APRIL SIXTH
Never were Americans in France more perplexed about the state of feeling
in the United States than at the beginning of 1917. The sinking of the
_Lusitania_ and other _torpillages_ had brought forth note after note
from President Wilson: but his spokesmen among the Democratic senators,
especially Senator Hitchcock, were advocating measures to put an embargo
on the export of arms and ammunition. If these men had succeeded, they
would have helped Germany to win the war during 1916. Then President
Wilson was reelected on the slogan, "He has kept us out of the war."
Immediately after his re-election, Mr. Wilson began an attempt to make
peace that seemed to us at the time distinctly unfriendly to the
Entente. The idealism of President Wilson stirred us. But we were living
too close to the war to see the advantage of a "peace without victory."
Our first intimation of a change of attitude in America came one day
when _L'Information_, one of our papers that comes out at noon,
published a cable-gram from Washington, stating that Secretary Lansing
had declared that the reason behind President Wilson's interest in peace
was that the United States felt herself on the brink of war. Herbert and
I were walking home from our studios. He stopped to buy the paper that
the boy on a bicycle was just giving our newswoman. Long experience had
taught us that the noon paper never gave anything new. But one was
always afraid to miss something. That's why afternoon papers are able to
bring out so many editions. When we read this message, we realized that
the President must be at the end of his rope, and that if Germany
persisted in her intention to declare unlimited submarine warfare, our
entering into the conflict was inevitable.
The news of the rupture of diplomatic relations arrived on a Sunday
morning when the streets were full. The dispatches from Washington
contained long excerpts from President Wilson's splendid speech. Relief
rather than joy was the feeling we all had. We said to ourselves, "_At
last!_" Some of our intimate French friends, when we discussed the break
and the reasons the President gave for it, wondered why those reasons
had not been valid long before. It was an echo of our own thoughts. But
French and American were so happy over the new stand taken by the United
States, over the new note in the leadership of President Wilson, that we
did not allow ourselves to criticize the past. All was forgiven on that
last Sunday of January. Over night President Wilson became the most
popular man in France. And just one week before my Parisian friends had
been reading his Senate speech of January twenty-second with a puzzled
expression that turned into anger and indignation.
We had an excellent barometer of what the French _bourgeois_ and
_universitaire_ was thinking in our dear old family doctor. Doctor
Charon had come to us first in the Rue Servandoni days. Christine was
sick one night for the first and only time in her babyhood. The young
father and mother were scared to death. Doctor Charon, whom we had not
known before, was called in. He assured us that there was nothing fatal.
After that he came again for colds. He knew how to scold us and make us
obey. Since then he has been the family friend and censor, entering into
our life as only a doctor can do. He always stopped to chat a minute.
His only son was at the war: he and his wife and two daughters were
doing hospital work. I often felt that his heart was breaking. He
suffered from the war in his soul, which was far worse than suffering in
the flesh.
During the years of uncomfortable neutrality, Herbert and I tried to
reassure Doctor Charon and make him see how impossible it was that all
our compatriots, who had never been in France and knew nothing about
France, could feel the way we did. But we often felt that he loved us
despite the fact that we were Americans. On January 23, 1917, Doctor
Charon talked to us at length about the Senate speech. The way President
Wilson's mind worked was beyond him. He despaired of America. On January
30 he came in with a face transfigured, held out his arms, and kissed
me. We both cried.
"I do not yet understand about your President," he said simply, "but you
were right in telling me not to lose hope in him. To-day he is our
prophet."
During the two years that followed, Doctor and Madame Charon, in common
with all our French friends, had a revelation of the heart of America
beating for France. They saw at close range our relief work. Not only
did we give money without stint, but hundreds of Americans--who had
never known France before--came over to show by tireless personal
service that the friends of France were not limited to the Americans
resident in France or to those who had some point of personal contact.
In the end they realized that we were ready to be as prodigal with our
blood as with our treasure. When my husband received his red ribbon, the
Charons gave a dinner for us. Doctor Charon said: "I have one ambition
now in life--to go to America."
As I have related in another chapter, February and March were tragic
months for Paris. Zero weather and no coal made a combination that took
our attention away from the evolution of public opinion across the
seas. Germany stood firm, resisting the threats and disregarding the
warnings of President Wilson's notes. But we had such an inherent
mistrust of notes that we were not sure until the end of March that some
sort of a modus vivendi would not be patched up, as after the
_Lusitania_ and the _Sussex_.
Were we even sure in the first week of April? Herbert told me to get out
our flags that had been put carefully away since 1914. Although I was
not as optimistic as my husband, I brought out the flags and mended
them. I needed two for our studios. My voice trembled when I asked for
the stars and stripes at the Bon Marché. They had a large stock, mostly
brand-new. They were counting upon the imminent event. The sales girl
told me that they had sold more American flags in the last fortnight
than those of the other Allies put together since the beginning of the
war. She said it gleefully. The new broom was sweeping clean. With all
my pride in my own country, I had my misgivings about too great a
demonstration. Why did not the Government or some of the patriotic
organizations make a propaganda to have the flags of the Allies ready
for display everywhere with the American and French when the day
arrived? I suggested this to my husband, who was a member of the Union
des Grandes Associations Françaises. I knew how I would feel if I were a
Britisher who had been there from the beginning. Would not the French
show that wonderful characteristic of theirs, the sense of proportion?
But when the day arrived, my internationalism and cosmopolitanism, a
gradual and unconscious growth, suddenly disappeared. It was a reversion
to type. I became blatantly American again, and gloried in the fact that
everywhere it was all Stars and Stripes. Why not? This was America's
day. And ever since, despite the theoretical internationalism (or
super-nationalism) I have advocated in common with my husband, I fear
that practically I have been lapsing into a narrow nationalism. It is a
curious phenomenon. I do not attempt to explain it.
On Thursday, April sixth, Herbert went to the American Club to lunch.
Settling down to work had been hard that morning. We were feverishly
awaiting the news. I was just starting lunch with the children when the
telephone rang. Herbert's voice said, "Put out your flag," and then he
hung up.
An hour later he came in a taxi-cab with Carroll Greenough, an American
architect who lived near us. We went for his wife. Then the four of us
did the Grands Boulevards, the Rue de la Paix, and the principal streets
in the heart of Paris. As if by magic the American flag appeared
everywhere. Paris had not waited for the poster of the Municipality, in
which the President of the Municipal Counsel called upon his fellow
citizens to _pavoiser_ in honor of the new Ally. Americans though we
were, we had never seen so many American flags. They expressed the hope
which, though long deferred, had not made the heart sick.
We went to the Ambassadeurs for tea. The terraces were full. We watched
the crowds passing up and down the Champs-Elysées. All that was lacking
was the orchestra to play the Marseillaise and the Star Spangled Banner.
There had been no orchestras in Paris since the beginning of the war.
But the music was in our hearts.