arriving at Chauny. This town is pretty newly destroyed, and very
completely so. It was evidently a manufacturing town, and the factories
are now only a mass of twisted iron and steel. The rest of the village
is literally ruined. I doubt if there is a house in the whole town that
has two walls standing. We did not see it, if there is one. The
completeness of the destruction is what impressed me. Nothing, nothing,
left at all. It seems to me it will take generations to ever get that
one town in shape again, and, of course, this is only one of many. As it
is still under fire, we were scooted through, and were not allowed to
get out, or take any pictures, for which I am sorry. From here we went
via Guivry and Guisarde, two very much destroyed towns, to Champier,
where we stopped and looked at a church which was ruined, and also saw
for the first time graves which had been opened and emptied! This seems
like a good story, I have no doubt. What in the world the German army
wants with the contents of French graveyards I do not know, but I do
know that they have opened and pillaged great numbers of the graves. At
first it seemed to me that the sarcophagus might have been split open by
the shock caused by the explosion of the church and other near
buildings, for there must be a jolly shock when a church falls down in
pieces, but I saw many graveyards which were not in the churchyard and
which were also desecrated. I was interested to see the depth of the
older graves. They were all brick-lined, and surely eight feet deep.
This destroying graves has also had a very infuriating effect on the
people in the district, particularly as there are such awful stories
afoot about the Germans using their dead for all sorts of horrible
purposes.
[Illustration: Very Old and Beautiful House at Roye Interior completely
gone]
[Illustration: The Cathedral at Soissons. Notice only steel bars left in
windows]
Roye was the next town. Here the Germans played a sort of dreadful joke
on the inhabitants. They have left the outsides of the houses in fairly
good shape compared with the other villages, but have destroyed the
interiors perhaps even more completely than ever. One house on the road
into Roye looks as if a giant had cut it in two. The section which
remains standing is partially furnished; for instance, in the third
story there is a desk and chair, and a bust on a shelf against the wall!
Think of that bust staying there through all the shock which must have
resulted in the building being blown up. We saw several queer freak
sights like that. Among other things which made one feel that the
innocent, peaceful inhabitants of these villages are the ones who are
bearing the greater part of the war was a soldier home on permission,
who had just got the key to his house from the Mairie, for they do not
let people go into their houses until they have been inspected, as I
told you that the Germans leave everything loaded. So this man went into
his house and shop for the first time, and we all trailed in after him.
The shop was once a good-sized store for ammunition and fishing-tackle,
and that sort of stuff,--shelves running right up to the ceiling, with
glass doors. Every one of the shelves was emptied on the floor and then
exploded, every pane of glass was shattered in every door to every
cupboard. This again is an exact statement. Now to take the goods off
all those shelves, to smash every pane of glass, to burn and destroy
everything that was not movable in that store, counters and such, must
have taken time, and they did the same thing in every single store!
Upstairs the same story--no furniture, walls mutilated, and windows
gone. All metal things gone also, except lead, which they did not
evidently care about. The French army gathers together the bits of
gutter-pipes and lead plates which were on the roofs, and uses them
again, but the Germans preferred brass and steel. The soldier did not
say much. He told us, in grunts and shrugs mostly, that his wife and
five children were lost, evacuated, and he had not heard from them for a
long time. He kept saying, "What is there for me to do?" And none of us
could answer him. The officer told him that the township would have the
store cleaned out for him, if he asked them to. They use the prisoners
for this, and it must be very irritating to the Boches to have to clean
up their own handiwork! Also they send them into the houses first to try
and find any loaded bombs, placed thoughtfully in clocks, or under doors
and such places.
After looking about the town some more, we came on to Suzoy, where we
stopped again to see the Boche drawings in the Mairie. It seems that
they used that building for their staff headquarters during their
prolonged stay there, and so decorated the walls a bit after their own
taste. They did this in many places, but in most of the towns the
natives have been so infuriated by the drawings that they have already
destroyed them, but this village has saved theirs and shows them to you
with pride. I could not help thinking of the Cook's tourists who will be
shown them later on, I suppose. The chief and most important one of
these drawings covers the entire end wall of the big hall. The side
walls have medallions of the various crowned heads of Europe, more or
less terrible caricatures. The big picture shows two fat naked German
devils, with broad grins, and horns sticking out of their heads, and
with long, pointed, forked tails, sitting in hell and watching and
superintending the frying of the crowned heads of their enemies. The
kings and presidents are all dangling on peacock feathers, trying not to
slip into the fire, but all are sliding towards their doom. In the
center, in the hottest part,--in fact, right in the flame,--are two
figures, one, King George, I should imagine, and the other a neat little
Highlander in his kilts. This is interesting in view of all the stories
one hears about the Germans being more afraid of and hating the Scotch
regiments more than any others, is it not? The pictures are well drawn,
but are hideous, and you can imagine their effect on a French villager!
There were also some excellent black-and-white charcoal sketches, which
were really beautifully done, showing what happened in villages where
the Germans were sniped at. A real artist must have done these last
pictures. The most interesting thing in the village was a rough grave in
the churchyard with a green board for a tombstone, bearing the
following:--
"Ici a crevê
Le Boche
Qui a fait
Sauter l'Êglise.
18 Mars, 1917."
The story is that the officer, who ordered the destruction of the church
just before their departure, was found half buried in the churchyard,
the next morning (after the destruction), presumably killed by a French
obus, but, to my way of thinking, more likely sniped by an irate
villager. Anyway, the story is good, and the few remaining villagers
like to tell it, and do it well.
All the time that I was on this trip I think the thing that gave me the
sincerest sympathy with the people was the thought which was constantly
in my mind: "Suppose this was Marion; suppose this was our house, our
garden, etc."
Another rather amusing incident in Suzoy was an old lady, who appeared
from somewhere, and insisted upon telling us her story. The thing that
was uppermost in her mind, and the thing which she has personally
against the Kaiser,--more than the destruction of her home, the total
loss of possessions, the killing of one of her children by an obus,--all
these are of slight consequence beside the awful fact that the German
commander took with him when he left every solitary key in the whole
village! "And how do you expect me to get along--this is too much, too
much." If you know how the French love to lock up anything and
everything, you can imagine what a tragedy this was!
Lassigny was the next village, and was in some ways the most totally
destroyed one which we saw. There is nothing left at all. We went
through it quickly, and returned to Noyon, where we left our officer
with many thanks, and turned towards Compiègne, where we arrived at
about 9 p.m., tired out, or, at any rate, I was dead. We had a good
dinner, and I turned in very soon after. I had seen so many
battlefields, so much destruction and so many novel sights, that I was
afraid I would not sleep, but I did. Maybe the wine which we had at
dinner made me sleep, but, anyway, I only came to at 7.30 the next a.m.
I had some coffee and went down to find that the car was wet, and that
the cap on the front wheel was cut open, and the grease running out.
This meant something was wrong with the bearings, I knew, but, as
Compiègne is about as convenient as the Desert of Sahara when it comes
to getting hold of Ford parts, I decided to let well enough alone, and
so tied it up with wire as best I could. King Edward showed a great
longing to investigate, but I would not let him! As long as a Ford will
run, let it run, is my motto--particularly when seventy-five kilometres
from the nearest Maison Ford.
We all went at nine sharp to the famous Carrel Hospital, and were given
an hour and a half lecture with colored slides of his system of
irrigation. This was interesting, but I fear one member of the party
felt that she would rather be out looking at things and battlefields
than at slides of human beings, torn to pieces and then all nicely
mended. After the talk, Dr. C. joined us, and took us through two wards.
We watched some dressings which were gory and quite interesting. He
assured us that he did not hurt the patient, but there was a difference
of opinion on that subject, for the poilus yelled nobly most of the
time. I talked with one man particularly. He attracted me, for he was so
young-looking and was sitting up in bed with his leg on a pulley out in
front of him, and in the most detached position I have ever seen. It did
not seem to be part of him at all. He was reading a choice book called
"La Douleur de l'Amour." I asked him if he didn't have a pain worse than
love, and he allowed that he thought yes. He was a nice soul, and I am
sending him some magazines to while away the time, for he will remain,
even in this hospital where they are so quick, for several months. One
nice old wizened-looking man said that he had been in five hospitals,
had seven operations, and now was here with his right arm and left leg
suspended. I asked him how he stood it, and he said that he would stand
anything rather than go back to the trenches again, and live in water
for two months at a time. A queer choice? We came away at about
half-past eleven, after having had a long talk with Dr. C., who said the
same thing that I have heard from so many sides. I asked why, if his
system of irrigation could so reduce amputation, mortality, and
suffering, didn't the other French hospitals adopt it. He said that it
was a new thing, and that they would not, because they are not used to
the idea, and they prefer to keep on in the same old way, cutting off
the limb if poisoning sets in, and so sending out a tremendous number of
needlessly crippled men. How awful that does seem! I do hope that
America is going to be sensible and profit by all the mistakes that the
Allies have made so far.
From here we went in the direction of Soissons, and, much to our
surprise, were able to persuade the guard at the outskirts of the town
to let us enter, for women are not really meant to be admitted, as the
city is still under fire. In some ways, this was the most interesting
thing we saw. The cathedral was a wonderful and saddening sight. I would
give a great deal to be able to attend a service in it some night. They
are still holding them in the ruins, and, with the sound of the guns,
which is very distinct, and with all the uniforms, a service held in the
ruined cathedral, with the windows all shattered, the roof mostly gone,
and the outer walls all pitted and scarred, must be impressive. I could
not get a good picture of the towers, or rather the one remaining one,
but I shall have a copy of Sydney Fairbanks's, which is taken from a
neighboring roof, and is excellent. They say that there is not a house
in Soissons which has not been hit, and I can believe it. There are
quite a few inhabitants left still, and they say they are going to stay
until the last gasp.
We could only stay for a short time, for we were due for lunch at the
American Escadrille, Flying Corps, which has its headquarters at
Chaudon, south of Soissons. I had hoped that this would be the corps
which I knew, but was not too sure, for the last time we had seen Harold
Willis he was at Ham. However, you can imagine whether I was pleased to
see, when we drove up to the camp, all the people whom I knew: Walter
Lovell and Stephen Bigelow and Harold Willis. I, being the only thing
this side of thirty in the party, naturally had a time! We had a swell
luncheon, and afterwards saw everything there was to see. It is lucky
for your peace of mind, Daddy, that they have only single passenger
machines now, for nothing would have stopped me if they could have taken
me up. I never was so thrilled by anything--to see them fly in circles,
and upside down, and every which way, was too wonderful. Harold told me
all about the engine, and how to work it, and I even got inside his
machine and tried the whole thing. I hate to say it, but I am going to
have a fly some day before I die, and, if I have a rich husband, I shall
have flying machines, not jewels, for my hobby. I saw the most wonderful
pictures, and, oh, hundreds of things. They have two lion cubs for
mascots, and the best-looking dogs you ever saw--one German sheep dog is
so intelligent it is hard to believe that he can't speak. You simply
tell him anything and he does it. He belongs to the captain. After
spending as long a time there as we could, we came home via La Ferte
Millon and Meaux, taking in the old battlefield of the Marne, and seeing
Miss Aldrich's House on the Marne. It was hard to believe that this
district was once as much fought over as that which we saw first--it is
so grown up now. For one thing, they did not use barbed-wire
entanglements half as much as they do now. I cannot get over the miles
and miles and miles of fields we saw, all criss-crossed with wire. I
keep wondering who is going to take it all up when the war is over.
We arrived in Paris at about eight o'clock, and it was a tired but
thrilled Marje who came home to Rootie.
Lots and lots of love from your loving and very sleepy daughter,
MARJE.
XIX
FROM ESTHER
Wednesday, June 20, 1917. 11:15 P.M.
DEAREST FATHER:--
I don't know whether or not I have explained to you sufficiently about
my vacation; but I do know that the work and life in general are going
more smoothly now than for some time past, and that with the spring more
or less broken into by one thing and another, I am only too glad to have
a steady stretch in which to work without any more interruptions than
necessary. I shouldn't know what to do with myself for two or three
months' vacation, and the present arrangement, of having the month of
August and every other Monday off, seems ideal to me.
For over a month we have doubled up, Marje and I, and are just twice as
happy as we were. You will remember that the marginal space in which I
lived and moved, always carefully, around my bed, was small to say the
least (certainly Madame gave me bed and board!), and what was worse, it
was in the other apartment from Marje. By a strange system of two keys
hung on each front door, passing across from one apartment to the other
was made as difficult as possible. We called it going through the
portcullis, having no idea what that meant. And next to Marje's room was
the big salon of the apartment, thriftily converted by Madame into a
bedroom and exclusively tenanted by the wife of a French officer. To her
I made appeal one fine day--after hours of egging on and double-daring,
etc.--that she exchange rooms with me. Here she was surrounded by gray
paneling, a bay window, a carved marble mantelpiece, and easy access to
the dining-room; whereas I had to offer her a room of no size, no
sunlight, the pink wall-paper, red leather armchair, and chimney that
won't draw. However, there must have been something in my manner, or
even something in my smile, or in the fact that my room was two francs a
day cheaper and had running water in the cabinet, that made her want to
exchange. Also, the doors to the salon are broad and made of glass with
only china silk curtains to protect one, and she felt--happily--that it
wasn't quite convenable for a chambre à coucher. Tuesday morning dawned.
All the maids turned out in excitement. Madame was everywhere at once,
particularly where a poor little sandy-haired tapissier was doing his
best to move a two-ton armoire; the whole idea was considered so
bizarre--to have one room as bedroom, with two armoires at once--that
the work of it all presented thrills. I never saw such dust and flurry,
or such an accumulation of junk as I extracted from my former nest.
Slowly we settled. We would stand of an evening like newly-weds in the
newly acquired dominion and plan our furnishings. Yellow and black was
to be the color scheme, with my lampshade and piano as keynotes--two
armchairs and a divan to be covered with something, and the traces of
the era Minard (the officer's wife) to be eliminated. The lace tidies
came off, the pictures of Calvary likewise, the strips of carpet put
under the bed, and the statuettes and vases hidden. There was a
washstand, a double-decker, and a Japanese screen to be disposed of
somehow without Madame's guessing that we weren't wild about her
furniture. It was days before we dared act. Marje did it. I should have
told Madame that we were navrées not to have enough room to keep them
and would they be safe in the cellar? but Marje--a diplomatic one--asked
Madame if she thought it was quite comme il faut for two young girls to
have a washstand in their salon? and with a "I should think not!" it was
gone.
We looked at cretonnes--plain stripes; then wiggly stripes with roses
and a conventional basket; then a formal design of children playing by a
table; and on and on--always introducing yellow. Suddenly we saw our
cretonne. A big gray pot of deep-rose peonies, with little white birds
hovering over, and a little blue wistaria, all against a blue-and-gray
lattice, with ultimate background of black. It is gorgeous. The design
is twenty-seven inches high. We bought yards and yards--not to say
metres and metres.
Then came upholstering. We worked with pins and warm language, and in
five days had covered the divan, two armchairs, and six pillows. Marje
did the pinning. I did the cutting. Then two long straight curtains
beside the glass doors.
As for our yellow, my wonderful tea-set that I told you about, and some
candlesticks painted yellow, and some bright yellow and black-and-tan
striped pillows and the lampshade are the only yellow things. In the
cretonne was only one pale lemon-colored flower; but I am slowly going
round with my little brush and painting in the right yellow with
water-colors. It's wonderful, all of it.
Then we have a nest of tables of plain unvarnished wood that I got for
nineteen francs--four tables for less than four dollars--and we fight
constantly as to whether they are to be painted cream or black. You can
imagine how lovely my black leather writing-pad that you gave me looks
on the table, and with Leo sunning in the bay window, why, Mme. de
Sévigné need not apply; and I forgot a gorgeous blue hydrangea that
Marje gave me for my birthday.
You can't imagine what a difference it makes to have a place to breathe
in, and to play in, and to read the "New Republic" in, and to sew in,
and to have afternoon tea in, etc. We feel so settled and permanent.
Just wait until the war ends and you all come over to call!
I think we both feel a good deal better for the change. The Shurtleff
car has been running fairly well lately.
I must tell you about my birthday--Marje wished me merry birthday the
first thing in the morning, and then over at the Vestiaire Miss Curtis
and Miss Sturgis presented me with a jar of real guava jelly. They had
some left over from a steamer box when I first came, and remembered how
fond I was of it. I was tremendously pleased to have any one think of my
birthday, over here where everything is so different.
I went visiting all morning and took packages for prisoners, in the car,
and sent them off. In the afternoon Marje and I did more visiting and
hurried home for tea at five. Mrs. Shurtleff and Gertrude had tea with
us and admired the salon, which had lately been fixed up, and then Miss
Curtis blew in. She was going away the next day for two days to the
country and wanted the Association car to go to the Ford place in her
absence. She mentioned also some chairs and tables to be delivered up in
Montmartre and a bed that had to go to Neuilly. It was after half-past
five,--still later, I guess,--and she looked dead. So we offered to do
it for her. She is always so wonderful to us. The car had the things all
loaded on, but it's always a job to go to Montmartre. The streets go
straight uphill--so straight that they often end in a flight of steps,
not marked on the map, and you have to back down and try another.
Finally, we found the little back alley which was our first stop. The
concierge's husband helped unload the table and chairs and he was
obsequiously drunk. He was too polite for words, and after the furniture
was installed he explained that he was no mover, but a marchand de vin,
and wouldn't ces dames step in pour se refraichir. I couldn't believe
what he was saying, and Marje got hysterical over my tact (so-called),
and I wanted to start off quickly, but dignifiedly. The car wouldn't
move. Crowds gathered. Suddenly I bethought myself of pushing the
car--it was so very steep. But, of course, we were headed wrong, and you
never can start the engine by pushing the car when you're going
backwards. However, we decided to push until we came to a cross street
and could then turn around. We did this amid cheers. Then Marje took off
the brake and let her coast. Not a leaf stirring. She said the
carburetor must be wrong, and that she needed priming. So I pulled out
the primer, backing along the cobblestones as fast as I could while the
car coasted; all women and children drawing hastily away at the sight of
a girl apparently pulling a camion down the street with one finger. But
she started that way, and off we went. One has to be habile quelquefois.
I think that Santa Claus in the shape of a lady from America is bringing
us a self-starter.
Then out to Neuilly with the bed. The poor little woman that we took it
to was overjoyed, as she and her children had taken turns sleeping on
the floor ever since theirs had gone from their home là-bas.
Finally to Maison Ford just outside of Paris. We left the car, walked
back to the gates of Paris, and started to go home in the Metro. We
happened to notice that it was twenty minutes of eight and home three
quarters of an hour away.
So we went to Premier's, one of my favorite places. Marje gave me the
dinner of my life: lobster and real ice cream. I began talking about all
my different birthdays, especially the one at college when I took my
last exam and my ring came. I shall never forget that afternoon. Maidie
and I had dinner at Rahar's, where we were forbidden to go without a
chaperon, and she bet me the dinner that I wouldn't dare go up to the
head of the philosophy department, whom we didn't know at all, but who
was there, and ask him to chaperon us. Of course I did, and of course he
was lovely, and came and sat with us a few minutes and said he hoped
we'd take his courses some day when we grew up--and I a senior!
Then I told Marje about Bailey's and Stetson's and the ocean and
everything. Gee! but we had a great time--I've almost stopped saying
"Gee."
After dinner we found a horse cab in front of the restaurant and drove
home. It was late twilight, and as we crossed the Concorde, we saw a
tremendous big yellow full moon rising over Notre Dame. I nearly always
stop when I'm driving over the Concorde bridge because I love that view
down the river so, but the cab went so slowly we didn't have to. It was
all purple and gold, with the yellow moon and reflections in the Seine.
I never saw such an evening.
The next morning I received your dear cable and that pleased me more
than anything else. Thank you all for thinking of me. I've never been so
far away before, have I?
The other night we returned home late and very tired and we were too
late for dinner,--for a change,--so we went out and gave a farewell
dinner to ourselves: four omelettes and lots of strawberries. Home and
to bed early--we were tired and excited and happy all at once. We left
Miss Curtis's car beside the house in an open space behind the sidewalk,
having taken everything takable out, and disconnected two spark-plugs.
We were barely horizontal between the sheets when tat-tat-tat--came at
the door. Madame, backed by half the pensionnaires and the concierge,
were in procession. We were taking such a risk in leaving the car
there--such vandalism mauvais gens could commit. It was unthinkable to
leave a car there, la la, and, anyway, we would have a procès verbal
brought against us.
If it had been our car we would have taken the risk, but we didn't dare
with some one's else. Up we got and dressed as hurriedly as possible. It
seemed like a nightmare. Back we put the spark-plugs and the other
things and started off.