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The present generation has probably but a very dim notion of the
celebrated York Hussars of ninety years ago. They were one of the
regiments of the King's German Legion, and (though they somewhat
degenerated later on) their brilliant uniform, their splendid horses,
and above all, their foreign air and mustachios (rare appendages
then), drew crowds of admirers of both sexes wherever they went.
These with other regiments had come to encamp on the downs and
pastures, because of the presence of the King in the neighbouring

The spot was high and airy, and the view extensive, commanding the
Isle of Portland in front, and reaching to St. Aldhelm's Head
eastward, and almost to the Start on the west.

Phyllis, though not precisely a girl of the village, was as
interested as any of them in this military investment. Her father's
home stood somewhat apart, and on the highest point of ground to
which the lane ascended, so that it was almost level with the top of
the church tower in the lower part of the parish. Immediately from
the outside of the garden-wall the grass spread away to a great
distance, and it was crossed by a path which came close to the wall.
Ever since her childhood it had been Phyllis's pleasure to clamber up
this fence and sit on the top--a feat not so difficult as it may
seem, the walls in this district being built of rubble, without
mortar, so that there were plenty of crevices for small toes.

She was sitting up here one day, listlessly surveying the pasture
without, when her attention was arrested by a solitary figure walking
along the path. It was one of the renowned German Hussars, and he
moved onward with his eyes on the ground, and with the manner of one
who wished to escape company. His head would probably have been bent
like his eyes but for his stiff neck-gear. On nearer view she
perceived that his face was marked with deep sadness. Without
observing her, he advanced by the footpath till it brought him almost
immediately under the wall.

Phyllis was much surprised to see a fine, tall soldier in such a mood
as this. Her theory of the military, and of the York Hussars in
particular (derived entirely from hearsay, for she had never talked
to a soldier in her life), was that their hearts were as gay as their

At this moment the Hussar lifted his eyes and noticed her on her
perch, the white muslin neckerchief which covered her shoulders and
neck where left bare by her low gown, and her white raiment in
general, showing conspicuously in the bright sunlight of this summer
day. He blushed a little at the suddenness of the encounter, and
without halting a moment from his pace passed on.

All that day the foreigner's face haunted Phyllis; its aspect was so
striking, so handsome, and his eyes were so blue, and sad, and
abstracted. It was perhaps only natural that on some following day
at the same hour she should look over that wall again, and wait till
he had passed a second time. On this occasion he was reading a
letter, and at the sight of her his manner was that of one who had
half expected or hoped to discover her. He almost stopped, smiled,
and made a courteous salute. The end of the meeting was that they
exchanged a few words. She asked him what he was reading, and he
readily informed her that he was re-perusing letters from his mother
in Germany; he did not get them often, he said, and was forced to
read the old ones a great many times. This was all that passed at
the present interview, but others of the same kind followed.

Phyllis used to say that his English, though not good, was quite
intelligible to her, so that their acquaintance was never hindered by
difficulties of speech. Whenever the subject became too delicate,
subtle, or tender, for such words of English as were at his command,
the eyes no doubt helped out the tongue, and--though this was later
on--the lips helped out the eyes. In short this acquaintance,
unguardedly made, and rash enough on her part, developed and ripened.
Like Desdemona, she pitied him, and learnt his history.

His name was Matthaus Tina, and Saarbruck his native town, where his
mother was still living. His age was twenty-two, and he had already
risen to the grade of corporal, though he had not long been in the
army. Phyllis used to assert that no such refined or well-educated
young man could have been found in the ranks of the purely English
regiments, some of these foreign soldiers having rather the graceful
manner and presence of our native officers than of our rank and file.

She by degrees learnt from her foreign friend a circumstance about
himself and his comrades which Phyllis would least have expected of
the York Hussars. So far from being as gay as its uniform, the
regiment was pervaded by a dreadful melancholy, a chronic home-
sickness, which depressed many of the men to such an extent that they
could hardly attend to their drill. The worst sufferers were the
younger soldiers who had not been over here long. They hated England
and English life; they took no interest whatever in King George and
his island kingdom, and they only wished to be out of it and never to
see it any more. Their bodies were here, but their hearts and minds
were always far away in their dear fatherland, of which--brave men
and stoical as they were in many ways--they would speak with tears in
their eyes. One of the worst of the sufferers from this home-woe, as
he called it in his own tongue, was Matthaus Tina, whose dreamy
musing nature felt the gloom of exile still more intensely from the
fact that he had left a lonely mother at home with nobody to cheer

Though Phyllis, touched by all this, and interested in his history,
did not disdain her soldier's acquaintance, she declined (according
to her own account, at least) to permit the young man to overstep the
line of mere friendship for a long while--as long, indeed, as she
considered herself likely to become the possession of another; though
it is probable that she had lost her heart to Matthaus before she was
herself aware. The stone wall of necessity made anything like
intimacy difficult; and he had never ventured to come, or to ask to
come, inside the garden, so that all their conversation had been
overtly conducted across this boundary.

Life's Little Ironies by Thomas Hardy
19th century fiction

Short stories
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