says my guide.
    He introduces me.
    â€œYour two comrades: Vassili Borrissenko”—(the musician: emaciated;
Chinese mustache with cat’s skin), then a finger extended towards the tall shadow—“Ivan Ivanovitch Kossiakoff.”
    Â 
    Wristwatch, three o’clock in the morning: I arrived at the fort at eleven o’clock. Ten times the thin man began the same refrain again and again on his accordion. His head hanging, he sings: “Vagonitika, soldati, garanochispiat.” Is he going to let me sleep?
    â€œThere is your bed,” says the man-woman.
    He should have warned Vassili that I do not sleep to music.
    â€œThe rafters, Vaseline, have had enough.”
    He looks at me, and he continues. Vassili, he is not pretty.
    I doze. Music. The flash of a dream: the cat’s mustache. I walk in an immense accordion. A green light: Vassili’s eye. Pain on my right side: the iron of the bed. I turn over. Music. A drop of sleep. A blade of dream: “It is again the funny face who will have the best trigger.” The sentinel must have stolen my razor. Bawling of the accordion: Vagonitika…
    Ah! The dreadful night.
    Then peace—it is a very soft morning in the trenches. The almond trees are blossoming and my feet are caught in a root of couch grass. I pull. It resists. I pull. The sky blackens. I pull. My head hums…
    The casemate, the candle end, but no more music. Vassili is asleep and the colossus pulls my leg to wake me.
    â€œAy yah! What is it?”
    Wristwatch. It is seven o’clock in the morning. Already.
    Kossiakoff indicates my signal lantern then the door and he speaks.
    â€œI do not understand, old chap. Yes, the connection. I am going.”
    I get up.

    Kossiakoff seems to be a good guy. They carved his features like scythe stokes on an old elm tree. But he has a wide smile which illuminates his entire face. He speaks, he speaks.
    (How do you say I do not understand in Russian? The man-woman told me last night; let’s try.)
    â€œ Ne po ni maïo? ”
    That’s it. The wash of words stops, and Kossiakoff is astonished.
    â€œYes old chap, there is nothing to be