SKETCHESAFTER WATTEAU

SKETCHESAFTER WATTEAU

- he stretched out on the rough grass, his rifle and bayonet by his side, arching his back slightly and wriggling to fit his body into the contours of the earth - he was not a soldier -

- he was not a Frenchman -

- he had never killed a Russian or an Austrian or an Italian -

- he was a boy, in a foreign country, bivouacked under a depthless blue sky, his red and white uniformed body one of many reclining figures dotted on the undulating green field - he lay on his back, his two hands pillowed under his head, staring up at the sky - he lay on his side, his two hands pillowed under his cheek, his eyes closed, perhaps asleep, mouth slightly open, knees drawn up, breeches crumpled - he lay on his stomach, arms stretched out, hands softly holding the grass, the back of his uniform flecked with grass-particles and dirt, the coatback relaxed into creases - he lay on his left side, his right leg thrown over the left, his left arm out of sight somewhere beneath him, the right hand thrust down between his legs, the back of his coat stretched smooth across his shoulder-blades and the soft undulations, the highlights and shadows, of his body - he lay asleep, spread-eagled on his back, palms upward, his coat fallen open, a triangle of lightly tanned flesh gently rising and falling between the waistband of his breeches and his crumpled shirttails’ divided centre, pulled up and open as he stretched -