Topthorn Character Analysis

The officer led us at first, limping along beside me with his stick, but he was soon confident enough to mount the cart with the two orderlies and take the reins. “You’ve done a bit of this before, my friend,” he said. “I can tell that. I always knew the British were crazy. Now that I know that they use horses such as you as cart horses, I am quite sure of it. That’s what this war is all about, my friend. It’s about which of us is the crazier. And clearly you British started with an advantage. You were crazy beforehand.”

All that afternoon and evening while the battle raged, we trudged up to the lines […]. The artillery barrage from both sides was continuous. It roared overhead all day as the armies hurled their men at one another across no-man’s-land, and the wounded that could walk poured back along the roads.

Once, after we had plodded on, too tired to be fearful, through a devastating barrage […] one of the soldiers with his tunic covered in blood and mud, came and stood by my head and threw his good arm around my neck and kissed me.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said. “I never thought they would get us out of that hellhole. I found this yesterday, and thought about keeping it for myself, but I know where it belongs.” And he reached up and hung a muddied ribbon around my neck. There was an Iron Cross dangling on the end of it. “You’ll have to share it with your friend,” he said. […] The waiting wounded outside the hospital tent clapped and cheered us to the echo, bringing doctors, nurses, and patients running out of the tent to see what there could be to clap about in the midst of all this misery.

[He] put his hands on her shoulders and said, “Nonsense, Emilie. They like to work. They need to work. And besides, the only way for us to go on living, Emilie, is to go on like we did before. The soldiers have gone now, so if we pretend hard enough, then maybe the war will go away altogether. We must live as we have always lived, cutting our hay, picking our apples, and tilling our soil. We cannot live as if there will be no tomorrow. We can only live if we eat, and our food comes from the land. We must work the land if we want to live and these two must work it with us. They don’t mind—they like the work. Look at them, Emilie—do they look unhappy?”

Suddenly the war was no longer distant. We were back among the fearful noise and stench of battle, hauling our gun through the mud, urged on and sometimes whipped on by men who displayed little care or interest in our welfare just so long as we got the guns where they had to go. It was not that they were cruel men, but just that they seemed to be driven now by a fearful compulsion that left no room and no time for pleasantness or consideration either for each other or for us.

Food was scarcer now. We received our corn ration only sporadically as winter came on again, and there was only a meagre hay ration for each of us. One by one, we began to lose weight and condition. At the same time, the battles seemed to become more furious and prolonged [...].

“There’s fine breeding here—too fine, perhaps, Herr Major. Could well be his undoing. He’s too fine to pull a gun. I’d pull him out, but you have no horse to take his place, have you? He’ll go on, I supposed, but go easy on him, Herr Major. Take the team as slow as you can, else you’ll have no team, and without your team your gun won’t be a lot of use, will it?”

“He will have to do what the others do, Herr Doctor,” said the major in a steely voice. “No more and no less. I cannot make exceptions. If you pass him fit, he’s fit, and that’s that.”

“He’s fit to go on,” said the vet reluctantly. “But I am warning you, Herr Major. You must take care.”

“I tell you, my friends,” he said one day, “I tell you that I am the only sane man in the regiment. It’s the others who are crazy, but they don’t know it. They fight a war and they don’t know what for. Isn’t that crazy? How can one man kill another and not really know the reason why he does it, except that the other man wears a different color uniform and speaks a different language? And it’s me they call crazy! You two are the only rational creatures I’ve met in this stupid war, and like me, the only reason you’re here is because you were brought here […]. As it is, I’m going to live out this war as ‘Crazy Old Friedrich,’ so that I can return again to Schleiden and become Butcher Friedrich that everyone knew and respected before all this mess began.”

“Don’t you ever think about anything else except horses, Rudi?” said his companion, keeping his distance. “Three years I’ve known you and not a day goes by without you going on about the wretched creatures. I know you were brought up with them on your farm, but I still can’t understand what it is that you see in them. They are just four legs, a head, and a tail, all controlled by a very little brain that can’t think beyond food and drink.”

“How can you say that?” said Rudi. “Just look at him, Karl. Can you not see that he’s something special? This one isn’t just any old horse. There’s a nobility in his eye, a regal serenity about him. Does he not personify all that men try to be and never can be? I tell you, my friend, there’s divinity in a horse, and especially in a horse like this.”

After a brief inspection he, too, pronounced Topthorn to be dead. “I thought so. I told you so,” he said almost to himself. “They can’t do it. I see it all the time. Too much work on short rations and living outside all winter. I see it all the time. A horse like this can only stand so much. Heart failure, poor fellow. It makes me angry every time it happens. We should not treat horses like this—we treat our machines better.”

“He was a friend,” said Friedrich simply, kneeling down again over Topthorn and removing his headcollar. The soldiers stood all around us in complete silence, looking down at the prostrate form of Topthorn, in a moment of spontaneous respect and sadness. Perhaps it was because they had all known him for a long time and he had in some way become part of their lives.

You do not understand at all. I will sell you this horse for one English penny, and for a solemn promise—that you will always love this horse as much as my Emilie did and that you will care for him until the end of his days. And more than this, I want you to tell everyone about my Emilie and about how she looked after your Joey and the big black horse when they came to live with us. You see, my friend, I want my Emilie to live on in people’s hearts. I shall die soon, in a few years, no more, and then no one will remember my Emilie as she was […]. I want you to tell your friends at home about my Emilie […]. That way she will live forever, and that is what I want. Is it a bargain between us?

The officer led us at first, limping along beside me with his stick, but he was soon confident enough to mount the cart with the two orderlies and take the reins. “You’ve done a bit of this before, my friend,” he said. “I can tell that. I always knew the British were crazy. Now that I know that they use horses such as you as cart horses, I am quite sure of it. That’s what this war is all about, my friend. It’s about which of us is the crazier. And clearly you British started with an advantage. You were crazy beforehand.”

All that afternoon and evening while the battle raged, we trudged up to the lines […]. The artillery barrage from both sides was continuous. It roared overhead all day as the armies hurled their men at one another across no-man’s-land, and the wounded that could walk poured back along the roads.

Once, after we had plodded on, too tired to be fearful, through a devastating barrage […] one of the soldiers with his tunic covered in blood and mud, came and stood by my head and threw his good arm around my neck and kissed me.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said. “I never thought they would get us out of that hellhole. I found this yesterday, and thought about keeping it for myself, but I know where it belongs.” And he reached up and hung a muddied ribbon around my neck. There was an Iron Cross dangling on the end of it. “You’ll have to share it with your friend,” he said. […] The waiting wounded outside the hospital tent clapped and cheered us to the echo, bringing doctors, nurses, and patients running out of the tent to see what there could be to clap about in the midst of all this misery.

[He] put his hands on her shoulders and said, “Nonsense, Emilie. They like to work. They need to work. And besides, the only way for us to go on living, Emilie, is to go on like we did before. The soldiers have gone now, so if we pretend hard enough, then maybe the war will go away altogether. We must live as we have always lived, cutting our hay, picking our apples, and tilling our soil. We cannot live as if there will be no tomorrow. We can only live if we eat, and our food comes from the land. We must work the land if we want to live and these two must work it with us. They don’t mind—they like the work. Look at them, Emilie—do they look unhappy?”

Suddenly the war was no longer distant. We were back among the fearful noise and stench of battle, hauling our gun through the mud, urged on and sometimes whipped on by men who displayed little care or interest in our welfare just so long as we got the guns where they had to go. It was not that they were cruel men, but just that they seemed to be driven now by a fearful compulsion that left no room and no time for pleasantness or consideration either for each other or for us.

Food was scarcer now. We received our corn ration only sporadically as winter came on again, and there was only a meagre hay ration for each of us. One by one, we began to lose weight and condition. At the same time, the battles seemed to become more furious and prolonged [...].

“There’s fine breeding here—too fine, perhaps, Herr Major. Could well be his undoing. He’s too fine to pull a gun. I’d pull him out, but you have no horse to take his place, have you? He’ll go on, I supposed, but go easy on him, Herr Major. Take the team as slow as you can, else you’ll have no team, and without your team your gun won’t be a lot of use, will it?”

“He will have to do what the others do, Herr Doctor,” said the major in a steely voice. “No more and no less. I cannot make exceptions. If you pass him fit, he’s fit, and that’s that.”

“He’s fit to go on,” said the vet reluctantly. “But I am warning you, Herr Major. You must take care.”

“I tell you, my friends,” he said one day, “I tell you that I am the only sane man in the regiment. It’s the others who are crazy, but they don’t know it. They fight a war and they don’t know what for. Isn’t that crazy? How can one man kill another and not really know the reason why he does it, except that the other man wears a different color uniform and speaks a different language? And it’s me they call crazy! You two are the only rational creatures I’ve met in this stupid war, and like me, the only reason you’re here is because you were brought here […]. As it is, I’m going to live out this war as ‘Crazy Old Friedrich,’ so that I can return again to Schleiden and become Butcher Friedrich that everyone knew and respected before all this mess began.”

“Don’t you ever think about anything else except horses, Rudi?” said his companion, keeping his distance. “Three years I’ve known you and not a day goes by without you going on about the wretched creatures. I know you were brought up with them on your farm, but I still can’t understand what it is that you see in them. They are just four legs, a head, and a tail, all controlled by a very little brain that can’t think beyond food and drink.”

“How can you say that?” said Rudi. “Just look at him, Karl. Can you not see that he’s something special? This one isn’t just any old horse. There’s a nobility in his eye, a regal serenity about him. Does he not personify all that men try to be and never can be? I tell you, my friend, there’s divinity in a horse, and especially in a horse like this.”

After a brief inspection he, too, pronounced Topthorn to be dead. “I thought so. I told you so,” he said almost to himself. “They can’t do it. I see it all the time. Too much work on short rations and living outside all winter. I see it all the time. A horse like this can only stand so much. Heart failure, poor fellow. It makes me angry every time it happens. We should not treat horses like this—we treat our machines better.”

“He was a friend,” said Friedrich simply, kneeling down again over Topthorn and removing his headcollar. The soldiers stood all around us in complete silence, looking down at the prostrate form of Topthorn, in a moment of spontaneous respect and sadness. Perhaps it was because they had all known him for a long time and he had in some way become part of their lives.

You do not understand at all. I will sell you this horse for one English penny, and for a solemn promise—that you will always love this horse as much as my Emilie did and that you will care for him until the end of his days. And more than this, I want you to tell everyone about my Emilie and about how she looked after your Joey and the big black horse when they came to live with us. You see, my friend, I want my Emilie to live on in people’s hearts. I shall die soon, in a few years, no more, and then no one will remember my Emilie as she was […]. I want you to tell your friends at home about my Emilie […]. That way she will live forever, and that is what I want. Is it a bargain between us?