Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Foreword
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Sœur Philippine, and Josephine with her
kind brown eyes, where shall I find them?
Their village is a heap of blackened ruins,
four naked walls are all that remains of
their church, and God knows where they
are! God knows where they are. They
are all over France, in every hamlet, every
village and every town, soothing the
sufferings of the wounded and sharing their bread
with the homeless. Dr. Martin is dead. He
was first reported missing and it was thought
he had fallen into the hands of the Boches.
He was soon afterwards found dead, with
Josephine’s medal round his neck. Better
so for him. I am sure he would have
preferred the second alternative had he had the
choice.
But I am equally sure that Adalbert is
not dead. I am sure he is still as fit and
alert as when I saw him, safe under the
protection of the law of irony—maybe I
would have spared him had I doubted his
invulnerability. Even so, as I read through
this manuscript, my literary instinct,
rudimentary though it may be, tells me that this
Adalbert does not fit in very well in the
“composition,” if a layman may use such
an expression. I am sure it would have
been wiser to keep him to myself for fear
that his harsh giggle might jar on the reader
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