And it was this constantly changing new found son who would chop wood,
draw water from the well, write a letter that would exempt them from
taxes, or make a demand for help from the American Committees.
Thus the aged pair had lived happily, loved and respected, absolutely
without want, and shielded from all material worry. And when some poor
devil who has spent four sleepless nights in the trenches, on his
return steals an hour or two from his well earned, much craved sleep,
in order to hoe their potato patch, one would doubtless be astonished
to hear such a man exclaim by way of excuse for his conduct--
"Oh, the poor old souls! Just think of it! At their age. What a
pity."
We found Pistre making a careful toilet with the aid of a tin pail full
of water.
"This is a surprise, on my soul!"
We hastened to give him news of his family and friends.
Presently he turned towards Nourrigat.
"How about your regiment? Stationary?"
"I fancy so. We were pretty well thinned out. We're waiting for
reinforcements."
"What's become of Chenu, and Morlet and Panard?"
"Gone! all of them."
"Too bad! They were such good fellows!"
And our friends smiled, occupied but with the thought of the living
present. Paris, their friends, their families, their professions, all
seemed to be forgotten, or completely over-shadowed by the habitual
daily routine of marches and halts, duties and drudgery. They were no
longer a great painter and a brilliant barrister. They were two
soldiers; two atoms of that formidable machine which shall conquer the
German; they were as two monks in a monastery--absolutely oblivious to
every worldly occupation.
We understand, we feel quite certain that they will be ours again--but
later--when this shall all be over--if God spares them to return.
At that same instant two boys appeared at the entrance to the
courtyard. They may have been respectively ten and twelve years of
age. The perspiration trickled from their faces, and they were bending
beneath the weight of a huge bundle each carried on his back.
"Hello, there, fellows," called one of them.
A soldier appeared on the threshold.
"Here Lefranc--here are your two boxes of sardines, and your snuff.
There isn't any more plum jam to be had. Oh, yes, and here's your
writing paper."
The child scribbled something in an old account book.
"That makes fifty-three sous," he finally announced.
Other soldiers now came up.
The boys were soon surrounded by a group of eager gesticulating
_poilus_.
"Oh, shut up, can't you? How can a fellow think if you all scream at
once? Here--Mimile"--and he turned to his aid. "Don't you give 'em a
thing."
Then the tumult having subsided, he continued--
"Now then, your names, one at a time--and don't muddle me when I'm
trying to count!"
Pistre quickly explained that this phenomenon was Popaul called
"Business"--and Mimile, his clerk, both sons of a poor widow who washed
for the soldiers. In spite of his tender years "Business" had
developed a tendency for finance that bespoke a true captain of
industry. He had commenced by selling the men newspapers, and then
having saved enough to buy first one and then a second bicycle, the
brothers went twice a day to Villers Cotterets, some fifteen miles
distant, in quest of the orders given them by the soldiers. At first
the dealers tried to have this commerce prohibited, but as the lads
were scrupulously honest, and their percentage very modest, the
Commandant not only tolerated, but protected them.
Mimile was something of a Jonah, having twice been caught by bits of
shrapnel, which necessitated his being cared for at the dressing
station.
"All his own fault too," exclaimed Business, shrugging his shoulders.
"He's no good at diving. Doesn't flatten out quick enough. Why I used
to come right over the road last Winter when the bombardment was on
full tilt. I was then working for the Legion and the Chasseurs. No
cinch let me tell you! It used to be--'Popaul here--Popaul
there--where's my tobacco? How about my eau-de-Cologne?' There wasn't
any choice with those fellows. It was furnish the goods or bust--and I
never lost them a sou's worth of merchandise either!"
Business knew everything and everybody; all the tricks of the trade,
all the tricks of the soldiers. He had seen all the Generals, and all
the Armies from the British to the Portuguese.
He had an intimate acquaintance with all the different branches of
warfare, as well as a keen memory for slang and patois. He nourished
but one fond hope in his bosom--a hope which in moments of expansion he
imparts, if he considers you worthy of his confidence.
"In four years I'll volunteer for the aviation corps."
"In four years? That's a long way off, my lad. That's going some, I
should say," called a _poilu_ who had overheard the confession.
"Look here, Business, did I hear you say it won't be over in four
years?" asked another.
"Over? Why, it'll have only just begun. It was the Americans on the
motor trucks who told me so, and I guess they ought to know!"
We watched him distribute his packages, make change and take down his
next day's orders, in a much soiled note-book, and with the aid of a
stubby pencil which he was obliged to wet every other letter. When he
had finished a soldier slipped over towards him.
"I say, Paul," he called out to him, "would you do us the honour of
dining with us? We've got a package from home. Bring your brother
with you."
Business was touched to the quick.
"I'm your man," he answered. "And with pleasure. But you must let me
furnish the _aperatif_."
"Just as you say, old man."
Brusquely turning about, the future tradesman sought for his clerk who
had disappeared.
"Mimile," he shouted, "Mimile, I say, run and tell mamma to iron our
shirts and put some polish on our shoes. I'll finish to-day's job by
myself."
IV
Not satisfied with the havoc wrought in Soissons and other cities of
the front, the Boche is now trying to encircle the head of Paris with
the martyr's crown. The capital, lately comprised in the army zone,
has been called upon to pay its blood tax, and like all the other
heroic maimed and wounded, has none the less retained its good humour,
its confidence and its serenity.
"It will take more than that to prevent us from going to the cafés,"
smiled an old Parisian, shrugging his shoulders.
And this sentiment was certainly general if one were to judge by the
crowd who literally invaded the _terrasses_ between five and seven, and
none of whom seemed in the least preoccupied or anxious.
_Aperatifs_ have long since ceased to be anything save pleasant
remembrances--yet the custom itself has remained strong as a tradition.
Absinthes, bitters and their like have not only been abolished, but
replaced--and by what? Mineral waters, fruit syrups and tea!
The waiters have been metamorphosed into herbalists. Besides, what am
I saying, there are really no more waiters, save perhaps a few decrepit
specimens whom flatfoot has relegated beyond the name, their waddling
so strangely resembles that of ducks. All the others are serving--at
the front.
From my seat I could see two ferocious looking, medal bespangled
warriors ordering, the one a linden flower and verbena, the other
camomile with mint leaf. And along with the cups, saucers and
tea-pots, the waiter brought a miniature caraffe, which in times gone
by contained the brandy that always accompanied an order of coffee. At
present its contents was extract of orange flower!
There may be certain smart youth who brag about having obtained kirsch
for their _tilleul_, or rum in their tea, but such myths are scarcely
credited.
Naturally there is the grumbling element who claim that absinthe never
hurt any one, and cite as example the painter Harpignies, who lived to
be almost a hundred, having absorbed on the average of two a day until
the very last.
But all have become so accustomed to making sacrifices that even this
one is passed off with a smile. What can one more or less mean now?
Besides, the women gave up pastry, didn't they?
One joked the first time one ordered an infusion or a lemon vichy, one
was even a bit disgusted at the taste. And then one got used to it,
the same as one is ready to become accustomed to anything; to trotting
about the darkened streets, to going to bed early, to getting along
without sugar, and even to being bombed.
There is a drawing by Forain which instantly obtained celebrity, and
which represents two French soldiers talking together in the trenches.
"If only they're able to stick it out!"
"Who?"
"The civilians!"
And now at the end of four long years it may be truly said of the
civilian that he has "seen it through." Not so gloriously, perhaps,
but surely quite as magnificently as his brothers at the front.
In a country like France, where all men must join the army, the
left-behind is not an indifferent being; he is a father, a brother, a
son, or a friend; he is that feverish creature who impatiently waits
the coming of the postman, who lives in a perpetual state of agony,
trembles for his dear ones, and at the same time continues his
business, often doubling, even trebling his efforts so as to replace
the absent, and still has sufficient sense of humour to remark:
"In these days when every one is a soldier, it's a hard job to play the
civilian."
Last summer an American friend said to me:
"Of course, there are some changes, but as I go about the streets day
in and day out, it hardly seems as though Paris were conscious of the
war. It is quite unbelievable."
But that very same evening when slightly after eleven, Elizabeth and I
sauntered up the darkened, deserted Faubourg St. Honoré--
"Think," she said, catching my arm, "just think that behind each and
every one of those façades there is some one suffering, hoping,
weeping, perhaps in secret! Think of the awful moment when all the
bells shall solemnly toll midnight, every stroke resounding like a
dirge in the souls of those who are torn with anxiety, who crave
relief, and patiently implore a sleep that refuses to come."
The soldiers know it, know but too well the worth of all the energies
expended without thought of glory; appreciate the value of that
stoicism which consists in putting on a bold front and continuing the
every-day life, without betraying a trace of sorrow or emotion.
Many a husband is proud of his wife, many a brother of his sister, and
many a son of his father and his mother.
Even those, who all things considered would seem the farthest from the
war, suffer untold tortures. How often last autumn did H. and I pay
visits to old artist friends, men well into the sixties with no
material worries, and no one at the front; only to find them alone in
one corner of their huge studios, plunged in profound reveries, and
utterly unconscious of the oncoming night, or the rain that beat
against the skylights.
"I know, I know, it's all very well to shake yourself and say you must
work. It's easy enough to recall that in 1870 Fantin Latour shut
himself up and painted fruit and flowers, and by emulation, buoyed up
perhaps by this precedent, you sit down and sketch a still life. What
greater joy than to seek out a harmony, find the delicate suave tones,
and paint it in an unctuous medium. Yes, it's a joy, but only when
head and heart are both in it! The museums too, used to be a source of
untold pleasure, but even if they were open you wouldn't go, because
the head and the heart are 'Out there' where that wondrous youth is
being mowed down--'Out there' where lies our every hope, 'Out there'
where we would like to be, all of us! 'Tis hardly the moment to paint
ripe grapes and ruddy apples, and to feel that you're only good for
that! It's stupid to be old!"
And many, many a dear old man has passed away, unnoticed. When one
asks the cause of a death friends shrug their shoulders,
"We scarcely know, some say one thing, some another--perhaps the war!"
"In proportion you'll find that there are as many deaths on the
Boulevard as in the trenches," said our friend, Pierre Stevens, on
returning from Degas' funeral.
I would you might go with me, all you who love France, into one of
those Parisian houses, where after dinner when the cloth has been
removed, the huge road maps are spread out on the dining-room table,
and every one eagerly bends over them with bated breath, while the
latest _communiqué_ is read. Fathers, mothers, grandmothers, and
little children, friends and relatives, solemnly, anxiously await the
name of their _secteurs_--the _secteurs_ where _their_ loved ones are
engaged. How all the letters are read, re-read and handed about, each
one seeking a hidden sense, the meaning of an allusion; how dark grows
every brow when the news is not so good--what radiant expanse at the
word victory.
And through fourteen hundred long days this same scene has been
repeated, and no one has ever quailed.
The theatres have cellars prepared to receive their audiences in case
of bombardment, and one of our neighbours, Monsieur Walter, has just
written asking permission in my absence to build an armoured dug-out in
the hallway of my home.
"It is precisely the organisation of this dugout that prompts my
writing to you, _chère Madame_.
"So much bronchitis and so many other ills have been contracted in
cellars, that I hesitate to take my children down there; but on the
other hand, I dare not leave them upstairs, where they would be
altogether too exposed. It is thus that I conceived the idea of asking
your permission to transform into a sort of 'Dug-out dormitory'--(if I
may be permitted the expression) the little passage way, which in your
house separates the dining-room from the green room. To have something
absolutely safe, it would be necessary to give the ceiling extra
support, then set steel plates in the floor of the little linen room
just above and sandbag all the windows.
"Naturally, I have done nothing pending your consent. Useless to say,
we will put everything in good order if you return, unless you should
care to use the dug-out yourself. My wife and I shall anxiously await
your reply."
And this in Paris, June 28th, 1918!
I do not know what particular epoch in world war events served as
inspiration to the author of a certain ditty, now particularly popular
among the military. But decidedly his injunction to
"Pack all your troubles in an old kit bag,
And smile, smile, smile,"
has been followed out to the letter, in the case of the Parisian, who
has also added that other virtue "Patience" to his already long list of
qualities.
With the almost total lack of means of communication, a dinner downtown
becomes an expedition, and a theatre party a dream of the future.
During the Autumn twilights, on the long avenues swept by the rain, or
at street corners where the wind seizes it and turns it into miniature
water spouts, one can catch glimpses of the weary, bedraggled Parisian,
struggling beneath a rebellious umbrella, patiently waiting for a cab.
He has made up his mind to take the first that goes by. There can be
no question of discrimination. Anything will be welcome. Yes,
anything, even one of those evil-smelling antiquated hackneys drawn by
a decrepit brute who will doubtless stumble and fall before having
dragged you the first five hundred yards, thereby bringing down the
pitiless wrath of his aged driver, not only on his own, but your head.
Taxis whizz by at a rate which leads one to suppose that they had a
rendezvous with dame Fortune. Their occupants are at the same time
objects of envy and admiration, and one calls every latent cerebral
resource to his aid, in order to guess where on earth they were to be
found empty. And how consoling is the disdainful glance of the
chauffeur who, having a fare, is hailed by the unfortunate, desperate
pedestrian that has a pressing engagement at the other end of town.
If one of them ever shows signs of slowing up, it is immediately
pounced upon and surrounded by ten or a dozen damp human beings.
Triumphantly the driver takes in their humble, supplicating glances
(glances which have never been reproduced save in pictures of the
Martyrs), and then clearing his throat he questions:
"First of all I've got to know where you want to go. I'm bound for
Grenelle."
Nobody ever wants to go to Grenelle.
If some one tactfully suggests the Avenue de Messine, he is instantly
rebuffed by a steady stare that sends him back, withered, into the
second row of the group. A shivering woman, taking all her courage
into her hands, suggests the Palais d'Orsay, but is ignored while a man
from behind calls forth "Five francs if you'll take me to the Avenue du
Bois."
The chauffeur's glance wavers, it seems possible that he might
entertain the proposal. The gentleman steps forward, already has his
hand on the door handle, when from somewhere in the darkness, helmet
clad, stick in his hand, kit bag over one shoulder, a _poilu
permissionaire_ elbows his way through the crowd. There is no
argument, he merely says,
"Look here, old man, I've got to make the 6.01 at the Gare du Nord;
drive like hell!"
"You should worry. We'll get there."
Now, the Gare du Nord is certainly not in the direction of Grenelle.
On the contrary it is diametrically opposite, geographically speaking.
But nobody seems to mind. The chauffeur is even lauded for his
patriotic sentiments, and one good-hearted, bedraggled creature
actually murmurs:
"I only hope the dear fellow does make it!"
"What does it matter if we do have to wait a bit--that's all we've
really got to do, after all," answers an elderly man moving away.
"It would be worse than this if we were in the trenches," chimes in
some one else.
"My son is in water up to his waist out there in Argonne," echoes a
third, as the group disbands.
And yet people do go to the theatre.
Gemier has made triumphant productions, with the translations of the
Shakesperean Society, and true artist that he is, has created
sensational innovations by way of _mise-en-scène_ in the "Merchant of
Venice" and "Anthony and Cleopatra."
It's a far cry now to the once all too popular staging à la Munich.
Lamy and Le Gallo were excruciatingly funny in a farce called "My
God-son," but the real type of theatrical performance which is
unanimously popular, which will hold its own to the very end, is the
Review.
How on earth the authors manage to scrape up enough comic subjects,
when sadness is so generally prevalent, and how they succeed in making
their public laugh spontaneously and heartily, without the slightest
remorse or _arrière pensée_, has been a very interesting question to me.
Naturally, their field is limited, and there are certain subjects which
are tabooed completely; so the trifling event, the ridiculous side of
Parisian life, have come to the fore. Two special types, the slacker
and the profiteer, or _nouveau riche_, are very generally and very
thoroughly maltreated. If I am any judge, it is the _embusqué_, who is
the special pet, and after him come the high cost of living, the lack
of fuel, the obscurity of the streets, the length of women's skirts,
etc.--all pretexts for more or less amusing topical songs.
As to the war itself, they have made something very special of it.
Thanks to them the trenches become a very delightful spot populated by
a squadron of nimble footed misses, who, booted, spurred,
helmet-crowned and costumed in horizon blue, sing of the heroism and
the splendid good humour of the _poilu_ while keeping time to a martial
rhythm.
There is invariably a heavy comedian who impersonates the jovial
_chef_--preparing a famous sauce in which to dish up "Willy" the day he
shall be captured; the soldier on furlough who is homesick for the
front; the wounded man who stops a moment to sing (with many frills and
flourishes) the joys of shedding one's blood for his country.
Attacks are made to well known accompaniments--Bombardments perpetrated
in the wings by the big bass drum, and both though symbolic, are about
as unreal as possible.
Nobody is illusioned, no one complains. On the contrary, they seem
delighted with the show they have paid to see. Furthermore, the better
part of the audience is composed of soldiers, wounded men,
convalescents, and _permissionaires_, and they all know what to expect.
Near me sat two of the latter--healthy looking lads, wind burned and
tanned, their uniforms sadly faded and stained, their helmets scarred
and indented. Both wore the Croix de Guerre, and the Fourragère or
shoulder strap, showing the colours of the military medal, which at
that time being quite a novelty, caught and held the eyes of all who
surrounded them.
From scraps of their conversation I learned that they had left the
battle front of the Somme that very morning, were merely crossing
Paris, taking a midnight train which would land them home some time the
following day.
I even managed to gather that their papers had reached them at the very
moment when they came out of the trenches, that they had not even had
time to brush up, so great was their fear of missing the last train.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, then, they had really been in
it--standing out there in the mud, surrounded by rats and the putrid
odour of dead bodies, the prey not only of the elements, but of enemy
bombs and shells, expecting the end at any instant; or curled up, half
frozen in a humid, slimy dug-out, not long enough to permit stretching
out--scarcely deep enough to be called a shelter.
Would they not be disgusted? Ready to protest against this disfigured
travesty of their war?
I feel quite certain they never gave it a thought. Blissfully
installed in their comfortable orchestra seats they didn't intend to
miss a word of the entire performance. And when finally in an endless
chain of verses, a comedian, mimicking a _poilu_ with his kit on his
back, recited his vicissitudes with the army police, and got mixed up
in his interpretation of R.A.T., G.Q.G.--etc., they burst into round
after round of applause, calling and recalling their favourite, while
their sides shook with laughter, and the tears rolled down their cheeks.
These same faces took on a nobly serious aspect, while a tall, pale,
painted damsel draped in a peplum, evoked in ringing tones the glorious
history of the tri-colour. I looked about me--many a manly countenance
was wrinkled with emotion, and women on all sides sniffed audibly. It
was then that I understood, as never before, what a philosopher friend
calls "the force of symbols."
An exact scenic reproduction of the war would have shocked all those
good people; just as this impossible theatrical deformation, this
potpourri of songs, dances and orchestral tremolos charmed and
delighted their care-saturated souls.
Little girls in Alsatian costume, and the eternally sublime Red Cross
nurse played upon their sentimentality; the slacker inspired them with
disgust; they shrieked with delight at the _nouveau riche_; and their
enthusiasm knew no bounds when towards eleven-fifteen arrived the
"Stars and Stripes" accompanied by a double sextette of khaki-coloured
female ambulance drivers. Tradition has willed it thus.
If the war continue any length of time doubtless the United States will
also become infuriated with the slacker, and I tremble to think of the
special brand of justice that woman in particular will have in store
for the man who does not really go to the front, or who, thanks to
intrigue and a uniform, is spending his days in peace and safety.
Alas, there are _embusqués_ in all countries, just as there are
_nouveaux-riches_. In Paris these latter are easily discernible. They
have not yet had time to become accustomed to their new luxuries;
especially the women, who wear exaggerated styles, and flaunt their
furs and jewels, which deceive no one.
[Illustration: DOOR OF MADAME HUARD'S HOME--PARIS]
"They buy everything, so long as it is expensive," explained an
antiquity dealer. "They want everything, and want it at once!"
The few old artisans still to be found who are versed in the art of
repairing antiques, are rushed to death, and their ill humour is almost
comic, for in spite of the fact that they are being well paid for their
work, they cannot bear to see these precious treasures falling into the
hands of the vulgar.