Happy New Year. Fortune has again been very kind to me. You will
remember the Duvals who were so kind to me when I had a forced landing
at La Ferté-Imbault. When I left them, they gave me the address of their
cousins at Arcachon, and said to be sure and let them know when I came
down to Cazaux, so that they could write to their cousins, and give me
an opportunity to meet more people of such charming hospitality. An
invitation reaching me after my return from Christmas in Paris, invited
me to Christmas dinner here at the Villa St. Jean, where I am writing. I
acknowledged the invitation, and received another one for New Years
dinner. I said I would call two days before New Years to pay my
respects, and it was then that the Marchioness Duval asked me to come
New Years. I remained that night and returned to the school, where four
of us had to do patrol duty over the Russian camp. Returning to Arcachon
that evening that I might stay at a hotel and so not have to rise for
the early train, chance caused me to run across the Viscount Duval, who
was returning on the same train from Bordeaux. He insisted that I return
with him and spend the remainder of my leave with them, which I am
doing.
Now, who are they? Lord only knows. I have not been able to distinguish
their titles from their names yet, but finding me interested in pictures
they thought perhaps I would be interested in looking over one of the
family albums. It was a daughter-in-law of the Viscount Duval who showed
me the album. The Countess Duval had three sons, the eldest an author of
some note; the second owns Château Du Bois, and the third is the one
with whom I am staying now. This family consists of a married daughter,
formerly the Marchioness Duval, now Viscountess Richecourt; the son,
married to the Marchioness Ribol; and the daughter, still the unmarried
Marchioness Duval.
Devoting a short paragraph to the latter, which is her due. She is
charming, beautiful, of what might be called the flower of French
gentility, and is twenty-three. She speaks English very well, plays the
piano and violoncello, and is much interested in art. She has not had so
much time for these, however, since the war has centered her real
interests in the soldiers at the Front. It was she who described the
spirit of Frenchmen as “so beautiful.” Speaking of a mass for their
dead, which was held by the family some six months ago, the smile did
not fade, but there was sadness in her voice as she said, “More than
twenty-five of our poor boys had died at that time.” That included
cousins and second cousins of their family, but she said, “We must be
happy.” She just came in where we are all writing letters, with her hair
hanging about her shoulders. I didn’t notice what she was saying, but I
think she was thanking me very much for a little sixty cent maiden-hair
fern with a little white flower in the center which I brought her on the
way from the barber shop as a New Years present. She set it on her desk.
It will grow there.
They are going out to distribute meat to some poor people, so I shall go
with them, and continue this anon.
This being anon, I have forgotten titles and history and nationality in
the acquaintance of the finest people I have ever met.... There is a
climax in one’s estimate of the worthiness of people, and I believe I
have reached it. Their fortunes and family have been irreparably
depleted by the war, yet they devote all their time and energies to the
poor, the wounded, and their soldiers on the firing line. They are
French, yet knowing them has wiped out the possibility of superiority of
nationality or race. They are Catholics, yet knowing them has wiped out
the possibility of superiority of faith or religion. I do not understand
their language well enough to know them as they are to be known, nor my
own language well enough to give them their due. Their faith, their
hope, their charity, is superior to any I have ever known.
They attend mass early and late. They share their prosperity among all.
They fill their holidays with the writing of letters to those in the
trenches who are theirs to cheer. I have known the home life of American
families as I am seeing the life of this French family, and I am
convinced that these people are no less superior in the art of living
than in the other arts.
My standards of life and ambitions and ideals and philosophy are not so
high as I thought they were. They fill the bill as far as self-restraint
is concerned, but as for using the superior ability so gained in the
benefiting of other lives I am almost wholly lacking. I thought my
character was getting pretty well rounded out, and now I find it is
still only a bulged seed, with the skin cracked by sudden growth.
Whether the atmosphere of this family is the indirect result of the war
I rather doubt, but if America is to be subjected to such a renaissance
this war is a blessing. This may all be enthusiasm on my part, but
enthusiasm involving higher ideals seldom is dangerous. Every so often
one bumps his head as he passes through the less prominent doorways in
life, and is suddenly brought to realize that he has been asleep. My
last bump is still on the rise. Since coming to France I have been
resting, and now I am through. It is time to set a new pace for myself.
It is a foolish thing to write that down, but it emphasizes the fact
that it’s the truth.
Another short paragraph to this girl. She is the first girl I have ever
met who I am sure knows more than myself, and whose faith inspires all
in me. The interesting details of the daily life of this family would
hold your interest in many such letters as this, but they fall into such
insignificance in the light of my admiration for their bigger qualities,
that I cannot recall them.
For the present, I shall say good night. Tomorrow I fly. I am coming to
take dinner here and stay all night day after tomorrow. I have not
received mail since December 10, save one short letter from father.
Love to you all,