ers made a greater impression than the
others; and besides, their importance and their power were increasing.
We saw rows of increasing crowns on the caps. Then, the shadow-men
were silent. The eulogy and the censure addressed to those whom one
had seen at work had no hold on these, and all those minor things faded
away. These were admired in the lump.

This superstition made me smile. But the general of the division
himself appeared in almost sacred isolation. The tabs and
thunderbolts[1] and stripes of his satellites glittered at a respectful
distance only. Then it seemed to me that I was face to face with Fate
itself--the will of this man. In his presence a sort of instinct
dazzled me.

[Footnote 1: Distinctive badge for Staff officers and others.--Tr.]

"Packs up! Forward!"

We took back upon our hips and neck the knapsack which had the shape
and the weight of a yoke, which every minute that falls on it weighs
down more dourly. The common march went on again. It filled a great
space; it shook the rocky slopes with its weight. In vain I bent my
head--I could not hear the sound of my own steps, so blended was it
with the others. And I repeated obstinately to myself that one had to
admire the intelligent force which sets all this deep mass in movement,
which says to us or makes us say, "Forward!" or "It has to be!" or "You
will _not_ know!" which hurls the world we are into a whirlpool so
great that we do not even see the direction of our fall, into
profundities we cannot see because they are profound. We have need of
masters who know all that we do not know.

* * * * * *

Our weariness so increased and overflowed that it seemed as if we grew
bigger at every step! And then one no longer thought of fatigue. We
had forgotten it, as we had forgotten the number of the days and even
their names. Always we made one step more, always.

Ah, the infantry soldiers, the pitiful Wandering Jews who are always
marching! They march mathematically, in rows of four numbers, or in
file in the trenches, four-squared by their iron load, but separate,
separate. Bent forward they go, almost prostrated, trailing their
legs, kicking the dead. Slowly, little by little, they are wounded by
the length of time, by the incalculable repetition of movements, by the
greatness of things. They are borne down by their bones and muscles,
by their own human weight. At halts of only ten minute