LÉGER FERNAND (1881-1955). - Lot 129

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  3. LÉGER FERNAND (1881-1955). - Lot 129
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Lot n° 129
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LÉGER FERNAND (1881-1955). - Lot 129
LÉGER FERNAND (1881-1955). L.A., January 11, 1915, to Jeanne LOHY; 4 pages in-8, envelope to "Madame Léger". Beautiful and moving letter from the front in Argonne, to his wartime godmother and future wife. [Jeanne LOHY (1895-1950), met before the war in artistic circles, was the wartime godmother of Fernand Léger, who officially married her in 1919. The letter is addressed to "Madame Léger" at "Serge Jabstrebzoff", the painter Serge Férat]. "My dear Janot, here are three days without letters I was no longer used to them. [...] I don't know what the weather is like in Paris, but here it's unbearable, and in spite of that we've never fought so hard up there. It's incredible the energy it takes for men to kill themselves in such weather. Today I've got another one of those unusual cockroaches, especially as I was counting on at least one letter this evening and nothing. I think that if I am fortunate enough to return I will never in my life go back to that sinister country. It is at most good for soldiers who kill themselves there. But how can civilians live there? [...] I can still hear that damn machine gun, which insists on being heard every time I write to you. We have to attack hard on the side of the 2nd Corps. All day a formidable cannonade, and then when we push hard, it is the infantry and the machine guns. [...] To think that at the minute I am writing to you there are men who, in the freezing rain that is falling in gusts, in mud up to their knees, are throwing themselves at each other with bayonets. Think, Janot, of what they would be doing if they were not at war [...] Think of all those poor fellows who are dying slowly in the knowledge that they are going to die there without any help. The day before yesterday a whole platoon of my company was enveloped. We are left with 4 of the squad out of 15. What happened to them? We'll never know. We know from some who were able to save themselves that they held out almost to the end. When they ran out of ammunition they took pickaxes and crowbars, they fought like savages after spending 16 days up there with one meal a day. When you learn after that that there are premieres at the Moulin-Rouge, it breaks your legs. It's terrible to think that Paris is laughing and that so many poor devils are being beaten up. I realise, my Janot, that I am writing you a sinister letter. There are days like that when one sees things as they are, and tonight I see them as they are. He tells of the passage of two wounded colonials with whom he shared canned goods, "and to open the cans of 'monkey' they did as they always do, pull out their bayonets and they were full of blood. They stuffed it in the can and they were surprised that many refused to eat it. [...] Goodbye my dearest Janot. I hope to get some nice letters from you tomorrow where you won't tell me about my horrors but about your own life in our old Paris. A million kisses everywhere."
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