Having an American neighbor near by again has changed life more
than you would imagine.
She is only five miles away. She can come over on horseback in half
an hour, and she often arrives for coffee, which is really jolly. Now
and then she drives over unexpectedly, and carries me back with her
for the night. I never feel like staying longer, but it changes the
complexion of life. Besides, we can talk about our native land--in
English--and that is a change.
Now don't imagine that I have been lonely. I have not. I was quite
contented before she returned, but I have never concealed from you
that the war is trying. I needed, now and then, to exchange words
with one of my own race, and to say things about my own country
which I'd be burned at the stake before I 'd say before a French
person.
Beside, the drive from here to Voulangis is beautiful. We have three
or four ways to go, and each one is prettier than the other.
Sometimes we go through Quincy, by the Château de Moulignon, to
Pont aux Dames, and through the old moated town of Crécy-en-Brie.
Sometimes we go down the valley of the Mesnil, a hilly path along the
edge of a tiny river, down which we dash at a breakneck speed, only
possible to an expert driver. Indeed Père never believes we do it. He
could not. Since he could not, to him it is impossible to anyone.
Just now the most interesting way is through Couilly and St. Germain,
by the Bois de Misère, to Villiers-sur-Morin, whence we climb the hill
to Voulangis, with the valley dropping away on one side. It is one of
the loveliest drives I know, along the Morin, by the mills, through the
almost virgin forest.
The artillery--territorials--is cantoned all along here, at Villiers, at
Crecy, and at Voulangis. The road is lined with grey cannon and
ammunition wagons. Every little way there is a sentinel in his box, and
horses are everywhere.
Some of the sentinel boxes are, as we used to say in the States, "too
cute for words." The prettiest one in the Department is right here, at
the corner of the route Madame, which crosses my hill, and whence
the road leads from the Demi-Lune right down to the canal. It is
woven of straw, has a nice floor, a Gothic roof, a Gothic door, and the
tiniest Gothic window, and a little flag floating from its peak.
It is a little bijou, and I did hope that I could beg, borrow, steal,
or buy it from the dragoon who made it. But I can't. The lieutenant
is attached to it, and is going to take it with him, alas!
I happened to be at Voulangis when the territorials left--quite
unexpectedly, as usual. They never get much notice of a relève.
We were sitting in the garden at tea when the assemblage general
was sounded, and the order read to march at four next morning.
You never saw such a bustle,--such a cleaning of boots, such a
packing of sacks, such a getting together of the officers' canteens--
orderlies getting about quickly, and trying to give demonstrations of
"efficiency" (how I detest the very word!), and such a rounding up of
last things for the commissary department, including a mobilization of
Brie cheese (this is its home), and such a pulling into position of
cannon--all the inevitable activity of a regiment preparing to take the
road, after a two months' cantonnement, in absolute ignorance of the
direction they were to take, or their destination.
The last thing I saw that night was-the light of their lanterns, and the
last thing I heard was the march of their hob-nailed boots. The first
thing I heard in the morning, just as day broke, was the neighing of
the horses, and the subdued voices of the men as the teams were
harnessed.
We had all agreed to get up to see them start. It seemed the least we
could do. So, well wrapped up in our big coats, against the chill of four
o'clock, we went to the little square in front of the church, from which
they were to start, and where the long line of grey cannon, grey
ammunition, camions, grey commissary wagons were ready, and the
men, sac au dos, already climbing into place--one mounted on each
team of four horses, three on each gun-carriage, facing the horses,
with three behind, with their backs to the team. The horses of the
officers were waiting in front of the little inn opposite, from which the
officers emerged one by one, mounted and rode to a place in front of
the church. We were a little group of about twenty women and
children standing on one side of the square, and a dead silence hung
over the scene. The men, even, spoke in whispers.
The commander, in front of his staff, ran his eyes slowly over the line,
until a sous-officier approached, saluted, and announced, "All ready,"
when the commander rode to the head of the line, raised one hand
above his head, and with it made a sharp forward gesture--the
unspoken order "en avant"--and backed his horse, and the long grey
line began to move slowly towards the Forêt de Crécy, the officers
falling into place as it passed.
Some of the men leaned down to shake hands as they went by,
some of the men saluted, not a word was spoken, and the silence
was only broken by the tramp of the horses, the straining of the
harnesses, and rumble of the wheels.
It was all so different--as everything in this war has been--from
anything I had ever dreamed when I imagined war. Yet I suppose that
the future dramatist who uses this period as a background can get his
effects just the same, without greatly falsifying the truth. You know I
am like Uncle Sarcey--a really model theatre audience. No effect,
halfway good, passes me by. So, as I turned back at the garden gate
to watch the long grey line winding slowly into the forest, I found that I
had the same chill down my back and the same tightness over my
eyes and in my throat, which, in the real theatre-goers, announce that
an effect has "gone home."
The only other thing I have done this month which could interest you
was to have a little tea-party on the lawn for the convalescent boys of
our ambulance, who were "personally conducted" by one of their
nurses.
Of course they were all sorts and all classes. When I got them
grouped round the table, in the shade of the big clump of lilac bushes,
I was impressed, as I always am when I see a number of common
soldiers together, with the fact that no other race has such intelligent,
such really well-modelled faces, as the French. It is rare to see a fat
face among them. There were farmers, blacksmiths, casters,
workmen of all sorts, and there was one young law student, and the
mixed group seemed to have a real sentiment of fraternity.
Of course, the law student was more accustomed to society than the
others, and became, naturally, a sort of leader. He knew just what to
do, and just how to do it,--how to get into the salon when he arrived,
and how to greet his hostess. But the rest knew how to follow suit,
and did it, and, though some of them were a little shy at first, not one
was confused, and in a few minutes they were all quite at their ease.
By the time the brief formality of being received was over, and they
were all gathered round the tea-table, the atmosphere had become
comfortable and friendly, and, though they let the law student lead the
conversation, they were all alert and interested, and when one of
them did speak, it was to the point.
When tea was over and we walked out on the lawn on the north side
of the house to look over the field of the battle in which most of them
had taken part, they were all ready to talk--they were on ground they
knew. One of them asked me if I could see any of the movements of
the armies, and I told him that I could not, that I could only see the
smoke, and hear the artillery fire, and now and then, when the wind
was right, the sharp repeating fire of rifles as well as mitrailleuses,
and that I ended by distinguishing the soixante-quinze from other
artillery guns.
"Look down there, in the wide plain below Montyon," said the law
student. I looked, and he added, "As nearly as I can judge the ground
from here, if you had been looking there at eleven o'clock in the
morning, you would have seen a big movement of troops."
Of course I explained to him that I had not expected any movement in
that direction, and had only watched the approach from Meaux.
Beyond that one incident, these wounded soldiers said no word about
battles. Most of the conversation was political.
When the nurse looked at her watch and said it was time to return to
the hospital, as they must not be late for dinner, they all rose. The law
student came, cap in hand, made me a low bow, and thanked me for
a pleasant afternoon, and every man imitated his manner--with
varying degrees of success--and made his little speech and bow, and
then they marched up the road, turning back, as the English soldiers
had done--how long ago it seems--to wave their caps as they went
round the corner.
I did wish that you could have been there. You always used to love
the French. You would have loved them more that afternoon.
It is wonderful how these people keep up their courage. To me it
seems like the uplift of a Holy Cause. They did expect a big summer
offensive. But it does not come, and we hear it rumored that, while we
have men enough, the Germans have worked so hard, while the
English were recruiting, that they are almost impregnably entrenched,
and that while their ammunition surpasses anything we can have for
months yet, it would be military suicide to throw our infantry against
their superior guns. In the meantime, while the Allies are working like
mad to increase their artillery equipments, the Germans are working
just as hard, and Time serves one party as well as the other. I
suppose it will only be after the war that we shall really know to what
our disappointment was due, and, as usual, the same cry consoles
us all: "None of these things will change the final result!" and most
people keep silent under the growing conviction that this "may go on
for years."
One thing I really must tell you--not a person mentioned the Lusitania
at the tea-party, which was, I suppose, a handsome effort at
reticence, since the lady of the house was an American, and the
Stars and Stripes, in little, were fluttering over the chimney.
I take note of one remark in your last letter, in reply to mine of May
18. You twit me with "rounding off my periods." I apologize. You must
remember that I earned my bread and salt doing that for years, and
habit is strong. I no longer do it with my tongue in my cheek. My word
for that.