to pronouncing it "Nell" in view of neslerode pudding), I saw a
storm-beaten signpost reading, "Saint-Quentin, 8 kilomètres"--just as
though you could go there! I wonder just how soon one would be killed if
she tried it?
[Illustration: A German Graveyard]
As we drew near to Nesle we saw a sign by the road in English! Near a
little bridge the warning, "Look Out--no truck over 17 tons," was
posted. Magic language! There were only one or two Tommies about, but it
was thrilling to be in a town that had been captured and occupied by the
English. Along the road I had seen in several places signs reading,
"Sens obligatoire"; translated literally this means "direction
obligatory." We should say, "one-way street." On a house standing in the
middle of a trim field was painted, "Tipperary--Sens Obligatoire!"
We walked through the graveyard at Nesle, where French, English, and
Germans are buried side by side. The soldiers' graves of all nations are
nearly alike--plain wooden crosses bearing the name and regiment in
black paint. They contrast strangely with the marble tombs and
mausoleums decorated with colored bead wreaths, erected before the war.
A few of the German graves are more elaborate, flamboyant even. One
monument in particular was a large sculptured plaster affair, depicting
a German soldier against a background of burning houses, being crowned
by an angel. Across the burning village scene a scornful French hand has
scratched the words, "Camelotte Boche!" (Boche rubbish!)
It is amusing to see German prisoners at work repairing the damage they
have done, rebuilding roads and bridges and canals. They make excellent
workmen and seem content with their lot. A gray-clad figure, wearing the
round fatigue cap with the red band around it, was mending a roof as we
passed. He may well have set the bomb that was meant to level the house
to the ground; but all the same he never turned his round face towards
us, or missed a stroke of his hammer in his apparent effort to make it
bomb-proof in the future.
The city of Roye presents a new phase of destruction. Outwardly it looks
normal enough, with the exception of the fine church and a few important
buildings which are in ruins. But it is all a brick shell of what was
once a city. The Germans have played a grisly joke on the inhabitants,
who, when they return to their houses, discover the same old outside but
the inside gone.
Each house has been systematically denuded of everything--furniture,
decorations, glass, metals, tools, etc., and then the interior blown up.
In the shops all the goods were emptied from the shelves on to the floor
and then the roof exploded. Not a pane of glass, not a lighting fixture,
not a lock or key, remains. The cost to the Germans in time and money
alone must have been enormous.
I wandered around by myself exploring further these streets of hollow
mockery. A woman was standing in the doorway of a shop, gazing curiously
to see an untamed American behaving as if at home. We exchanged "Bon
jours," and I begged permission to step into her shop while I changed a
film in my kodak. The place was bare, save for a few bicycle tires and
tools piled on the counter, and these the woman told me she and her
husband had buried when they were driven out nearly three years ago. The
husband had been mobilized, and she, fortunately, had been able to go to
relatives in the Midi.
"Goo!" came to me from the dark recesses of a perambulator, and there
was a bouncing baby, born since the war. The woman came back six weeks
ago, having heard that her shop was safe. She did not seem to be
disheartened by the mutilation of her property and the loss of her
stock, and has already tried to start in business again by selling odds
and ends to the soldiers and few civilians who have returned like
herself. "Mais que voulez-vous? Business doesn't go very well these
days." I smiled. Competition may be the life of trade, but customers are
pretty handy to keep it going.
I wished her au revoir, and told her I'd come back some day when her
shop is rebuilt and she is doing more flourishing business than ever
before.
Beyond Roye about eight kilometres, "as the shell flies," the old
first-line German trenches can be seen from the road. Barbed-wire
entanglements stretch away to left and right, half hidden in the grass,
and dug-outs covered by heavy logs occur at intervals. Where the
trenches began to run along close to the road, we left the motors and
climbed down among the narrow, rustic walks that are trenches. The
floors and walls are made of small boughs nailed nearly one inch apart,
and the depth of the trenches is a little over six feet. They turn and
twist unbelievably--apparently following the track of a spotted snake
with a tummy-ache; and communication trenches, "boyaux," fork off every
fifty feet or so, making a network of passages.
I saw a tube of iron with a star-shaped end which interested me; the
lieutenant hastily called out that it was a hand grenade. I had read too
many war stories to be inclined to have anything more to do with it, so
I passed obediently by; the next minute I caught my foot in some
infernal machine and my heart leaped as I wildly clutched at the sides
of the trench for support. It was a twisted bedspring.
Near by was an opening twenty-five feet square with dug-outs along the
edge, where officers evidently lived. There was a rustic table under a
lattice-trimmed shelter, and a flight of birch steps led to the sleeping
quarters!
The lavish grass and flowers constantly impressed me. Around the
trenches up to the very edges of the shell holes, over the famous strip
called "No Man's Land," grows to-day a gorgeous carpet of green grass
and wild flowers. I like to think that Nature has already begun to heal
the scars of war.
A little village called Suzoy is already known for some rough paintings
left on the walls of the main schoolroom, by the Germans. We stopped at
the building and followed two little girls through the entrance; they
showed us the pictures with pride; and for my part, I assure you, what
met our eyes were the most astonishing mural decorations you ever saw.
Two naked figures, half man, half beast, sit opposite each other with
faces turned to wink at you. They have horns and tails and the
unmistakable Boche cap on their heads. Between them is a roaring fire on
which they expect with relish to fry their supper. In their hands are
two great peacock feathers which cross and make graceful crescents along
the length of the wall. On the feathers are poised--or endeavor to be
poised--miniature figures of the heads of the Allied nations. President
Poincaré, in frock coat and stovepipe hat, is trying frantically to keep
his balance; King George V is sprawling and just ready to fall; King
Albert is hanging on desperately by one hand; and the Czar, in ermine
robes, is trying wildly to hold on to his crown and keep his equilibrium
at the same time. The other kings are all awkwardly trying to keep from
dropping off. In the center, directly over the flame is a whimsical
Scotch lad, playing his swan-song on a bagpipe. And always the big
Boches leer diabolically.
The effect on me was at first to make me laugh, and then to make me
rage. So cock-sure, so clever, so insulting! There were other
caricatures on the side walls, medallion portraits of George V and
Poincaré, but nothing so subtle as the big painting.
The little girls, who had stayed in the village throughout the German
occupation, told us that the schoolroom was used as an officers' mess,
and that there used to be a great many soirées there. It had taken a
month to paint these modern frescoes, and the children had been allowed
to watch the artist work.
"Were the Boches nice to you?" I asked one of them.
"Oh, yes, fairly--assez gentils; they taught us a little German, but we
never speak it now."
"Did you have enough to eat?"
"But yes, food was brought to us every week by the Americans."
"Mademoiselle is American," put in the lieutenant.
"Tiens!" said the little girl, and grew too bashful to speak.
"We should have died but for the Americans," she said at last, looking
down at her apron.
"You had rice and vegetables, I suppose. Did you ever have meat and
eggs?" And I confess that for "eggs" I said, not "uh," but "uffe." The
other child began to giggle.
"Tais-toi," exclaimed my little friend quickly. "Didn't you just hear
that the lady is American?"
It might be hard to express thanks, but not while she was about should
Americans be made fun of.
On our homeward journey I saw things that simply did not exist to my
eyes earlier in the day. The country around Bailly is full of trenches
and barbed wire, dug-outs, shell holes, and shade trees cut down by the
road, all of which escaped me before I had had those five full hours of
tense observation; and just as I did not at first distinguish the signs
of war, so I did not fully consider until afterward the completeness of
the destruction we had seen. In the section of forty miles square that
we skirted, not one bridge is left--the only ones now in existence are
of temporary military construction. The same is true of telephone and
telegraph poles--not one remains. Also there is not a stick of furniture
of any sort except what was too heavy to be taken away, such as pulpits
and big tables, which were hacked to pieces and are of no value now.
That the furniture was not blown up with the houses I am sure, for not a
piece can be found in the ruins, and I looked carefully for any trace.
Germany must be full of French furniture, and what it is all wanted for
I can't imagine.
It is wonderful what vistas can be thrown open by the experiences of one
day. I never again can hear of any one who comes from Chauny or Roye or
Lassigny without seeing row upon row of deserted, ruined houses. I never
can hear of a fortune lost in the war without picturing the ruined sugar
factory at Flavy-le-Martel. And yet the sight of men and mules and
engines clearing out the canal at Ham is more significant than either of
these, for it means that the energy which once built the cities of
France is deathless. A new beginning is being made within sound of the
guns; and we are helping. We are helping!!
ESTHER.
XXVI
FROM MARJORIE
September 12, 1917.
DEAREST FAMILY:--
You could never guess where I am, nor what I am doing! I am just this
minute the guest of Mme. la Marquise Molinari d'Incisa, in a large
château in Touraine. The other week-end guests--it being Monday
to-day--consist of Mrs. W. and her daughter, Mrs. H. Mlle. la Forgue,
whom I have written you about before, and who has been so nice to me in
Paris, and her brother of seventeen, Mme. Molinari, and Rootie and
myself make up the party! Needless to say, Rootie got me into this. I
bucked and balked and tried not to come, but I am here. We met Mme.
Molinari at Dr. Shurtleff's funeral, and she wanted to know what we were
doing, and whether we would like to come down to Touraine and see her.
She had a château for the month which belongs to the W----s, who are in
America! We more or less jokingly, on my part at any rate, accepted, and
she said of course that there was nobody to keep her company, so we
would be quite free, and could wear old clothes, and so forth. The next
thing I knew, Rootie had accepted definitely, and we were to start from
Paris Monday A.M., having arrived from Val André via Saint-Michel the
Saturday before. Start we did! I fortunately darned my only silk
stockings, and had my sole white skirt laundered, and my beautiful blue
linen one also put in order. We left Paris at ten o'clock, and met the
La Forgues on the train, which was a shock to us. They told us they
thought there were other guests already there! Half-way down, we changed
at Vierjon, and when we got off the train (we were in uniform, of
course), we heard English-speaking voices calling us, and on turning saw
several American soldiers. We waved vigorously and went on, but were
stopped by two of them running up and taking off their hats, offering
their hands, and saying, "Do you folks speak English?" On our replying
that we did, they let a yell, and calling their pals announced that they
had "caught 'em, and you bet they can talk the lingo!" We were instantly
surrounded, and our baggage taken from us, and we were led like queens
to a compartment and sat on the seat while they lined up opposite and
shot questions at us as fast as they could talk! I never had such fun.
Of course. Mlle. la Forgue thought that we were quite mad, and a bit
unladylike, I guess, but do you know I didn't care at all. They were
nice men, and they were so pitifully glad to hear some English! They
were going on the same train as we were, which was fortunate for us, for
I doubt if they would have let us off the train! We got more gossip as
to what is going on in the army over here and at home than we would get
from the papers in two years! They were all twelve of them volunteer men
from the New York Telephone Company and the Western Union. (Their
battalion consists of five hundred, of course, but these men were going
to Saint-Nojan to drive up some trucks.) The former are receiving their
usual wages from the company, with their governmental pay deducted. They
seemed a nice crew, strong, hardy fellows, and maybe they didn't have a
time getting over here--I mean on the way across the ocean! They have
only been here a month, but they have already begun to lay wires from
one end of the war zone to the other, all to communicate with Pershing's
headquarters, which you probably know has been moved from Paris, and
although I know where it is, I won't put it down, not so much on account
of the censor as spies! We certainly had a good time. They had taken a
first-class compartment, which is against all rules, for the army is
supposed to go third class, of course, but they had one forty-four
hours' trip in French third class, and have vowed never again. They
could none of them speak French, least of all the so-called interpreter,
but they knew how to throw out any one who tried to enter their
compartment, and did so with joy, saying something about "reservé pour
la armée Amèricaine!" We stayed with them till we arrived, and you would
have laughed to see them with Mme. Molinari. We had told them that we
were going to visit a Marquise, and I think they expected a coronet and
pages, and when charming Mme. M. stepped up and talked English with
them, and shook hands with them, they could not believe that she was a
title! My, it was funny!
After we had waved them off, and wished them luck, we turned to the
chateau. It is quite near the station, so a little donkey named Kee Kee
carries the bags up, and you walk a short way until you enter the
estate. It is beautiful; all shade trees, with a spring you have to
cross on stepping-stones, and such ivy and bushes and flowers! There are
two houses--the more modern larger one, which has the dining-room and
kitchen and library and big bedrooms, and then the old one, dating way,
way back, where we are, and which is charming. The W----s put all their
time and money into the grounds and vineyards, and the houses are simple
and are lovely outside. They are up against the rocks, and the barn or
cellar with the winepress is hewn in the rock, and has many underground
passages which lead all over everywhere, and you can hear the spring
gurgle under them at certain places. There is electric light and most of
the comforts; also several dogs and rabbits. The gardens run down the
terraces in front of the big house. They are mostly annuals now, and
there are fig trees and lemon trees, which supply the lemon for our tea!
The brook comes out in all sorts of beautiful and unexpected places, and
makes pools. There is a lovely fountain which goes all the time, and
which we can hear from our bedroom. The tennis court is hidden by trees
and vines, and had just been put in shape so that Rootie and Mlle. la
Forgue played this morning. Across the road is the path that leads
through a tunnel under the railroad to the fruit garden and vineyards.
Such fruit!--all the peaches trained in diagonal lines against a white
stone and plaster wall, which has turned greenish from constant
sprayings, and the plum trees bent to the ground with fruit, and the
apples in rows making hedges like ours at Marion. We ate fruit till we
could literally eat no more. The grapes are mostly in houses, and such
luscious ones I never saw. We walked through just picking off huge
purple muscats with their beautiful bloom still on them, big white ones,
and brown--in fact every sort. Each variety tastes better than the one
you took before! The flowers do not compare with yours, Mother, but are
effective. The usual standards, lovely at a distance, but I can hear you
saying they should have been de-budded!
* * * * *
I was, of course, interrupted yesterday, and am now trying to finish
while Rootie completes a sketch of our house, and the others get really
dressed. We have breakfast at half-past eight, and some of us dress and
the rest wear wrappers. As Rootie did not bring one, and had to borrow
one which must have belonged to Mr. W----, and mine is that pink
crêpe-de-chine affair which Ruth S---- made for me when I was at
Farmington, we decided in favor of dressing for breakfast!
I see that I must stop, and go for a walk through the marvelous caves
which go through the cliffs for miles around here, and are in part
wine-cellars, some belonging to the W----s, and some not. We had wine
from the cellar last night, and it was excellent, I thought. Mme.
Molinari is renowned even in Paris for her cuisine, so you can imagine
whether we are having a good time or not! We had hot biscuits for
breakfast yesterday, for the first time since I left home, and they sure
tasted good.
We are really having a very good time, for we do just whatever we want
to, and although we are not what you would call dressy, still we are at
least clean. Rootie, having laughed me to scorn for bringing two waists
and skirts, now wishes she had done the same thing herself. (We did not
plan to stay more than twenty-four hours.) I am so hoping to find
letters from both of you when I get back to Paris, for it is over two
weeks since I got any word, although Rootie got a long letter from
Mother! Rootie has been more wonderful than ever these last few days.
She does fit in wonderfully. She is so very, very clever, and can do
everything well, even playing bridge. When they get started on that, I
retire to the library and have a delightful time reading everything in
sight, and there are lots of books. Did I ask you if you have read "God,
the Invisible King," by Wells? I enjoyed it.
Lots and lots of love to you both.
MARJE.
XXVII
FROM MARJORIE
12 Place Denfert-Rochereau, Paris.
October 21, 1917.
DEAREST FAMILY:--
You see I am being good this week and not neglecting you as I did two
weeks ago. I still get embarrassed when I think of that time. We are
hearing all sorts of rumors about no boats going for thirty days, but
there is no reason to believe them any more than the many other rumors
we hear all the time, so I shall keep on writing, anyway, and nowadays I
make a carbon copy of each letter that I send. It does not take any
longer, and it seems to me to be well worth while.
Things are about the same here. Very busy. We have finally secured the
storehouse and are moving into it this week. The present plan is to have
all our reserve stock there, and have only just enough on the shelves to
meet the demands during the week. The car will go to the storehouse once
or twice a week, and get the necessary things. In this way we will have
much more room in the vestiaires themselves, and it will be easier to
handle more people. We have just taken stock of our food-supply and find
to our joy that it is considerably larger than we realized. This means
that we can enlarge that department, and with Rootie there it will be
splendid, I think. I hate to let it go at all, and am going just the
same Tuesday afternoons, but I know that it will soon be impossible for
me to give up that much time. We hope to move ten families a week. This
will mean pretty close calculations on time for all of us.
It is wonderful to feel that I may be able to be of some real use to
some one for the first time in my life. I have not felt so strong and
well and so well equipped for a winter as I do now, for a long time. We
have laid in a supply of coal and wood, and are as cozy as can be. I am
letting many little petty time-taking jobs slide along to some one else,
and am just saving myself for the furniture above everything else. That
sounds as if I was not doing any hard work. I truly am. We moved all the
things from the store we call Maggi, and which is on Ernest Cresson, a
little farther down, over to the rue Daguerre storehouse, and I can tell
you it was some job for all of us--piling the things in the car, and
then unloading at the other end. Gay Kimberly's husband returned
suddenly, so I had to run the car, as Rootie was out calling with a Red
Cross man who wants to know the conditions of refugees living in Paris.
(By the bye, a Maxwell car with a starter has been given us. I wish it
was a Ford, on account of essence, but we must not be fussy, I suppose.)
This morning Rootie started for church early, and got a bath with a
friend of hers who lives in a hotel which still has its hot water on
Saturday and Sunday! I was, therefore, alone for the morning, and after
the washing was counted and put away, and the salon tidied, and the
pillows, which had raveled, had been sewn, I decided that I was going to
pretend I was at home; so I got dressed as if for Sunday dinner at 378.
I put on a nice waist and my pink sweater with the gray collar, which I
made myself, and my earrings, and Aunt Sarah's ring. It was really lots
of fun. I imagined what I would be doing if I was at home, and who would
be there too. Rootie could not imagine what had struck me when she came
in and found me all dressed up.
I wonder if it would interest you to hear what we did for one family in
the way of moving? Rogeau is the name. We have had them on our cards for
quite a long time. It is a small family, a tuberculous man and his wife
and little boy. We have been boarding the woman and child out in the
country, while the man was in the hospital. This summer the woman came
in to see us to ask if we could possibly let her have another month out
in the country. We were fortunately able to do so, and when her husband
came out of his hospital, he joined her in Saint-Prix, where she was
boarding, and together they have found a little house at twenty-two
francs a month, for the house and garden. They will each have separate
rooms to sleep in, and the woman is most careful about cleaning and all
that. Owing to our being able to give them the meubles, they were able
to take the house at once, and last week I took out to them a table, two
chairs, one stool, plates, knives, forks, spoons, a stove, basin, pail,
dishtowels, pitcher, sheets, covers,--and extra nice light warm ones for
the man,--pillow-cases, casserole, carpet, bathtowels, coffeepot, small
pillow for man, refuse pail, coat-hangers, table-cover, and candle and
candlestick (having sent three single beds by express). With these few
things they can begin to live, and then they will gradually get more.
The man has a little forge in an out house in the garden where he works,
and has a chair in the sun. He mends pails and pans. I am giving him a
chaise-longue with Daddy's money, so that he can rest in between spells
of work. I am so hoping that the air and sun will rebuild him as they
have others. You would have been as touched as I was at their joy at the
few things we brought them. You see they are really beginning to have
their home together again. This is only one of so many interesting
cases. Having no income except from the little work he does, they are
not paying us anything for the things, although lots of other families
are paying. If it is possible, it is so much better for them to pay
something.