beribboned hat and embroidered waistcoat on the promenades of the
Riviera, the Arlesian bonnet in the depths of Normandy, the Pyrenese
cap in Lorraine.
All this heterogeneous crowd forms a long line in front of the ticket
office, each one encumbered with a basket or a bag, a carpetsack or a
bundle containing patés and sausages, pastry and pickles, every known
local dainty which will recall the native village to the dear one so
far away.
It is thus that from Argentan to Caën I found myself seated between a
stout motherly person from Auvergne, and a little dark man from whose
direction was wafted so strong an odour of garlic that I had no
difficulty discerning from what region he hailed. Next to him were a
bourgeois couple whose mourning attire, red eyes and swollen faces
bespoke plainly enough the bereavement they had just suffered. Silent,
indifferent to everything and everybody, their hands spread out on
their knees, they stared into the ghastly emptiness, vainly seeking
consolation for their shattered dream, their grief-trammelled souls.
A heavily built couple of Norman farmers occupied the seats on either
side of the door, and then came a tall young girl and her mother, a
Belgian soldier, and finally a strange old creature wearing an
antiquated starched bonnet, a flowered shawl, and carrying an umbrella
such as one sees but in engravings illustrating the modes and customs
of the eighteenth century. She was literally buried beneath a
monumental basket which she insisted upon holding on her knees.
Every available inch of floor space was covered with crocks and kits
full of provisions, and in the rack above our heads were so many boxes
and bundles, bags and bales, remaining aloft by such remarkable laws of
equilibrium that I feared lest any moment they fall upon our heads, and
once this catastrophe occurred there seemed to be little hope of
extricating oneself from beneath the ruins.
The conversation was opened by the Norman farmer who offered to relieve
the little old woman of her basket and set it safely between his feet.
"_Oh, non merci_," she piped in a thin little wavering treble, and an
inimitable accent which made it impossible to guess her origin.
"Oh, no, Monsieur, thank you," she continued. "It's full of cream
tarts and cherry tarts, and custard pies made right in our own home.
I'm taking them to my boy, and as we stayed up very late to make them
so that they would be quite fresh, I should hate to have any of them
crushed or broken. He did love them so when he was little!"
"Our son was just the same. As soon as he was able to eat he begged
them to let him have some _brioche_. But his fever was too high when
we got there, and he couldn't take a thing. 'That doesn't matter,' he
said to his mother. 'Just the sight of them makes my mouth water, and
I feel better already.'"
My Provençal neighbour could no longer resist. His natural
loquaciousness got the better of his reserve.
"Well, the first thing my son asked for was olives, so I brought him
enough to last, as well as some sausage which he used to relish. Oh,
if only I could bring him a little bit of our blue sky, I'm sure he
would recover twice as quickly."
The mother of the young girl now sat forward and asked the Norman
farmer's wife where and how her son had been wounded.
"He had a splinter of shell in his left thigh. He'd been through the
whole campaign without a scratch or a day of illness."
The woman's eyes sparkled with pride and tenderness.
The short man beside me, who informed me he was a native of Beaucaire
on the Rhone, had one son wounded and being cared for in a hospital at
Caën, a second prisoner in Germany, and two sons-in-law already killed.
According to a letter which the dear old flowered shawl spelled out to
us word by word, her grandson had been wounded in seven different
places, and had had one hand and one leg amputated. But he hastened to
add that he was not worrying a bit about it.
The young girl's mother had one son in the ranks, and a second, aged
seventeen, had enlisted and was about to leave for the front. She and
her daughter were on their way to embrace him for the last time.
The Belgian soldier was just getting about after an attack of typhoid
fever, and the motherly person on my left was travelling towards her
husband, a territorial of ripe years whose long nights of vigil beneath
bridges and in the mud of the Somme had brought him down with
inflammatory rheumatism. Their son, they prayed, was prisoner--having
been reported missing since the 30th of August, 1914. This coarse,
heavy featured woman of the working classes, cherished her offspring
much as a lioness does her young. She told us she had written to the
President of the Republic, to her Congressman, her Senator, to the King
of Spain, the Norwegian Ambassador, to the Colonel of the Regiment, as
well as to all the friends of her son on whose address she had been
able to lay hand; and she would keep right on writing until she
obtained some result, some information. She could not, would not,
admit that her boy was lost; and scarcely stopping to take breath she
would ramble on at length, telling of her hopes and her disappointments
to which all the compartment listened religiously while slowly the
train rolled along through the smiling, undulating Norman country.
Each one did what he could to buoy up the mother's hopes.
The little Southerner seemed to possess a countless number of stories
about prisoners, and he presently proceeded to go into minute detail
about the parcels he sent to his own son, explaining the regulation as
to contents, measures and weights, with so much volubility that the
good soul already saw herself preparing a package to be forwarded to
her long lost darling.
"You can just believe that he'll never want for anything--if clothes
and food will do him any good. There's nothing on earth he can't have
if only we can find him, if only he comes back to us."
And growing bolder as she felt the wealth of sympathy surrounding her,
she looked over and addressed the woman in mourning, who at that moment
smiled gently at her.
"We thought we knew how much we loved them, didn't we, Madame? But
we'd never have realised how really deep it was if it hadn't been for
this war, would we?"
The woman continued to smile sadly.
"More than likely you've got somebody in it too," persisted the stout
Auvergnate, whose voice suddenly became very gentle and trembled a
trifle.
"I _had_ three sons. We have just buried the last one this morning."
All the faces dropped and a ghastly silence fell upon the group. Each
one looked straight into the distance ahead of him, but the bond of
sympathy was drawn still tighter, and in the moment of stillness that
ensued I felt that all of us were communing with Sorrow.
Between Folligny and Lamballe, we were quite as closely huddled between
three soldiers on furlough, a stout old priest, a travelling salesman,
and a short gentleman with a pointed beard, a pair of eyeglasses and an
upturned nose.
At one moment our train halted and waited an incredible length of time
vainly whistling for the tower-man to lift the signal which impeded our
progress.
The travelling salesman who was cross and weary finally left his seat,
grumbling audibly.
"We'll never in the world get there on time. It's certain I shall miss
my connection! What a rotten road! What management!"
"It's the war," murmered the priest pulling out a red checked
handkerchief in which he buried his nose.
"You don't have to look far to see that," responded the other, still
grumbling.
"Oh, it's plain enough for us all right. Those who are handling
government jobs are the only fellows who don't know it, I should say."
"Bah! each of us has his troubles--each of us has his Cross to bear,"
murmured the Father by way of conciliation, casting his eyes around the
compartment, much as he would have done upon the faithful assembled to
hear him hold forth.
"Pooh! it's you priests who are the cause of all the trouble. It was
you who preached and got the three year service law voted."
The poor Curate was fairly suffocated with surprise and indignation.
He was so ruffled he could hardly find a word. In the meantime the
travelling salesman taking advantage of his silence, continued:
"Yes, it was you and the financiers, and it's nothing to brag about
either!"
The man with the upturned nose now wheeled about sharply. His blood
was up and he strangely resembled a little bantam cockerel.
"Monsieur," he snapped, and his voice was clear and cutting, "if any
one had a right to express a complaint on any subject whatsoever, it
would certainly be the soldiers who are seated in this compartment.
Now as they have said nothing, I cannot admit that you, a civilian,
should take such liberties."
"But, Monsieur----"
"Yes, Monsieur, that's exactly what I mean, and as to the sentiments to
which you have given voice they are as stupid as they are odious. We
all know now that war was inevitable. The Germans have been preparing
it for forty years."
"Monsieur!"
"Monsieur!"
The two glared fixedly at each other for an instant; the one was very
red, the other extremely pale. Then they turned about and resumed
their places in each corner. The priest produced his breviary, the
soldiers finished a light repast composed of bread and cheese.
They were all three peasants, easily discernible from the way they
slowly chewed and swallowed, or caught up a crumb of cheese on the
point of their knives. They had sat silent and listened to the
outbursts without turning an eyelash. Then presently one of them
lifted his head and addressing his companions in a deep bass voice:
"Well," said he, "this makes almost two days now that we've been on the
way!"
"What have you got to kick about?" retaliated the other, shutting his
knife and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You're as well
off here as you were in the trenches of Bois Le Pretre, aren't you?"
The third one said nothing, but recommenced carving a cane which he had
abandoned for an instant, and which he was terminating with more
patience than art, though the accomplishment of his task seemed to give
him infinite pleasure.
As the commercial traveller had predicted, we were hours late and in
consequence missed our connection, but the platform of a station where
two lines meet, offers, under such circumstances, so diverse and
diverting a spectacle that we hardly regretted the delay. It is here
that any one interested in physiognomy can best study and judge the
masses, for it is as though the very texture from which France is woven
were laid bare before him. This spectacle is constantly changing,
constantly renewed, at times deeply moving. No face can be, or is,
indifferent, in these days and one no longer feels himself a detached
individual observer; one becomes an atom of the crowd, sharing the
anxiety of certain women that one knows are on their way to a hospital
and who half mad with impatience are clutching the fatal telegram in
one hand, while with the fingers of the other they thrum on one cheek
or nervously catch at a button or ornament of their clothing.
Or again one may participate in the hilarious joy of the men on
furlough, who having discovered the pump, stand stripped to the waist,
making a most meticulous toilet, all the while teasing a fat,
bald-headed chap to whom they continuously pass their pocket combs with
audible instructions to be sure to put his part on the left side.
The waiting-rooms literally overflow with soldiers--some stretched out
on the benches, some on the floor; certain lying on their faces, others
on their backs, and still others pillowing their heads on their
knapsacks.
One feels their overpowering weariness, their leaden sleep after so
many nights of vigil; their absolute relaxation after so many
consecutive days in which all the vital forces have been stretched to
the breaking point.
From time to time an employé opens the door and shouts the departure of
a train. The soldiers rouse themselves, accustomed to being thus
disturbed in the midst of their slumber. One or two get up, stare
about them, collect their belongings and start for the platform,
noiselessly stepping over their sleeping companions. At the same time
newcomers, creeping in behind them, sink down into the places which
they have just forsaken, while they are still warm.
On a number of baggage trucks ten or a dozen Moroccan soldiers have
seated themselves, crosslegged, and draped in their noble burnous, they
gently puff smoke into the air, without a movement, without a gesture,
without a sound, apparently utterly oblivious to the noisy employés, or
the thundering of the passing trains.
On the platform people walk up and down, up and down; certain among
them taking a marked interest in the old-fashioned, wheezing
locomotives which seem fairly to stagger beneath the long train of
antiquated coaches hitched behind them.
Here, of course, are to be found the traditional groups in evidence at
every station; a handful of people in deep mourning on their way to a
funeral; a little knot of Sisters of Charity, huddled together in an
obscure corner reciting their rosary; families of refugees whom the
tempest has driven from their homes--whole tribes dragging with them
their old people and their children who moan and weep incessantly.
Their servants loaded down with relics saved from the disaster in
heavy, clumsy, ill-tied bundles, are infinitely pitiable to behold.
They are all travelling straight ahead of them with no determined end
in view. They seem to have been on the way so long, and yet they are
in no haste to arrive. Hunger gnawing them, they produce their
provisions, and having seated themselves on their luggage, commence a
repast, eating most slowly, the better to kill time while waiting for a
train that refuses to put in an appearance.
The _buffet_ is so full of noise, smoke and various other odours, that
having opened the door one hesitates before entering. There is a long
counter where everything is sold; bread, wine, cider, beer and
lemonade; sandwiches, patés, fruit and sweetmeats. One makes his
choice and pays in consequence. At the side tables the civilians are
lost mid the mass of blue uniforms.
[Illustration: MONSIEUR AMÉDÉ]
This is a station in Normandy, and for the boys of this region nothing
can substitute a good big bowl of hot vegetable soup, seasoned with the
famous _graisse normande_ and poured over thin slices of bread, the
whole topped off with a glass of cider or "pure juice" as they call it.
It is a joy to see them seated about the board, their elbows on the
table, their heads bent forward over the steaming bowl, whose savoury
perfume as it rises to their nostrils seems to carry with it a
veritable ecstasy, if one were to judge by the beatific expression on
every countenance.
"That goes right to the spot, doesn't it?"
From another table a voice responds:
"Yes, fellows, it's better than a kick in the shins, every time!"
The last mouthful gone, the cider bottles empty, they tighten the
straps of their kit bags and rise regretfully from their seats.
"_Allez_. Off again, boys! _C'est la guerre_!" and they shuffle away
humming and filling their pipes.
From the direction of the _buvette_, or bar comes noisy laughter
followed by oaths. The uncertain voice of a seemingly intoxicated
individual dominates all others. Yet nothing but soft drinks are sold.
"As the Colonel of the 243rd used to say," it continues, "'Soldiers of
my regiment, repose upon your arms!' My arms are the bottle! My
bottle and my wife are the only things worth while when I'm on
furlough. I----"
His voice disappeared an instant, dimmed by the rising tumult. Then
suddenly it broke forth anew--
"Attention! Present arms, here comes a coal scuttle. Now
then,--flatten out on the back of your stomach!"
An instant later the man appeared at the threshold of the dining room.
He was a heavily built, big jointed, husky Norman farmer-soldier, with
his helmet pulled down low over his eyes, so that the upper part of his
face was completely hidden from view.
Suddenly he pushed it far back on his head, and casting a sweeping
glance over the assembled diners, he called forth in stentorian tones
that made every one turn around:
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!"
The cashier behind the counter, who evidently foresaw trouble, called
out to him in shrill tones:
"You've made a mistake, go back to the _buvette_. You've nothing to do
out here!"
Removing his helmet, the gallant knight made the lady a sweeping bow.
"Your servant, Madame. Your humble servant," he continued. "Cyprien
Fremont, called Cyp for short."
"Did you hear what I said? Now then, take yourself off," cried the
ungracious adored one.
But the _poilu_ was not to be so silenced.
Putting his hand to his heart and addressing the assembly:
"Ungrateful country!" he cried, "is it thus that you receive your sons
who shed their blood for you?"
"That's all right, but go and tell it elsewhere. Go on, I say!"
"I've only got one more word to say and then it will be over."
But before he could utter that word his companions seized him and
dragged him back from whence he came. As he disappeared from view, we
heard him announce his intention of "doing some stunts"--which offer
was apparently joyously accepted, followed by more laughter and several
"dares."
Suddenly the most terrific noise of falling and breaking glass and
china brought every one to his feet. Excited voices could be heard
from the direction in which Cyprien had vanished. The army police
dashed in, followed by the station master and all the employés. A
lengthy discussion was begun, and having finished our dinner we left
matters to adjust themselves and sauntered forth onto the platform.
Here we found our Cyprien surrounded by his companions, who were busy
disinfecting and binding up the wounds that he had received when the
china cabinet had collapsed upon him. One of the men poured the
tincture of iodine onto a hand held fast by a friend. Two others were
rolling a bandage about his head, while the patient, far from subdued,
waved the only free but much enveloped hand that he possessed, beating
time to the air that he was literally shouting and in whose rather bald
verse the station master's wife was accused of the grossest infidelity.
"Shh! Cyprien," his friends enjoined; "shut up a bit, can't you?"
But it was no easy thing to impose silence upon Cyprien when he had
made up his mind to manifest a thought or an opinion.
"You'll get us all into trouble, old man, see if you don't. Cut it
out, won't you? See, here comes an officer."
The officer approached them.
"It's not his fault, sir," began one of the fellows, before his
superior had time to ask a question. "I assure you, it's not his
fault. He's just back from Saloniki--his first furlough in a year,
sir. It must have gone to his head. I swear he hasn't had anything
but cider to drink, sir."
"But that's no excuse for making all this noise. Show me his military
book!"
The officer took it, ran through the pages, and then approached Cyprien.
At the sight of the gold braid Cyprien stood up and saluted.
"Before you went to Saloniki, I see you fought at Verdun."
"Yes, sir."
"And at Beausejour?"
"Yes, sir."
"And Vauquois?"
"Yes, sir."
The eyes of the two veterans met; the officer's glance seeking to
pierce that of the soldier in front of him. Then suddenly, in an
irresistible burst of sympathy and respect, he thrust out his hand and
caught up one of Cyprien's bandaged pair.
"I was there, too," was all he said.
Instantly sobered, our hero straightened up and literally crushed his
superior's fingers in his mighty fist.
"Come with me," said the officer; "I know a place where you can rest
until it's time to leave. And you boys here," said he turning towards
them, "you'll see to it that he doesn't miss his train."
Night, inky black, fathomless night, had now settled about us. In the
distance one could just discern the red and green signal lamps--at
closer range the burning tip of a cigar or cigarette. The soldiers
turned up their collars. The wind shifting to the north was piercing
cold. One had to walk briskly up and down to avoid becoming chilled.
Way at the other end of the platform the flare of fugitive matches
revealed shadows moving about as though searching for something upon
the ground.
"What are you looking for?"
"A third-class return ticket for Royan. That old lady over there has
lost hers."
We turned about to see a poor old wrinkled soul, in her native Norman
costume, wringing her hands in distress.
"What a misfortune! Oh dear, oh dear, what a misfortune! What will
become of me now? What shall I do?"
And to each inquisitive newcomer she babbled forth her story of a
wounded grandson whom she was on her way to visit. The curate and
another man of her village had seen to her expenses. They had
purchased her ticket and handed it to her with strict instructions not
to lose it. For safety's sake she had knotted it in the corner of her
handkerchief--and now it wasn't there!
The inquirer then examined her handkerchief, made her stand up and
shake her clothing, turn her pockets inside out, empty her baskets and
her handbag; and still not willing to trust the thoroughness of his
predecessors he would begin looking all over the immediate vicinity,
match in hand. So presently nearly two hundred men, forgetting their
soreness and fatigue, were down on their knees scouring every nook and
cranny. The sleepers were awakened, the drinkers routed out and put to
work, scanning every inch of ground.
A loud and persistent ringing of an electric bell sounded on the air.
"Hey there, fellows!" called a tall Zouave. "Get together, the train
is announced, and since we can't find grandma's ticket we can't leave
the old girl alone in the dark, so come on, chip in--we'll make it up
to her. She says it cost forty-two francs and ten centimes. Are you
ready?"
And removing his helmet he started to make the rounds. In an instant
coppers and silver rang in the steel recipient.
"Stop! that's enough."
They retired to count.
"Chic--there's some left over!"
"Never mind, she'll buy something for the kid with it."
Some one purchased the ticket.
"There now, grandma, a new ticket and enough to buy your boy a cake
with, so you should worry! But as you're too young to travel alone,
we're going to take you in with us. We just happen to be going your
way. Here Ballut, Langlois! Quick there--take her baskets. Now then,
don't let go my arm--here comes the train. Sh! don't cry, there's
nothing to bawl about, we're all good fellows--all of us got grandmas
who'd make just as big fools of themselves if they had to travel."
And with infinite care and tenderness a dozen hands hoisted their
precious burden into the dimly lighted wooden-benched compartment.
Yes, travelling in France under such circumstances is to me more
interesting than ever, for when it is not one's fellow passengers who
hold the attention, there are always those thousand and one outside
incidents which the eye retains involuntarily. War factories and
munition plants sprung from the ground as though by magic; immense
training camps in course of construction, aviation fields over which so
cleverly hover those gigantic, graceful war birds, who on catching
sight of the train fly low and delight the astonished passengers by
throwing them a greeting, or, challenging the engineer, enter into a
race.
But above all, there is the natural panorama; that marvellous
succession of hills and vales, hamlets and rivers, fields and gardens,
so wonderfully harmonious beneath the pearl tinted sky. How it all
charms and thrills, and how near the surface is one's emotion on
hearing a soldier voice exclaim:
"What a country to die for!"
So the hours sped by, and at length we reached our destination. P----
is a flourishing little city, perched on the side of a rocky hill, with
a broad landscape spreading out at its feet.