PARIS DURING THE WAR
Paris, that queen of cities, has been an
interesting study to all who have paid
her a visit at any time, but particularly
interesting is that study since the war began.
Previous to the war I had the good fortune
to visit this city on a number of occasions, my
last visit having been but a few months before
the beginning of this great militaristic
conflagration which is still sweeping over the
civilized world. At that time I had just returned
from a "grand tour," taking in Italy, Austria,
and Southern Germany, where no signs were
discernible on the horizon of the stupendous
attempt at world domination which the Prussian
junkers were to engineer within four months'
time. Paris at that time was enjoying bright
and balmy spring weather; the boulevards were
crowded with visiting tourists, the
Champs-Elysées with gay and merry crowds, and the
Bois de Boulogne with riders and motorists
in its wooded avenues, and rowers and paddlers
on its lakes. It remained in my memory a
picture of beauty, peace, gayety, and prosperity.
My return to it came within the year, at the
beginning of 1915, when the war cloud that
hung over the whole of Europe particularly
dimmed the sun of Paris. I came into it in
the afternoon from the north, and my first view
of it showed that beautiful edifice, the Church
of the Sacre Coeur, on the hill of Montmartre
standing out _en silhouette_, "just as if cut from
paper," as a traveling companion remarked.
Since the war began, on one's arrival at his
hotel in Paris he has to give many particulars
of himself not required in peace times. The
following morning he must call at the nearest
police station and obtain, after many more
questions as to nationality, occupation, and
reasons for being there, a _permis de séjour_--permit
to remain--good for a certain length of
time, at the expiration of which the permit
must be renewed.
On stepping out of my hotel the following
morning to go to the police station, the first
thing that struck my attention was the large
number of women in mourning, though it was
then only a matter of months since the beginning
of hostilities. The thought that flitted sadly
through my mind was that one-half of the
women of Paris are in mourning now, and ere
long the other half will be. It must not be
forgotten that the French wear mourning for
relations much more distant than those for
whom we wear it; but even at that the war
must not have gone on many months before a
very large percentage of the French homes had
been touched by the deaths of those near and
dear to them. For the soil of France was under
the heel of the foreign invader, and there are
no people in the world who love their mother
country with a deeper devotion than the
French. A very old woman, living away up
in the north of France in a town that was
shelled by the Germans almost daily showed
me her love for la belle France and her hatred
of its enemies in one expressive sentence. I
had asked her if she did not tire of the
continuous pounding of the guns.
"No, I love them, I love them," she answered
passionately, "for when they cease it means that
the accursed boche is being left alone; but when
they roar, roar, roar, it means that we are
driving him out of our beautiful France." Her
face showed, as an old woman's wrinkled face
can show so well, her hatred of the Germans.
The soldiers of France by their traditional
gallantry, their superb courage and their
patience, have not only shown their love for their
country, but have been an example of noble
heroism to us all.
One of the next notable changes on the
streets of Paris was the fact that one saw no
young men in civilian clothes. All were
serving their country in some capacity in the
armies. The little hotel in the Rue Bergere at
which I was a guest, a hotel of not many more
than one hundred rooms, had given thirty
men--waiters, porters, clerks--to the armies of
France, for it was one of those small, select
hotels that one finds scattered throughout
Europe. The only male help that remained of
its original staff was the concierge, and he was
a Dutchman from Amsterdam. The manager,
accountant, and all the other help were women.
No meals were served except a French
déjeuner--so hateful to hungry Anglo-Saxons--of
bread, and tea, coffee, or cocoa.
And the same condition was noticeable all
over the city. Anyone who has visited this fair
metropolis of France in peace times will
remember the delicious, snow-white bread that is
served with the meals, that French bread with
the crackly brown crust as delicious as pastry.
The first day of my stay I noticed that this
bread was served no longer. In its place we
were given some of a much inferior quality
and not nearly so white. When this had
occurred in many different restaurants and
cafés, I asked the reason.
"_Mais, monsieur_," was the reply, accompanied
by that Gallic gesture of helplessness, the
turning upward of the palms, "the good bakers
are all serving with the armies." Of course,
this reason was enhanced by the conservation
of the wheat which prevented the mixing or
blending of the superior qualities of grains to
produce the high-grade flours used by the good
bakers.
The streets by day were the same crowded
thoroughfares as of old, except for the black
of those in mourning, the blue-gray of the
military uniforms, and the military cars and Red
Cross ambulances. The touts who in peace
times had tried to inveigle the tourist into
moving picture houses in which the films had
_not_ been passed by the censor; or who
offered to take him around the forbidden
night-sights for a small honorarium; or who
endeavored to sell him postcards so indecent that the
ordinary man would not accept a fortune and
have them found on his corpse; all these fellows
still plied their trade. They were not quite
so obtrusive or so numerous as usual, but it
was difficult to cross the Place de l'Opéra
without having one of them step up behind
you and whisper his enterprise, whatever it
was.
The girls of the boulevards were perhaps
even more in evidence than at other times, for
in those early months of the war few chose
to cross the submarine-infested channel, and
still fewer to cross the Atlantic through the
areas laid out by the Huns as danger zones,
unless good cause made them do so. Paris,
usually the Mecca of tourists from all the
countries of the world, had become instead the
business and military headquarters of France.
And to Paris came, instead of the gay youth
bent on pleasure, the gray youth bent on
business, whose eyes were so busy studying his
engagement book, or reading the market
reports, that they had not time to meet the
roaming glances of the girls of the boulevards. New
friends were hard to find, for _les riches Américains_
came no more except on business, and the
old friends in the persons of gay Pierre or
gallant Paul were serving in the trenches--perhaps
dead, for news of them came but seldom.
So the girls had plenty of time to promenade
and one found it necessary to keep his
eyes fixed steadily on some imaginary object
straight in front, as he walked down the Boulevard
des Italiens or the Boulevard des Capucines,
to avoid receiving too many inquiring
glances from the boulevardières. Generally
speaking the annoyances were limited to
glances, as the rules of the city are strict.
One noticeable thing about these women was
the fact that many of them wore black,
probably for two reasons--on the one hand, war
economy, and on the other, to attract sympathy
for real or supposed losses at the front.
Those who were not in black went with the
prevailing styles which seemed to be governed
also by war economy, for less and less materials
were being used in the dresses: the waists
were getting lower, and the skirts higher. One
would imagine that if this kept on till they
met, some kind of catastrophe would be likely
to happen, even though it were Paris!
At that famous corner of the Café de la
Paix the chairs on the street were well
patronized, though the weather was chilly; and I
found myself wondering if it were the same
crowd who had occupied them a few months
before on my last visit. No one ever passes
here without taking a seat, unless he is pressed
for time. Someone has said that if you sit
here long enough you will see everybody in
the world who is anybody in the world pass by.
I took a seat and a cup of coffee and glanced
about me. It was the usual mixed crowd, with,
perhaps, fewer of those who chase Bacchus and
Venus, and more of those who pursue Mammon.
But, after all, men and women are much
the same the world over, and this was much
the same group of coffee-sipping, liqueur-tasting
people that one finds in the cafés from
4 to 6 p.m. in any of the continental cities
from Paris to Vienna, from Naples to Berlin.
There were a few more men in uniform,
a little less gayety than usual, a trifle more
business talked in one's hearing. Otherwise,
it was the same group.
A couple of tables from me was a handsome
officer in a French uniform, but plainly, from
his cast of features and his mannerisms, not
a Frenchman. He wore the ribbon of the
Legion of Honor on his tunic, and he was,
perhaps for this reason, saluted by many of the
officers who passed on the boulevard. Many
glances of admiration were thrown in his
direction by civilians. Some of the officers
stopped for a moment and chatted with him.
I watched him for some time, my curiosity
increasing. He was sitting alone at the moment
when I got up to leave, and I made the excuse
of asking him something about British hospitals.
Apparently glad to hear his own tongue
spoken he welcomed me, and we exchanged
confidences for a few minutes, as strangers
sometimes will when there is something in
common between them. He was an Australian who
had been in France when the war broke out,
and he had not agreed with England's hesitation
in entering the war by the side of Belgium
and France; so he joined the French
army.
"Oh, yes, that is the Legion of Honor," he
returned smilingly to my remark as to his
decoration. "A very ordinary bit of work at the
front brought it to me," he continued modestly,
apparently not caring to give details.
Though I was in Paris some time, I did not
come across him again, nor have I ever met
since this Australian lover of freedom.
At that time the women of France were
already doing much of the work usually
performed by men. This was long before London
had reached the stage that she has attained
today, with women filling such a wide variety
of occupations, so that it was very noticeable in
France at that time. At the border my goods
had been looked over by women customs
inspectors; women guards in the train had
examined my ticket; and in Paris women were
everywhere, handling the motor buses, conducting
on the tramways, collecting fares on the
Metropolitan, or Underground, and filling the
hundred and one other positions that, since the
war, woman has proved herself so capable of
filling.
All the women of the world have proved
themselves heroines in this war, but none more
than the women of France. At the early stage
of the war of which I am writing, they showed
those characteristics of patience, loyalty, and
nobility of mind which have distinguished them
in the straining times that have come and gone
since then. They seemed to have become
resigned to all things. If one spoke to them
petulantly of the raw, cold weather:
"Ah, well," they returned, smiling, "it is the
season, and one must expect bad weather." Or
you may, perchance, have known some woman
whose son or brother was serving in the lines.
At that time the French Government gave out
but little information as to any of the
happenings at the front, and unless the government
knew positively that a man was killed, no word
of news was sent to the anxious friends. Often
many weary months of waiting passed without
knowledge on the part of the soldier's nearest
of kin as to his fate. And if during this time
of waiting you asked this woman whom you
knew for tidings of her loved one, her reply
invariably was:
"No, no. I have had no news of _mon cher_
Jacques for a long time now. But I do not
fear," she would continue with a patient smile,
"for the good God will protect him, I am sure.
And if it is necessary, we must give all for our
beloved France." And it may have been many
more long, long months, and it may have been
never, that she learned the real fate of her
"cher Jacques."
One morning during this visit, as I entered
a car on the subway, a living picture of sorrow
passed in ahead of me. The picture was made
up of a beautiful young widow, leading tenderly
by the hands her two lovely children, now
fatherless. Her deep brown eyes looking
sadly out from her pale face saw no one. Those
eyes were looking into the far-off distance of
the blank and lonely years to come, those years
without hope "for the touch of a vanished hand,
or the sound of a voice that is still." All
that saved her from black despair was the
knowledge that she had to bear up because of
the helpless children at her side. But, God!
The pity of the thousands of these lonely
widows! What a contribution France and her
allies are making to the cause of liberty!