WE COME TO GRIEF
It was our purpose to leave Rouen by the Amiens road, but when we got to
it and looked up a hill that about halfway to the zenith arrived at the
sky, we decided to take a road that led off toward Beauvais. We could
have climbed that hill well enough, and I wished later we had done so.
As it was, we ran along quite pleasantly during the afternoon, and
attended evening services in an old church at Grandvilliers, a place
that we had never heard of before, but where we found an inn as good as
any in Normandy.
It is curious with what exactness Fate times its conclusions. If we had
left Grandvilliers a few seconds earlier or later it would have made all
the difference, or if I had not pulled up a moment to look at a lovely
bit of brookside planted with poplars, or if I had driven the least bit
slower or the least bit faster, during the first five miles, or--
Oh, never mind--what happened was this: We had just mounted a long steep
hill on high speed and I had been bragging on the car, always a
dangerous thing to do, when I saw ahead of us a big two-wheeled cart
going in the same direction as ourselves, and beyond it a large car
approaching. I could have speeded up and cut in ahead of the cart, but I
was feeling well, and I thought I should do the courteous thing, the
safe thing, so I fell in behind it. Not far enough behind him, however,
for as the big car came opposite, the sleepy driver of the cart pulled
up his horse short, and we were not far enough behind for me to get the
brakes down hard and suddenly enough to stop before we touched him. It
was not a smash. It was just a push, but it pushed a big hole in our
radiator, mashed up one of our lamps, and crinkled up our left mudguard.
The radiator was the worst. The water poured out; our car looked as if
it had burst into tears.
We were really stupefied at the extent of our disaster. The big car
pulled up to investigate and console us. The occupants were Americans,
too, from Washington--kindly people who wanted to shoulder some of the
blame. Their chauffeur, a Frenchman, bargained with the cart driver who
had wrecked us to tow us to the next town, where there were garages.
Certainly pride goes before a fall. Five minutes before we were sailing
along in glory, exulting over the prowess of our vehicle. Now all in the
wink of an eye our precious conveyance, stricken and helpless, was being
towed to the hospital, its owners trudging mournfully behind.
The village was Poix, and if one had to be wrecked anywhere, I cannot
think of a lovelier spot for disaster than Poix de la Somme. It is just
across in Picardy, and the Somme there is a little brook that ripples
and winds through poplar-shaded pastures, sweet meadows, and deep
groves. In every direction were the loveliest walks, with landscape
pictures at every turn. The village itself was drowsy, kindly,
simple-hearted. The landlady at our inn was a motherly soul that during
the week of our stay the Joy and I learned to love.
For the others did not linger. Paris was not far away and had a good
deal in the way of shopping to recommend it. The new radiator ordered
from London might be delayed. So early next morning they were off for
Paris by way of Amiens and Beauvais, and the Joy and I settled down to
such employments and amusements as we could find, while waiting for
repairs.
We got acquainted with the garageman's family, for one thing. They lived
in the same little court with the shop, and we exchanged Swiss French
for their Picardese, and were bosom friends in no time. We spruced up
the car, too, and every day took long walks, and every afternoon took
some luncheon and our little stove and followed down the Somme to a tiny
bridge, and there made our tea. Then sometimes we read, and once when I
was reading aloud from Mark Twain's _Joan of Arc_, and had finished the
great battle of Patay, we suddenly remembered that it had happened on
the very day on which we were reading, the 18th of June. How little we
guessed that in such a short time our peaceful little river would give
its name to a battle a thousand times greater than any that Joan ever
fought!
Once when we were resting by the roadside a little old lady with a
basket stopped and sat with us while she told us her history--how her
husband had been a great physician and invented cures that to-day are
used in all the hospitals of France. Now she was poor, she said, and
lived alone in a little house, but if we would visit her she would give
us some good Picardese cooking. I wish we might have gone. One day I
hired a bicycle for the Joy and entertained the village by pushing her
around the public square until she learned to ride alone. Then I hired
one for myself and we went out on the road together. About the end of
the third day we began to look for our radiator, and visited the express
office with considerable regularity. Presently the village knew us, why
we were there and what we were expecting. They became as anxious about
it as ourselves.