A VISIT TO PARIS
To one who visited Paris before the war, Paris of to-day presents a
strikingly different aspect—and why shouldn’t it? When we stop to
think that there is hardly a family which has not been deprived of
some member in the terrible toll of death. The courage of the women
has been marvelous through it all. To some it has meant the loss of
a husband and to others, sons, while to countless it has meant both,
and yet, with this sorrow to bear, they are ever ready to make further
sacrifices in order that the outcome might be as the dear ones they
have lost would have had it. Is it any wonder there is sadness in their
faces? And such a calm sadness it is, too. No hysteria whatsoever,
never a demonstration, but the look on their faces portrays very
vividly what is in their hearts. Even the children, who are too small
to appreciate what their loss has been, absorb from their mothers this
characteristic composure that is appalling.
In little villages still within reach of the big German guns, one grows
familiar with the night bombing raids of the Huns. They know that the
bombs are for the women and children that are left, and at any moment
may come the knock on the door, the gathering of what few earthly
belongings they have, and escape into the night before an attack.
I have never seen children like these before, and I never want to
see any again. Some little tots seven and eight years of age truly
look like old men and women. They reminded me of the little men of
the mountains in the story of Rip Van Winkle. They never smile, but
wear the same emotionless expression at all times. Games seem to be
unknown to them as they sit around on the doorsteps of their homes
(where there are homes), and sad is their lot if anything happens to
their mothers, for no one else in the community has anything for them.
Everyone has his own to look out for, and it’s hard enough to do that.
This is why there are so many urchins following the armies. There is no
one to provide for them. They have to shift for themselves.
The Mont Martre, the artists’ quarters, are familiar to all for the
frivolity which has always characterized this section of Paris. It now
bears a close resemblance to a graveyard and it would be very hard for
anyone to imagine that La Vie Boheme (the life bohemian) ever existed
here.
The Boulevard Exterior, which before the war was a blaze of white
lights that seemed to come to life about the time Paris was retiring,
has taken on the appearance of a main street in one of our country
towns at 2 a. m. Such places as the Moulin Rouge (Red Mill), Rat-Mort
(Dead Rat), have long since ceased to operate as centers of life.
Other familiar places to people who knew Paris before the war and
had a world-wide reputation are the Latin Quarters and all along the
Boulevard St. Michel, where the students held forth and where one could
find almost any form of excitement, all have passed into oblivion like
a dream. The boys are all with the colors and thousands of them had
already paid the price.
Paris is very sad. The mailed fist has fallen and left its mark
everywhere.
To-day the theaters are still running; such places as the Follies
Bergere, Olympia, Café Ambassadeurs have their evening performances,
but it is more for the diversion of the men on leave from the front
than for any other reason. Long will these performances be remembered
by the men gathered there nights to throw off the thoughts of war. I
have seen almost every uniform of the Allied armies at these places
in an evening, the men fraternizing, and absorbing what gaiety there
was, trying to forget what they had left behind at the front, enjoying
their leisure as best they could.
But the show is over each night at eleven and once outside the doors
in the dark streets of cold, sad Paris you find no place to go. With
dancing unheard of and all cafés closed at that hour, Paris has locked
itself within doors to brood quietly over the happiness that seems
forever lost.
Never fear that the French will forget America after this war,—no more
than America has forgotten the French. I was in Paris on that memorable
Fourth day of July, 1917, when the first contingent of American Oversea
forces marched through the city to the music of great military bands,
which played the martial airs of both France and America. The whole
population was mad with joy. Persons of all ages, from tiny children to
men and women old and bent, singing and shouting, surged back and forth.
Every nook and corner along the line of march was occupied. Balconies,
windows, and even roofs were filled to capacity, and the words, “The
Americans have come to help us,” were shouted over and over again. Boys
and girls, carrying small American flags, waved them continuously,
while their elders looked on through tears of appreciation.
The procession under way, women along the line of march showered
our boys with roses, and almost immediately a long-stemmed American
Beauty rose protruded from the muzzle of every Springfield rifle in
the parade. Some of the men had wreaths around their necks, flowers on
their broad-brimmed hats and in their belts, while they fairly marched
upon a bed of roses. No words can express the full significance of this
parade as it affected the hearts and minds of the war-stricken people
along the line of march. It will go down in history as the feature of a
glorious day for two glorious nations.
Here was to be seen the real test of friendship, the concrete proof
that the greatest of Republics had finally cast its lot with those
who had helped to make that Republic possible. The whole affair was
wonderfully inspiring, and the blood rushed through my veins in burning
gratitude, for those boys marching out there were our boys and I was an
American like them.