I have lived through such nerve-trying days lately that I rarely feel in
the humor to write a letter.
Nothing happens here.
The spring has been as changeable as even that which New England
knows. We had four fairly heavy snowstorms in the first fortnight of
the awful fighting of Verdun. Then we had wet, and then unexpected
heat--the sort of weather in which everyone takes cold. I get up in the
morning and dress like a polar bear for a drive, and before I get back
the sun is so hot I feel like stripping.
There is nothing for anyone to do but wait for news from the front. It is
the same old story--they are see-sawing at Verdun, with the Germans
much nearer than at the beginning--and still we have the firm faith
that they will never get there. Doesn't it seem to prove that had
Germany fought an honest war she could never have invaded
France?
Now, in addition, we've all this strain of waiting for news from Dublin.
The affairs of the whole world are in a mess.
There are many aspects of the war which would interest you if you
were sitting down on my hilltop with me--conditions which may seem
more significant than they are. For example, the Government has
sent back from the front a certain number of men to aid in the farm
work until the planting is done. Our commune does not get many of
these. Our old men and boys and women do the work fairly well, with
the aid of a few territorials, who guard the railway two hours each
night and work in the fields in the daytime. The women here are used
to doing field work, and don't mind doing more than their usual stunt.
I often wonder if some of the women are not better off than in the
days before the war. They do about the same work, only they are not
bothered by their men.
In the days before the war the men worked in the fields in the
summer, and in the carrière de plâtre, at Mareuil-lès-Meaux, in the
winter. It was a hard life, and most of them drank a little. It is never
the kind of drunkenness you know in America, however. Most of them
were radical Socialists in politics--which as a rule meant "ag'in' the
government." Of course, being Socialists and French, they simply
had to talk it all over. The café was the proper place to do that--the
provincial café being the workingman's club. Of course, the man
never dreamed of quitting until legal closing hour, and when he got
home, if wife objected, why he just hit her a clip,--it was, of course, for
her good,--"a woman, a dog, and a walnut tree,"--you know the
adage.
Almost always in these provincial towns it is the woman who is thrifty,
and often she sees but too little of her man's earnings. Still, she is, in
her way, fond of him, tenacious in her possession of him, and
Sundays and fête days they get on together very handsomely.
All the women here, married or not, have always worked, and worked
hard. The habit has settled on them. Few of them actually expect their
husbands to support them, and they do not feel degraded because
their labor helps, and they are wonderfully saving. They spend almost
nothing on their clothes, never wear a hat, and usually treasure, for
years, one black dress to wear to funerals. The children go to school
bareheaded, in black pinafores. It is rare that the humblest of these
women has not money put aside.
You don't have to look very deep into the present situation to discover
that, psychologically, it is queer. Marriage is, after all, in so many
classes, a habit. Here are the women of the class to which I refer
working very little harder than in the days before the war. Only, for
nearly two years they have had no drinking man to come home at
midnight either quarrelsome or sulky; no man's big appetite to cook
for; no man to wash for or to mend for. They have lived in absolute
peace, gone to bed early to a long, unbroken sleep, and get twenty-
five cents a day government aid, plus ten cents for each child. As
they all raise their own vegetables, keep chickens and rabbits, and
often a goat, manage to have a little to take to market, and a little time
every week to work for other people, and get war prices for their
time,--well, I imagine you can work out the problem yourself.'
Mind you, there is not one of these women, who, in her way, will not
assure you that she loves her husband. She would be drawn and
quartered before she would harm him. If anything happens to him she
will weep bitterly. But, under my breath, I can assure you that there is
many a woman of that class a widow today who is better off for it, and
so are her children. The husband who died "en hero," the father dead
for his country, is a finer figure in the family life than the living man
ever was or could have been.
Of course, it is in the middle classes, where the wives have to be
kept, where marriage is less a partnership than in the working classes
and among the humbler commercial classes, that there is so much
suffering. But that is the class which invariably suffers most in any
disaster.
I do not know how characteristic of the race the qualities I find among
these people are, nor can I, for lack of experience, be sure in what
degree they are absolutely different from those of any class in the
States. For example--this craving to own one's home. Almost no one
here pays rent. There is a lad at the foot of the hill, in Voisins, who
was married just before the war. He has a tiny house of two rooms
and kitchen which he bought just before his marriage for the sum of
one hundred and fifty francs--less than thirty dollars. He paid a small
sum down, and the rest at the rate of twenty cents a week. There is a
small piece of land with it, on which he does about as intensive
farming as I ever saw. But it is his own.
The woman who works in my garden owns her place. She has been
paying for it almost ever since she was married,--sixteen years ago,--
and has still forty dollars to pay. She cultivates her own garden, raises
her own chickens and rabbits, and always has some to sell. Her
husband works in the fields for other people, or in the quarries, and
she considers herself prosperous, as she has been able to keep her
children in school, and owes no one a penny, except, of course, the
sum due on her little place. She has worked since she was nine, but
her children have not, and, when she dies, there will be something for
them, if it is no more than the little place. In all probability, before
that time comes, she will have bought more land--to own ground is
the dream of these people, and they do it in such a strange way.
I remember in my girlhood, when I knew the Sandy River Valley
country so well, that when a farmer wanted to buy more land he
always tried, at no matter what sacrifice, to get a piece adjoining what
he already owned, and put a fence around it. It is different here.
People own a piece of land here, and a piece there, and another
piece miles away, and there are no fences.
For example, around Père Abelard's house there is a fruit garden and
a kitchen garden. The rest of his land is all over the place. He has a
big piece of woodland at Pont aux Dames, where he was born, and
another on the route de Mareuil. He has a field on the route de
Couilly, and another on the side of the hill on the route de Meaux, and
he has a small patch of fruit trees and a potato field on the chemin
Madame, and another big piece of grassland running down the hill
from Huiry to Condé.
Almost nothing is fenced in. Grain fields, potato patches, beet fields
belonging to different people touch each other without any other
barrier than the white stones, almost level with the soil, put in by the
surveyors.
Of course they are always in litigation, but, as I told you, a lawsuit is a
cachet of respectability in France.
As for separating a French man or woman from the land--it is almost
impossible. The piece of woodland that Abelard owns at Pont aux
Dames is called "Le Paradis." It is a part of his mother's estate, and
his sister, who lives across the Morin, owns the adjoining lot. It is of
no use to anyone. They neither of them ever dream of cutting the
wood. Now and then, when we drive, we go and look at it, and Père
tells funny stories of the things he did there when he was a lad. It is
full of game, and not long ago he had an offer for it. The sum was not
big, but invested would have added five hundred francs a year to his
income. But no one could make either him or his sister resolve to part
with it. So there it lies idle, and the only thing it serves for is to add
to the tax bill every year. But they would rather own land than have
money in the bank. Land can't run away. They can go and look at it,
press their feet on it, and realize that it is theirs.
I am afraid the next generation is going to be different, and the
disturbing thing is that it is the women who are changing. So many of
them, who never left the country before, are working in the
ammunition factories and earning unheard-of money, and spending it,
which is a radical and alarming feature of the situation.
You spoke in one of your recent letters of the awful cost of this war in
money. But you must remember that the money is not lost. It is only
redistributed. Whether or not the redistribution is a danger is
something none of us can know yet; that is a thing only the future can
show. One thing is certain, it has forcibly liberated women.
You ask how the cats are. They are remarkable. Khaki gets more
savage every day, and less like what I imagined a house cat ought to
be. He has thrashed every cat in the commune except Didine, and
never got a scratch to show for it. But he has never scratched me. I
slapped him the other day. He slapped back,--but with a velvet paw,
never even showed a claw.
Didn't you always think a cat hated water? I am sure I did. He goes
out in all weathers. Last winter he played in the snow like a child, and
rolled in it, and no rainstorm can keep him in the house. The other
day he insisted on going out in a pouring rain, and I got anxious about
him. Finally I went to the door and called him, and, after a while, he
walked out of the dog's kennel, gave me a reproachful look as if to
say, "Can't you leave a chap in peace?" and returned to the kennel.
The one thing he really hates is to have me leave the house. He goes
where his sweet will leads him, but he seems to think that I should be
always on the spot.