Speaker 1: Three and one are one by Ambrose Bierce. In the
year eighteen sixty one, Bar Lassiter, a young man of
twenty two, lived with his parents and an elderly sister
near Carthage, Tennessee. The family were in somewhat humble circumstances,
subsisting by cultivation of a small and not very fertile plantation,
owning no slaves. They were not rated among the best
people of their neighborhood, but they were honest persons of
good education, fairly well mannered, and as respectable as any
family could be, if uncredentialed by personal dominion over the
sons and daughters of ham. The elder Lassiter had that
severity of manner that so frequently affirms an uncompromising devotion
to duty and conceals a warm and affectionate disposition. He
was of the iron of which martyrs are made, but
in the heart of the matrix had lurked a nobler metal,
fusible at a milder heat, yet never coloring nor softening
the hard exterior by both heredity and environment. Something of
the man's inflexible character had touched the other members of
the family. The Lassiter home, though not devoid of domestic
affection was a veritable citadel of duty, and duty ah
duty is as cruel as death. When the war came,
it found in the family, as in so many others
in the state, a divided sentiment. The young man was
loyal to the Union, the others savagely hostile. This unhappy
division begot an unsupportable domestic bitterness. And when the offending
son and brother left home with an avowed purpose of
joining the federal army, not a hand was laid in him,
not a word of farewell was spoken, not a good
wish followed him out into the world, whither he might
meet with such spirit as he might whatever fate awaited him.
Making his way to Nashville, already occupied by the army
of General Buell, he enlisted in the first organization that
he found, a Kentucky regiment of cavalry, and in due
time passed through all the stages of military evolution from
raw recruit to experienced trooper. A right good trooper he was, too,
although in his oral narrative from which this tale is made,
there is no mention of that the fact was learned
from his surviving comrades. For Barte Lassiter has answered here
to the sergeant whose name is Death. Two years after
he had joined it, his regidle passed through the region
whence he had come. The country thereabout had suffered severely
from the ravages of war, having been occupied alternately and
simultaneously by the belligerent forces, and the sanguinary struggle had
occurred in the immediate vicinity of the Lasseter homestead. But
of this the young trooper was not aware. Finding himself
in camp near his home, he felt a natural longing
to see his parents and sister, hoping that in them,
as in him, the unnatural animosity of the period had
been softened by time and separation. Obtaining a leave of absence,
he set foot in the late summer afternoon, and soon
after the rising of the full moon, was walking up
the gravel path leading to the dwelling in which he
had been born. Soldiers in the war age rapidly and
in youth. Two years are a long time. Bar Lassiter
felt himself an old man, and had almost expected to
find the place in ruin and desolation. Nothing apparently was changed.
At the sight of each dear and familiar object. He
was profoundly affected. His heart beat audibly, his emotions nearly
suffocated him. An ache was in his throat. Unconsciously, he
quickened his pace until he almost ran his long shadow,
making grotesque efforts to keep its place beside him. The
house was unlighted, and the door opened. As he approached
and paused to recover control of himself, his father came
out and stood bareheaded in the moonlight. Father cried the
young man, springing forward with outstretched hand. Father, the elder
man looked him sternly in the face, stood a moment motionless,
and without a word, withdrew into the house. Bitterly disappointed, humiliated,
unexpressibly hurt, and altogether unnerved. The soldier dropped into a
rustic seat in deep dejection, supporting his head upon his
trembling hand. But he would not have it. So he
was too good a soldier to accept repulse as defeat.
He rose and entered the house, passing directly to the
sitting room. It was dimly lighted by an uncurtained east window.
On a low stool by the hearth side, the only
article of furniture in place, sat his mother, staring into
the fireplace, strewn with blackened embers and cold ash. He
spoke to her tenderly, interrogatively and with hesitation, but she
neither answered, nor moved, nor seemed in any way surprised.
True there had been time for her husband to apprise
her of their guilty son's return. He moved nearer and
was about to lay his hand upon her arm when
his sister entered from an adjoining room, looked him full
in the face, passed him without a sign of recognition,
and left the room by a door that was partly
behind him. He had turned his head to watch her,
but when she was gone, his eyes again sought his mother.
She too had left the place. Bar Lassiter strode to
the door by which he had entered. The moonlight on
the lawn was tremulous, as if the sward were a
rippling sea. The trees and their black shadows shook as
in a breeze, blended with its borders. The gravel walk
seemed unsteady and insecure to walk on. This young soldier
knew the optical illusions produced by tears. He felt them
on his cheek, and he saw them sparkle on the
breast of his troopers jacket. He left the house and
made his way back to camp The next day with
no very definite intention, with no dominant feeling that he
would rightly have named. He again sought the spot. Within
half a mile of it, he met Bushrod Elbrow, a
former playfellow and schoolmate, who greeted him warmly. I'm going
to visit my home, said the soldier. The other looked
at him rather sharply and said nothing I know, continued Lesser,
that my folks have not changed, but there have been changes.
Albrow interrupted, Everything changes. I'll go with you, if you
don't mind, we can talk as we go, But Albro
did not talk. Instead of a home, they found only fire,
blackened foundations of stone, inclosing an area of compact ash
pitted by rains. Lassiter's astonishment was extreme. I could not
find the right way to tell you, said Albro. In
the fight a year ago, your house was burned by
a federal shell, and my family where are they in heaven?
I hope all were killed by the shell. The end
of three and one are one by Ambrose Bierce