it,--made up the bed in fresh linen, hemstitched and monogrammed, put
fresh towels in our private adjoining bathroom, and puttered around us
adorably. She said that she didn't serve any meals except breakfast, but
would we like eggs with our coffee? We jumped for joy. I haven't had an
egg for breakfast since I was in Pau.
We sauntered out for dinner at 7.30. We went to the France et
Angleterre, the chic-est hotel there, and ate on the Terrace with all
the swells. A few of the very few members of Paris haute société that I
know were there, and bowed quite informally over their pearls. I was
becomingly gowned in my old brown felt hat, the coat of my winter suit,
the little blue serge model, and a pair of men's shoes that I bought
from the Vestiaire. No matter. We watched the officers and their lady
friends and the Rolls Royces and Renaults and negotiated our asparagus
with perfect nonchalance.
To bed in that wonderful room. The armoire was all lined with satin, and
there was a plain gray velvet carpet, and canework let into the head and
foot of the bed, and the bed was set in an alcove with a canopy. Oh, I
tell you it was great; twelve francs, for the two of us.
And when we woke there were the eggs--and pain grillé. It was about the
time when certain people that I know are usually on the way over to the
Vestiaire, and we hugged ourselves and each other, I can tell you, to
think that we were off in Fontainebleau in an elegant boudoir with trees
whispering outside the window and boiled eggs before us.
We had luncheon in the forest. We decided to leave the palais and
grounds until another day when there wouldn't be such a crowd and the
sun would not be so hot.
Moret is the cutest place ever. A cobbled main street, with little
stores and tiny streets leading off of it, and old stone towers over the
city gates. It is on the Loire, and we crossed the bridge and sat down
in the long grass at the water's edge and looked back at the town
through the trees; cunning little houses with window-boxes leaning out
over the river, children and ducks playing in the water; and topping the
town, the tower of the lovely old twelfth-century church.
We went up to the church, and really it is the most romantic, irregular,
moth-eaten, ancient of days that you can imagine. The inside is lovely
in outline and general construction, but here and there it has been
whitewashed and generally renovated in a deplorable way. Some one
evidently died--as Marje remarked--and left to the church three
brilliant cut-glass chandeliers, which give the most bizarre effect,
hanging in the main aisle. We wandered around all alone--not a person in
the place, not even a priest or choir-boy was to be seen.
We started home and went to Barbizon for tea. That is another cute
place. Lovely villas, and tablets outside saying what artist lived
there. There are several fine hotels. One was really very snappy, and we
had tea there outdoors under a yellow-and-white striped awning. The
country all about is lovely and just shrieks Millet. If it hadn't turned
cold suddenly I should have wanted to get out and sketch and let Marje
work on the car awhile. She always can find something to do, and if
there's nothing in sight for me to draw, I always can draw her doing it.
I have just been playing over the easier of the Symphonic Études--if
there are such--and here I am writing away and it's bedtime. Think of
how wonderful it was to have that car, and find that lovely place to
stay, and to have each other to go with, and then to come home to our
salon and my darling piano!
I am waiting impatiently for the letter telling me what I'm to do in
Switzerland. I am afraid you are quite unnecessarily worried about me.
There was a time when I was pretty ill and tired, but I am much better
now. Mrs. Shurtleff has given both Marje and me every other Monday off.
I haven't written to you yet about our salon, but it makes all the
difference in the world to our health and happiness.
Good-bye for now. I will write you a sensible letter soon, full of
information and untouched by frivolity. I understand that one boat has
skipped. I know I didn't get any mail. Heaven know when you'll get this.
Much love, Mother dear, from
ESTHER.
XVIII
FROM MARJORIE
June 20, 1917.
DEAREST FAMILY:--
Having written you a short bum letter last week, I am now going to try
to make it up to you this week. I certainly have enough material, and if
this cahier is not interesting, it is because I am writing very
hurriedly, and not on account of lack of things to tell you.
Ever since I arrived here in Paris, I have longed more or less, and
mostly more, to get up to the "front," and to see what this war has done
to the country and villages, and what modern warfare is like, anyway. I
have hoped that I might get an opportunity some time, but have only
hoped. It never occurred to me that I, Marjorie Crocker, would ever
really get there, but I have! I warn you right now that this trip has
changed my point of view in several ways, and I only hope that I shall
be able to tell you what I saw in such a way that you will feel as I
felt. (I am, by the bye, making a carbon copy of this letter, for I do
not intend to have another "Bordeaux trip" letter experience.)
Mrs. Gage wrote to Miss Curtis some time ago, saying that she wanted to
borrow her car for a few days' trip to the front, and would Miss C. be
willing to drive it for her? You can imagine that Miss Curtis was
willing. I happened to be there when she was reading the letter, and
remarked at once that, if anything happened, not to forget that I could
always go as a chauffeur too! Then I thought no more about it, until
last Friday, the 8th, when Rootie blew in to luncheon, all agog about
some Mrs. W---- who wanted Miss Curtis to drive her to the front the
next day, and Miss C. was in the country for a few days' rest. As this
sounded like a chance to me, I got busy, and with Rootie's help chased
up the "chance" as quick as we could! Rootie, knowing how I felt, had
suggested me in the morning as a substitute for Miss Curtis, but nothing
very definite had been arranged. We tore around from Dr. Shurtleff's to
the Vestiaire, and there by pure luck met Mrs. W---- and a Miss Upjohn,
who was with her. After some discussions between Mrs. Shurtleff, Mrs. W.
and M. X. C., as to whether I ought to try to go in Miss Curtis's place,
for there was every possibility of her returning that night, Mrs. W----
said that I was there on the scene, and she would like to try to take me
in place of Miss Curtis, and we must go at once to get the name changed
on the papers,--so we hopped into the Association car and beat it for
the Agence de la Presse, which is the place to get papers to go to the
front. I was at this stage of the game as ignorant as you are as to who
Mrs. W---- was, and why she was going to the front, and what the whole
game was. The only thing I could think of was that I was really going to
the front. We got the papers changed easily, and I came back to the
house all excitement, ready to start at six in the morning. You can
imagine how I felt, for it did seem as if I was cutting Miss Curtis out
of her opportunity. We stopped at Miss C.'s house to discuss things with
her, and found to our delight a telegram saying that she had decided to
stay over one day more, so I felt much better. Incidentally I knew that
she and Mrs. Shurtleff were going up to the front later on, and that
they were to stay for a week or more. After going to Mrs. Shurtleff's
and talking it over with her, we came back here and found a note saying
the start was postponed until three in the afternoon. This I was glad
of, for it gave me time to get ready, and also to attend the usual
Saturday morning conference.
Rootie and I lunched at the Bon Marché, in celebration of the event,
although I felt rottenly about going and not being able to take her
along too. I thought that the ladies seemed a little vague, so I took
some food with me, as I can keep going indefinitely if I am fed, as you
know. I went to the Hotel Regina, as directed, at the hour set, and
there met the rest of the mob. The party was to go in two cars, one a
high-powered landaulet, French make, and our Ford. Mrs. W---- was the
head of our party. She is about to found a work over here, has got an
office, and, when she gets money and a committee, is going to have a
"large work" for the Pays Envahis, so she says. She is English, and has
written at times, and her excuse for going on the trip was to write up
the country, send it to America, and raise money there for her work
which is about to be. Miss U. is a friend. Mrs. W. was the next. I made
the fourth, and chauffeur of the party. The other car contained Mr. and
Mrs. Will Irwin, of "Saturday Evening Post" fame, Mrs. Norman Hapgood,
and Mme. Perrin, the official guide, and her sister. Mlle. Bazin (they
are daughters of one Léon Bazin, a well-known French author), and a
chauffeur who looked at me in scorn! We started at about half-past
three, our orders being to follow as closely as possible to the other
car, and, if we lost them, to turn up at Compiègne, seventy-five
kilometres distant, for dinner and to spend the night.
I am perfectly sure that the chauffeur never drove so fast in all his
life before; he just whizzed out of Paris with us panting at his rear!
Once out of the city, I balked and slowed down to a comfortable gait,
which gave me a chance to listen to Mrs. W----'s flow of words in my
ear, and enjoy the country. I could hardly believe at this stage of the
game that I was really on my way to the front. We had two punctures,
but, as I was carrying two extra rims, they did not bother much. Of
course, the ladies thought I was "so clever" to be able to change a
tire! I wonder what they expected--that I would stay by the side of the
road all night with a puncture? We arrived at Compiègne at about 6.30,
and found an excellent hotel. The arrangement of rooms amused me a
little, for I found that they had reserved two chauffeurs' rooms!
Although the other one is a most superior being, having driven Edward
VII during his stay in Paris, still I thought I preferred the hotel to
the garage to sleep in, and so made my own arrangements! King Edward, as
we called him, was very nice, and mended my two punctures for me, after
taking me to the military field to get my gas for my trip. For once in
my life, I had all the gas I wanted offered me, and did not have to pay
for it! I can tell you, I took all that she would hold, and then filled
five empty bidons which I had, fortunately, brought with me. We had a
delightful dinner, and I for one turned in early, for I imagined that
the next day would be a tiring one. The next morning was cloudy, but not
rainy, and we started off at nine o'clock for Noyon, which is the
headquarters for such trips as ours. We went via Bailly, where we saw
our first trenches. Also No Man's Land, of Mary Roberts Rinehart fame:
the first really famous battlefield. We stopped and walked through long
communication trenches, now partially filled up, all muddy and full of
cobwebs and dead rats. It seemed strange to think that only last March
there was fighting in those trenches, and now they are cobwebbed and
falling to pieces. The officers' dug-outs along the side of the roads,
all of which have been first in French hands, then German, and now
French, were particularly interesting. Each one was different; some had
regular windows with pathetic attempts at curtains, some were quite
palatial, others were filled with water, and all wore a deserted and
much-fought-over air. The miles and miles of barbed-wire entanglements,
with corresponding miles of twisty-turny trenches, screens of boughs,
wire with grass tied on it, and burlap curtains, showed us quite
distinctly where the original French lines were and the Boche. The land
in between is now quite dry, and does not look like a lake, but like an
ordinary field, criss-crossed with low barbed-wire entanglements. Here
and there a grave, mostly French. We walked along the roadway, and
stopped to look at a ruined farm; the buildings of cement were all
shattered, except the cellar of the main house, which had a painted sign
over the door, "Notre Dame des Forêts," and then the hours of services.
The interior had been whitewashed, and a rude altar built at the farther
end. There were bullets, many of them, lying in front of the door. While
we were looking around, an old man drove up with his wife in a rickety
shay. He owned the place, and was coming for the first time to see what
was left. I hated to have him get out and look. I knew his heart was
breaking, and he was too old and already broken to ever be able to see
it rebuilt. He was talkative, and took me out behind the barns to see
his pride and joy: what once was a McCormick reaping machine, only just
paid for at the outbreak of the war,--fifteen hundred francs,--now a
mass of twisted, rusted iron and steel, hopelessly wrecked. He did not
say much, only told what it cost, said it was his only new machine, and
then walked away. I went back to the car. What in the world could I say?
The others had by this time walked on farther, and I had to hurry to
catch them. We inspected more dug-outs, and then went on to Noyon.
Just before entering this town, we saw our first Boche prisoners. I
don't know what a German soldier looks like ordinarily, but when shorn
of his arms, buttons (taken as souvenirs), wearing a little gray cap
with a red stripe around it on the top of his shorn head, he presents an
amusing and pathetic appearance. I don't know what it is that is so very
bedraggled about them, but they look so absurdly harmless, almost like
the inhabitants of the Forest Hills insane asylum, when one sees them
walking about the lawn or sitting under the trees on the way to Marion.
They looked well fed and young. They were working, not very hard, but
rather stolidly, I thought.
Noyon seemed to be fairly well preserved, and very full of military
life. We went to Headquarters, and procured that most necessary of
things for a trip to the front--a French capitaine. He was very
nice-looking and agreeable, and, as we discovered later on, very
efficient. He let us look around the town a bit; in fact, I went into
the cathedral for a minute, but as a service was going on, did not get
much idea of what it was like. One thing caught my eye in the courtyard
of the priest's house next door--a life-sized statue of some saint
carrying a lamb. A shell had bitten a great piece out of the back of the
figure, but he still held the lamb, unhurt.
From Noyon we were escorted south to a small town called Blérancourt,
where the poilus come home for vacation, and a gayer place I never was
in. Music, songs, soldiers dressed up playing tag, fencing, huge signs
telling of a spree to come off that night in the big room at the canteen
run by the English. We entered this building, and found three charming
English women who are living there, and running a rest and writing-room
and a canteen for the poilus. They serve about seven hundred a night,
they said. They invited us to eat our luncheon in their garden, which we
were most willing to do. I tried to get some pictures of it, but I doubt
if any of mine will come out. It was pretty cloudy for photos.
[Illustration: Will Irwin in the Garden at Blérancourt]
[Illustration: Mrs. Williams (back), Miss Dobson, and Mrs. Wethey in the
Garden at Blérancourt]
I managed to get a chance to talk with one of these women, and she was
so interesting. They are certainly doing a good thing, staying there.
They live in the most simple way, sleeping outdoors in the garden,
wearing khaki shirts and skirts. They are the only women in the town.
Their life is gay in some ways. A French poilu on his four days' leave
is more of a kid than anything I ever laid eyes on. One woman told me
she did not know when they ever rested, for they kept up the noise and
fun all day and all night too.
After a very nice luncheon, which we had brought with us, for one cannot
get food in the military zone, we went on. We were aiming for Chauny,
or, at least, we all hoped that we were, for Mr. Irwin told us that was
as near the front as any women would be allowed to get. The country by
this time was entirely ruined and very military-looking,--that is to
say, all criss-crossed with trenches, entanglements, and dug-outs. We
kept meeting high-powered cars going at a frightful speed,--mostly
closed ones,--with officers in them. I can tell you that driving was no
fun. I had to keep close to the other car which went at about thirty
miles an hour, making a frightful amount of dust, but I did not dare
slow down or lose sight of them, for I hate to think what would happen
to a party of women found in the zone des armées, traveling about
without the proper escort. I do not believe that any papers would be of
the slightest use. As a matter of fact, the papers were all made out
wrong, and the one we did possess said that our party consisted of Mrs.
Hapgood (in the other car), Mr. Williams (ditto), and Miss Upjohn and
Mr. Pelletier, the chauffeur. How I was to pose as a man chauffeur I do
not know.
We went along smoothly until we began meeting a great number of trucks,
gun-carriages, and soldiers. This made me think that we must be near the
actual fighting, and I was crazy to stop for a minute and listen for the
guns, but I did not dare to. Then we met a very nice-looking chasseur on
a bicycle, who held on to the side of the car and gave us all the
information we wanted. First place, he told us that we were off the
regular road for Chauny, and that we were almost at Pierrefond de Soucy,
which town was four kilometres from the actual front! This thrilled us,
as you may imagine. Then we were held up by a guard, who talked at great
length with the first car, and after finally letting them go on, stopped
us and said that we could not go for five minutes, that we must keep out
of sight of the first car, never stop under any conditions until we
passed the next sentinel, and that he had no business to let us go on
this road at all, as the Germans could see us on an ordinary day, but it
being foggy he would let us by! For the first time I really felt as if
there were some danger. As a matter of fact, it was practically nil, for
the Germans are very methodical in their way of fighting, and do not
fire on certain roads except at certain times. However, our chasseur
friend told us that the woods we could see beyond the field on the right
were French, but that the Germans were on the hill beyond. That made
them seem pretty near. We just scurried through that town and the next.
The road was very carefully screened on one side, with burlap and trees
and wire covered with grass. There were some guns ready for action at
the corners of the roads, and many signs saying that autos should not
use this road except after dark. The woods were full of soldiers, who
waved and shouted at us. I found that they all saluted our car, as they
took it for granted that we must have an officer with us like the front
car, so I began saluting back, and it seemed to please them terribly. By
the end of the last day, I got so that I could give a very military
salute without any trouble, which I consider quite a feat, for the
driving was hard,--the speed and the bad roads combined with the very
constant and real danger of the officers' cars which we met, and which,
of course, would simply run through you if you did not give way.
The beautiful great shade trees which line either side of the roads have
all been cut down by the Germans before their retreat. Also the fruit
trees. In some places they did not evidently have the time to really cut
down the trees, so they just ringed them--cut deep circles in them so
that they will die. I noticed that in some of the villages the farmers
had evidently tried to save these few remaining ones, and have bandaged
them up. Mother probably knows whether there is any hope for them to
pull through. The effect of miles and miles of flat roads with simply
the stumps of what were once beautiful trees is ghastly, and I think of
all the things that the Germans have done, perhaps this is the worst,
and the thing which the people of that district will never forgive. They
say it takes a tree thirty years to really bear, and the generation now
living will never see their orchards bearing again.
In some places the Boches cut the trees so that they split when they
fell (always across the roads, of course), and now there remain nothing
but rows of great white, livid stumps which shine in the sunlight, and
look so very ghastly, and make one realize even more that this modern
warfare is not a sport. I took several pictures of the trees, but I do
not imagine that I got the effect. It is, without doubt, one of the most
impressive and oppressive things that one sees; every one who comes back
says the same thing. From a military point of view, cutting the shade
trees across the roads was not of great value and must have taken a
great deal of time, and the apple and other fruit trees seems to be pure
desire to destroy. Although one thing I noticed, the young fruit trees
were almost always spared, and this fact carries out the German theory
that they destroyed only trees which could be used for shelters for guns
or men. The trees on the side of the road are without doubt invaluable
in the making of screens to hide the road when under fire, but, even
with all these facts in one's mind, and trying to be fair, one is
infuriated to think that these trees, so many, many years old, should be
sacrificed.
[Illustration: Luncheon in the Garden at Blérancourt. Left to right: Mr.
Irwin, nice French poilu gardener, Mrs. Wethey, Mrs. Hapgood, French
officer who escorted us in zone des armées, Mlle. Bazin, Mrs. Williams]
Once again one was impressed by the fact that a nation, or, I suppose
one should say, two nations, who were keeping the whole world at bay, if
not actually beating the whole world, could have time to do all the
things with the attention to details which one finds in everything that
the Germans touched. Take, for example, the fact that in the whole
district which we covered--about thirty miles square surely--there is
not a single bridge left. The present ones are every one military ones,
more or less temporary. That is a true and exact statement--not a single
bridge. The same is true of telephone and telegraph poles--not one
remains. Also there is not a stick of furniture of any sort, except
things too big to be carted away, such as pulpits and big tables, which
are hacked to pieces and are of no value now. There is not any furniture
left in any house in any one of these villages. Germany must simply be
full of French furniture! I can't think what they want it for, and what
they plan to do with it, but, at any rate, they have taken it. In the
houses they have blown up, if they have not removed it one could at
least find the remains of it,--pieces of legs or something,--but there
is no sign whatsoever, and I looked myself in many, many houses. How did
they have the men and the time to do it all? Take also a little fact,
but one so very characteristic of them. When an army takes possession of
a village, one of the first things it does is to number all the houses
and mark them on the outside as to how many horses, men, and officers
they will hold. The French do this in paint in more or less neat figures
on the side of the house, but the Germans chiseled the numbers in the
majority of cases over the house door! A little thing, but taking time
just the same.