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Creator: Barbusse, Henri, 1873-1935
Translator: Wray, Fitzwater
Contributor: -
Editor: -


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whose foundations brush the ground and cover the land with a stormy sky. In the depths of these clouds humanity is let loose. The immense expanse of men moves and shouts and rolls in the same course all through the suburb. An inexhaustible echo of cries surrounds us; it is like hell in eruption and begirt by bronze horizons. At that moment I am afraid of the multitude. It brings something limitless into being, something which surpasses and threatens us; and it seems to me that he who is not with it will one day be trodden underfoot. My head goes down in thought. I walk close to Marcassin, who gives me the impression of an escaping animal, hopping through the darkness--whether because of his name,[1] or his stench, I do not know. The evening is darkening; the wind is tearing leaves away; it thickens with rain and begins to nip. [Footnote 1: _Marcassin_--a young wild boar.--Tr.] My miserable companion's voice comes to me in shreds. He is trying to explain to me the law of unremitting toil. An echo of his murmur reaches my face. "And that's what one hasn't the least idea of. Because what's nearest to us, often, one doesn't see it."
The Master of Silence

THE MASTER OF SILENCE CHAPTER I Near the end of my fourteenth year I was apprenticed to Valentine, King & Co., cotton importers, Liverpool, as a "pair of legs." My father had died suddenly, leaving me and his property in the possession of my stepmother and my guardian. It was in deference to their urgent advice that I left my home in London (with little reluctance, since my life there had never been happy) to study the art of money-making. On arriving at the scene of my expected triumphs I was assigned to the somewhat humble position of errand boy. In common with other boys who performed a like service for the firm I was known as "a pair of legs." Lodgings of a rather modest character had been secured for me in the western outskirts of the city near the banks of the Mersey. I was slow to make friends, and my evenings were spent in the perusal of some story books, which I had
"Yes, that's true," I say, rather weary of his monotonous complaining. I try a few words of consolation, knowing that he was recently married. "After all, no one comes bothering you in your own little corner. There's always that. And then, after all, you're going home--your wife is waiting for you. You're lucky----" "I've no time; or rather, I've no strength. At nights, when I come home I'm too tired--I'm too tired, you understand, to be happy, you see. Every morning I think I shall be, and I'm hoping up till noon; but at night I'm too knocked out, what with walking and rubbing for eleven hours; and on Sundays I'm done in altogether with the week. There's even times that I don't even wash myself when I come in. I just stay with my hands mucky; and on Sundays when I'm cleaned up, it's a nasty one when they say to me, 'You're looking well.'" And while I am listening to the tragicomical recital which he retails, like a soliloquy, without expecting replies from me--luckily, for I should not know how to answer--I can, in fact, recall those holidays when the face of Petrolus is embellished by the visible marks of water. "Apart from that," he goes on, withdrawing his chin into the gray string of his over-large collar; "apart from that, Charlotte, she's very good. She looks after me, and tidies the house, and it's her that lights _our_ lamp; and she hides the books carefully away from me so's