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diff --git a/13048-h/13048-h.htm b/13048-h/13048-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3bdcafe --- /dev/null +++ b/13048-h/13048-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,755 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content= + "text/html; charset=UTF-8"> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Where the Sabots Clatter Again By Katherine Shortall], by Katherine Shortall. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + } + HR { width: 33%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 4%; + margin-right: 4%; + } + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .note {margin-left: 2em; margin-right: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} /* footnote */ + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + .pagenum {position: absolute; left: 92%; font-size: smaller; text-align: right;} /* page numbers */ + .sidenote {width: 20%; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1em; padding-left: 1em; font-size: smaller; float: right; clear: right;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span {display: block; margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em;} + .poem .caesura {vertical-align: -200%;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13048 ***</div> + +<br /> +<center> +<img src='images/sabot.jpg' width='480' height='692' alt='Where the Sabots +Clatter Again by Katherine Shortall' title=''> +</center> +<br /> + +<center> +<img src='images/signature.jpg' width='30%' alt='Katherine Shortall (autograph), December 1921' title=''> +</center> +<br /> + +<blockquote><p><i>The Radcliffe Unit in France collaborated with the French Red Cross in +its work of reconstruction after the Armistice. It was as a member of +this unit and as chauffeuse in the devastated regions that the writer +received the impressions set forth in these sketches.</i></p></blockquote> + +<br /> + +<h1>Where the Sabots Clatter Again</h1> + +<h2>by Katherine Shortall</h2> +<br /> + +<center> +<img src='images/frontis.png' width='40%' alt='street scene' title=''> +</center> +<br /> + +<center>Ralph Fletcher Seymour<br /> +Publisher<br /> +410 S. Michigan Avenue<br /> +Chicago</center> +<br /> + +<blockquote> +<center>PUBLISHED FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE +RADCLIFFE COLLEGE ENDOWMENT FUND +IN AN EDITION LIMITED TO 150 COPIES</center> + +<center>SECOND EDITION OF 150 COPIES</center> + +<center>1921</center> +</blockquote> + +<br /> + +<h4>CONTENTS</h4> +<h4><a href='#THE_BRIDE_OF_NOYON'>THE BRIDE OF NOYON</a></h4> + <h4><a href='#LITTLE_GRAINS_OF_SAND'>LITTLE GRAINS OF SAND</a></h4> + <h4><a href='#VAUCHELLES'>VAUCHELLES</a></h4> + +<br /> + +<a name='WHERE_THE_SABOTS_CLATTER_AGAIN'></a><h2>WHERE THE SABOTS CLATTER AGAIN.</h2> + +<br /> + +<a name='THE_BRIDE_OF_NOYON'></a><h2>THE BRIDE OF NOYON.</h2> +<br /> + +<p>A returning flush upon the plain. Streaks of color across a mangled +landscape: the gentle concealment of shell hole and trench. This is what +one saw, even in the summer of 1919. For the sap was running, and a new +invasion was occurring. Legions of tender blades pushed over the haggard +No Man's Land, while reckless poppies scattered through the ranks of +green, to be followed by the shyer starry sisters in blue and white. +Irrepressibly these floral throngs advanced over the shell torn spaces, +crowding, mingling and bending together in a rainbow riot beneath the +winds that blew them. They were the vanguard.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>In the midst of the reviving fields lay Noyon: Noyon, that gem of the +Oise, whose delicate outline of spires and soft tinted roofs had graced +the wide valley for centuries. Today the little city lay blanched and +shapeless between the hills, as all towns were left that stood in the +path of the armies. The cathedral alone reared its battered bulk in the +midst; a resisting pile, its two grim and blunted towers frowning into +the sky. Nobly Gothic through all the shattering, the great church rose +out of the wreckage, with flying buttresses still outspread like +brooding wings to the dead houses that had sunk about her.</p> + +<p>But Noyon was not dead. We of the Red Cross knew that. We knew that in +cellars and nooks of this labyrinth of ruin already hundreds of hearts +were beating. On this calm September morning the newly cleared streets +resounded with the healthful music of hammer and saw, and cartwheels +rattled over the cobblestones, while workmen called to each other in +resonant voices. Pregnant sounds, these, the significance of which we +could estimate. For we had seen Noyon in the early months of the +armistice: tangled and monstrous in her attitude of falling, and silent +with the bleeding silence of desertion. Then, one memorable day, the +stillness had been broken by the first clatter of sabots—that wooden +noise, measured, unmistakable, approaching. Two pairs of sabots and a +long road. Two broad backs bent under bulging loads; an infant's wail; a +knock at the Red Cross Door—but that was nearly eight months before.</p> + +<p>The <i>Poste de Secours</i> was closed for the first time since Madame de +Vigny and her three young <i>infirmières</i> had come to Noyon. Two women +stood without, one plump and bareheaded, the other aged and bent, with a +calico handkerchief tied over her hair. They stared at the printed card +tacked upon the entrance of the large patched-up house that served as +Headquarters for the French Red Cross.</p> + +<p>"<i>Tiens! c'est fermé</i>," exclaimed Madame Talon, shaking the rough board +door with all her meagre weight, "and I have walked eight kilometers to +get a <i>jupon</i>, and with rheumatism, too."</p> + +<p>"Haven't you heard the news?" asked her companion with city-bred scorn.</p> + +<p>"Ah? What news?" The crisp old face crinkled with anticipation.</p> + +<p>"Why, Mademoiselle Gaston is to be married today."</p> + +<p>"<i>Tiens, tiens! est-ce possible?</i> What happiness for that good girl!" +and Madame Talon, forgetful of the loss of her <i>jupon</i>, smiled a +wrinkled smile till her nose nearly touched her chin, and her eyes +receding into well worn little puckers, became two snapping black +points.</p> + +<p>"Is it really so? And the bridegroom—who is he?"</p> + +<p>There followed that vivacious exchange of questions and answers and +speculations which accompanies the announcement of a marriage the world +over.</p> + +<p>Mademoiselle Gaston was the daughter of an ancient family of Noyon. But +now, her ancestral home was a heap of debris, a tomb for men of many +nations, which she did not like to visit. She took me there once, and we +walked through the old tennis court where a little summer house remained +untouched, its jaunty frailty seeming to mock at the desolation of all +that is solid.</p> + +<p>"Ah, I have had good times here," she said in the expressionless voice +of one who has endured too much.</p> + +<p>For now she was alone. Tennis tournaments for her were separated from +the present by a curtain of deaths, by the incomparable space of those +four years.</p> + +<p>Mademoiselle Gaston had played her part in it all. When the Germans were +advancing upon Noyon, she had stuck to her post and remained in the +hospital where she nursed her compatriots under enemy rule during the +first occupation of the city. Something about her had made them treat +her with respect, although I have been told that the Prussian officers +were always vaguely uncomfortable in her presence. There was, perhaps, +not enough humility in her clear eyes, and they worked her to the +breaking point. Yet so impeccable and businesslike was her conduct that +they could never convict her of any infringement of rules. Little did +these pompous invaders suspect how this slender capable girl with the +hazel eyes was spicing the hours behind their backs, and drawing with +nimble and irreverent pencil portraits of her captors, daring +caricatures which she exhibited in secret to the terrified delight of +her patients. Luckily for her this harmless vengeance had not been +discovered, for doubtless she would have paid dearly for her Gallic +audacity.</p> + +<p>She was small of stature and very thin. Not even the nurse's flowing +garb could conceal the angularity of her figure. One wondered how so +fragile a frame could have survived the crashings and shakings of war. +What secret of yielding and resisting was hers? The tension, +nevertheless, had left its mark upon her young face; had drawn the skin +over the aquiline profile, and compressed the sensitive mouth in a line +too rigid for her years. This severity of feature she aggravated by +pinning her <i>coiffe</i> low over a forehead as uncompromising as a nun's. +Not a relenting suggestion of hair would she permit. Yet whatever of +tenderness or hope she strove thus to hood, nothing could suppress the +beauty of her luminous eyes; caressing eyes that belied her austere +manner. No sight of blood nor weariness, no insult had hardened them. +Even when their greenish depths went dark and wide with reminiscence, a +light lurked at the bottom—the reflection of something dancing. Yes, +everybody loved Mademoiselle Gaston.</p> + +<p>For weeks we had seen it coming. She had told us of her engagement at +breakfast one Monday morning after a week-end visit to her married +sister in Paris. It had seemed a good business proposition. She +announced it as such, calmly, with a frankness that astonished my +American soul. We were pleased. She would have a château and money, and +a <i>de</i> before her name. Best of all she would have peace and +companionship after her lonely struggles. On the whole we were very much +pleased. Madame de Vigny and her gentle niece were entirely delighted. +Noyon was vociferous in its approval and congratulations. I could have +wished—but at least I did not thrust any transatlantic notions into the +general contentment.</p> + +<p>And I soon saw—no one could fail to see—the change that day by day +came over our reserved companion. The stern line of her lips relaxed. In +amazement one day we heard her laugh. Then her laughter began to break +forth on all occasions; and we listened to her singing above in her +room, and we smiled at each other. That tightness of her brow dissolved +in a carefree radiance. At work, she mixed up her faultless card +catalogues and laughed at her mistakes. Once, during our busy hours of +distribution, we caught her blithely granting the request of fat Mère +Copillet for a cook stove and thereupon absently presenting that jovial +dame with a pair of sabots, much too small for her portly foot, to the +amusement of all the good wives gathered in the Red Cross office. They +laughed loudly in a sympathetic crowd, and Mademoiselle Gaston laughed +also, and they loved her more than ever. When they learned that she had +chosen to be married in the ruined cathedral of her native town, their +affection turned to adoration. Not a peasant in the region but took this +to be an honor to his city and to himself. Gratitude and a nameless hope +filled the hearts of the people of Noyon.</p> + +<p>The day was at hand. The <i>poste</i> was closed, for within there was a +feast to prepare and a bride to adorn. In the early morning the +sun-browned peasant women brought flowers, masses of goldenrod and +asters. These we arranged in brass shells, empty husks of death, till +the bleak spaciousness of our shattered house was gay. The rooms, still +elegant in proportion, lent themselves naturally to adornment; and I +found myself wondering what former festivities they had sheltered, what +other brides had passed down this stately corridor before the bombs let +in the wind and the rain and the thieves; and what remote luxuries had +been reflected in the great mirror of which only the carved gilt frame +was left? Today, goldenrod and asters bloomed against the mouldy walls +and one little tri-colored bouquet. Flowers of France, in truth, sprung +on the battle field and offered by earth-stained fingers to her who had +served.</p> + +<p>From the kitchen came noises of snapping wood, and a sizzling which +tempted me to the door. It was a fine old kitchen, though now the tiles +were mostly gone from the floor, and the cracked walls were smeared with +uncouth paintings, the work of some childish soul—some German mess +sergeant, perhaps, who had been installed there, but today Jeanne +reigned again, bending her philosophic face over the smoking stove, and +evoking with infallible arts aromatic and genial vapors from her +casseroles. At her side, Thérèse, pink and cream in the abundance of her +eighteen years, fanned the fire, her eyes wide open with the novel +excitement of the occasion.</p> + +<p>"<i>La guerre est finie, Mademoiselle Miss!</i>" cried Jeanne with spoon +dripping in mid air. "Today I have butter to cook with. Now you shall +taste a French dinner <i>comme il faut</i>!"</p> + +<p>In the garage, Michel, all seriousness, polished the Ford that was to +carry away the bridal pair. Recently demobilized, he wore the bizarre +combination of military and civilian clothes that all over France +symbolized the transition from war to peace—black coat encroaching upon +stained blue trousers, khaki puttees, evidence of international intimacy +and—most brilliant emblem of freedom—a black and white checked cap, +put on backwards. His the ultimate responsibility at our wedding +ceremony and he looked to his tires and sparkplugs with passion.</p> + +<p>The married sister, beautiful and charming in her Paris gown, was +superintending the <i>toilette</i>; and when all was ready, we were called +up to examine and admire. The bride was sweet and calm, smiling dreamily +at us in the foggy fragment of mirror. Below, somewhat portly and +constrained in his black coat and high collar, the bridegroom marched +with agitation back and forth in the corridor, clasping and unclasping +his hands in their gray suède gloves. The Paris train was due. Relatives +and friends began to arrive; and little nieces and nephews, all in their +best clothes. Noyon had not seen anything so gay in years. There was +bustle and business and running up and down stairs. The <i>poste</i>, usually +clamorous with the hoarse dialect of northern France, hummed and rippled +with polite conversation and courtly greetings. The bride appeared. The +bridegroom's face lost its perturbed expression in his unaffected +happiness at seeing her. Photographs were taken; she, gracious and +bending in a cloud of tulle; he, stiffly upright but smiling resolutely. +They were off in a string of carriages—sagging old carriages +resurrected from the dust—while a few of us hastened to the cathedral +by a short cut to take more pictures as they entered.</p> + +<p>The vast nave engulfed us in its desolation. The mutilated apse seemed +to be far, far away, and one looked at it fearfully. High above through +the broken vaulting shone the indestructible blue, and through the +hollow windows the breath of Heaven wandered free. The little bride +stepped bravely between the piles of refuse, daintily gathering her +dress about her. A dirty sheet on the wall flapped without warning, and +we had a glimpse of a gaunt and pallid crucifix, instantly shrouded +again in a spasm of wind. Passing under an arch we entered a less +demolished chapel. Here all Noyon was waiting.</p> + +<p>Thin and quavering through the expectant hush came the chords of a +harmonium. Rustlings and whisperings among the closely packed people as +the misty white figure advanced slowly into sight. At the altar the +silver-haired bishop turned his scholarly face upon her, full of +tenderness; and when he spoke, his voice seemed an assurance of peace +and purity. The service was long. In France one listens to a sermon +when one is married, and the pretty bridesmaids came round for three +collections. The bishop talked of her father, his friend, who had died +under cruel circumstances. Shoulders heaved in the congregation, and in +a dark corner a sob was stifled.</p> + +<p>"You have suffered, my children. There has been a mighty mowing and a +winter of death, and our mother the earth has lain barren. But today +stand up, O children, and listen and feel. We are united in these ruins +by more than sorrow. What are these pulsations that beat this day upon +our soul?"</p> + +<p>The words flowed on following the ancient grooves of sermons, but the +loving voice thrilled us. It floated through the dim atmosphere into our +consciousness, holding us as in a dream, dovelike and soothing.</p> + +<p>My eyes trailed to the delicate bride kneeling beside a great cracked +column, and I thought of the tiny blossom again by the road, and of +those stretches without the town, no longer gray, but brushed with new +color. I saw the daisies and the grasses waving out on No Man's Land: +like heralding banners of the triumph march they waved, leading out of +sight beyond the horizon. And as the priest talked, my heart throbbed +its own silent canticle:</p> + +<p>"Joy in the new dawned day, and in peace-awakened fields. Hope of the +flower that blooms again. Faith in the unfolding of petals, gently, +forever, and in season."</p> + +<p>"<i>Soyez loué, Seigneur!</i>" the voice deepened and concluded.</p> + +<p>Decisively, now, burst forth the reedlike chords of music. A wave of +movement throughout the crowd. And the bowed form trembled a moment +within its sheathing veil, against the cold stone pillar.</p> + + + +<hr style='width: 65%;' /> +<br /> +<a name='LITTLE_GRAINS_OF_SAND'></a><h2>LITTLE GRAINS OF SAND</h2> +<br /> + +<p>Shall I tell you about the old woman and her statue of Sainte Claire? +She was a true native of Picardy, and if I could give you her dialect, +this story would be more amusing. We came upon her in the course of our +visits, living in her clean little house that had been well mended. She +was delighted to have someone to talk to.</p> + +<p>"Come in, my good girl," she patronized the queenly and aristocratic +Madame de Vigny. "Come in, everybody," and we all went in.</p> + +<p>"Sit down, my dear," again to Madame de Vigny. "Those barbarians didn't +leave me many chairs, but here is one, and this box will do for these +young ladies." She herself remained standing, a stout old body in spite +of her eighty years. Her blue eyes were clear and twinkled with fun, and +she had a mischievous way of smiling out of the corner of her mouth, +displaying two teeth. She loved her joke, this shrewd old lady.</p> + +<p>"<i>Dites, Madame</i>," she said, "is it true that you give away flannel +petticoats and stockings?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Madame, when one has need of them."</p> + +<p>"Is it possible? And for nothing? Ah, that is good, that is generous. +Tonight I shall tell Sainte Claire about you. Would you like to see my +'<i>tiote</i><a name='FNanchor_1_1'></a><a href='#Footnote_1_1'>[1]</a> <i>Sainte Claire</i>?" We followed her back through a little yard +and down into a cellar. "You see, Mesdames, when the villains bombarded +Noyon, I stayed right here. I wasn't going to leave my home for those +people. One night the convent opposite was struck, and the next morning +in the street I found my Sainte Claire. She wasn't harmed at all, lying +on her back in the mud. 'Now God will protect me,' I said, and I picked +her up in my arms and carried her into my house. And Sainte Claire said +to me, 'Place me down in the cave, and you will be safe.' So I brought +her down."</p> + +<div class='note'><p><a name='Footnote_1_1'></a><a href='#FNanchor_1_1'>[1]</a> Dialect for <i>petite</i>.</p></div> + +<p>She led us to a tiny underground apartment, probably a vegetable cellar, +and there, on a bracket jutting from the mildewed wall, stood the +painted plaster image of the saint.</p> + +<p>"<i>Voilà ma Sainte Claire!</i>" exclaimed the old peasant woman, crossing +herself. "She and I have lived down here during the bombardment and the +entire occupation. She has protected me. Look, Madame—" and she showed +us a corner of the ceiling that had been newly repaired. "The <i>obus</i> +passed through here, and never touched us. I kept on praying to the +Sainte, and she said, 'Do not move and you will be safe.' All night I +was on my knees before her, and toward morning the house was hit—only +one meter away the wall fell down, and we were not harmed, Madame, +neither the Sainte nor I. Then Sainte Claire said to me, 'The Boches are +coming. Take half of your potatoes and bring them down here.' I had a +beautiful pile of potatoes, Madame, just harvested. But I took only half +and put them in a sack and stuffed it with hay. For thirteen months, +Madame, I slept on those potatoes. Then Sainte Claire said, 'Take half +your wine, and put it down the well.' I wanted to hide it all, but she +said 'No, take only half.' And I sunk one hundred bottles, Madame, of my +best wine in the well. The Boches came. Five of them came to my house. +Five <i>grands gaillards</i> with square heads. Oh, they are ugly, Madame! +'Show us your wine,' they ordered. 'It is there, Messieurs, in the +cellar,' I answered meek as a lamb. And they all began drinking till +they were drunk. Then one of them dragged me down here by the arm, and +for thirteen months, Madame, I lived in this hole with Sainte Claire +while they possessed my house. They made me cook for them, the animals; +but I should have starved, Madame, if I had not had my potatoes. Then +the French began their bombardment. Ah, it was terrible, Madame, to be +bombarded by one's friends. I did not leave this cave, and I prayed and +prayed, 'Sainte Claire, save me once more!' and Sainte Claire replied, +'The French are coming. We shall not be hurt.' One morning it was +suddenly quiet: the cannon had stopped. I listened and heard nothing, +and I came up into my house. It was empty, Madame. The Boches had gone. +One shell had fallen through the roof into my bedroom—that was all. But +ah, Madame! <i>Noyon, pauvre Noyon!</i> She was like a corpse. <i>Ah lala, +lala! Qué'malheur!</i> The next day our soldiers came. Ah, how glad I was. +And I asked Sainte Claire, 'May I not go to the well and bring up a +bottle of wine?' And she said 'No, not yet.' So we waited, Madame, until +the day of the Armistice. Then Sainte Claire said, 'Now you may go and +bring up all the wine.' And, Madame, what do you think? I went to the +well and I hauled up the wine and out of the hundred bottles only two +were broken." The old woman laughed with delight at the trick she had +played on the invader.</p> + +<p>"They never guessed it was there. It was Sainte Claire, Madame, who +saved it. I poured her a glassful and we celebrated, Madame; we +celebrated the victory down in our cave, <i>ma'tiote Sainte Claire</i> and +I."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Mademoiselle Froissart and I left the <i>Poste de Secours</i> one day, and +started for a far away village that was said to be utterly wiped out. +Our drive lay over a terrific road. We crossed a vast sad plain, +intersected with trenches, with nothing in sight but one monster +deserted tank, still camouflaged, and here and there the silhouette of +a blasted tree against the lowering sky. These dead trees of the battle +line! Sometimes, with their bony limbs flung forth in gnarled unnatural +gestures, they remind me of frantic skeletons suddenly petrified in +their dance of death. They are frenzied, and unutterably tragic. They +seem to move; yet they are so dead. And I imagine their denuded tortured +arms reaching toward unanswering Heaven in an agony of protest against +the fate that has gripped all nature.</p> + +<p>We entered a torn and tangled forest. The road was narrow and overgrown, +and several times I had to dodge hand grenades that lay in the grassy +ruts. The Ford ploughed bravely through deep mud, skidded, recovered, +fell into holes, and kept on. My attention was so focused upon driving +that I saw little else but the road ahead, though once at an exclamation +from Mademoiselle Froissart, out of the corner of my eye I saw a machine +gun mounted and apparently intact. The motor was toiling, but in my soul +I blessed its regular noise that told me all was well. Leaving the wood +we came to what appeared to be a large rough clearing. There were no +trees—only bumps of earth covered with tall weeds. To our surprise we +caught sight of the jaunty blue figure of a poilu, and then a band of +slouching green-coated prisoners who were digging in their heavy +leisurely manner. Mademoiselle Froissart inquired for the village of +Evricourt.</p> + +<p>"<i>Mais c'est ici, Madame</i>," replied the soldier with a grin.</p> + +<p>"Here!" We stared. There was nothing by which one could have told that +this was the site of a town, except an occasional bit of brick that +showed beneath the weeds. All the Germans had stopped work to look at +these two women who had so unexpectedly penetrated to this God-forsaken +spot. We asked whether any of the inhabitants had returned.</p> + +<p>"Just one old man," said the poilu, "who lives all alone in his cellar, +over there." He pointed, and suddenly from the ground emerged an aged +man, white haired and erect. He came toward us, an astonishingly +handsome figure. His beautifully modeled head was like a bit of perfect +sculpture found suddenly among rank ruins, whose very fineness shocks +us because of its contrast with its coarse surroundings. His blue eyes +were piercing under bushy white brows, while a snowy and curling beard, +abundant yet well trimmed, set off the dark ivory of his complexion. And +on his head, above the silvery waving hair, was placed at a careful +angle a blue <i>callot</i>. He was dressed in that agreeable soft blue that +distinguishes the garments of those who work out of doors, and a +spotless white shirt was turned back at the throat.</p> + +<p>"<i>Bonjour, Mesdames</i>," he greeted us, taking off his cap and came up for +a chat. We were amazed at his charm and intelligence. He had come back +thus alone "because, Mademoiselle, this is my home. An old man can best +serve his country by living off his own land. What good is he in a +strange province where they eat such ridiculous things, and where +everyone has the craze for machinery? Besides, the more one's home is +ruined the greater the obligation to return and rebuild it. <i>C'est un +devoir, Mademoiselle.</i>" His place was here, unless—with a twinkle in my +direction—Mademoiselle would take him back to America with her, in +which case he would willingly leave. I laughed at the compliment and +told him to name the day and the boat.</p> + +<p>Food? He had scratched a little garden by his door and had plenty, thank +you. Clothing? "Do I not look well dressed, Mademoiselle?" We admitted +that he looked ready for a fête. Company? "Ah, Mademoiselle, memories, +memories! I smoke my pipe and I repeople this village. It is alive for +me. Look, Mademoiselle, that is where the church was—it was a pretty +church. And there was the <i>mairie</i>. Only"—with a shrug of good humored +despair—"now I have no more tobacco. These <i>messieurs</i>"—indicating the +soldier and the Germans who were smiling good naturedly—"are kind +enough to share theirs with me, but they are not very rich themselves, +you see," at which they all laughed at their common plight. Here at last +was something that we could offer. I usually kept cigarettes with me for +such emergencies. And now I produced two boxes of them and several +packages of American matches.</p> + +<p>"Mademoiselle, I accept them with my profound thanks," said the old +<i>gallant</i> with a bow, removing his cap.</p> + +<p>At length we had to leave. A prisoner stepped forward to crank my car, +and all of them, the dauntless Frenchman in the center, lined up and +gave us the military salute. Before reentering the woods I looked back +and saw the blue-coated figure offering a light to the green coat. From +cigarette tip to cigarette tip the fraternal spark was being +transmitted: the spark that crosses borders and nationalities, that +glows in the darkness, and puts mankind at peace. And so we left them +all—smoking; smoking out there in the ruins, smoking and dreaming of +home. Of home and love unattainable beyond the Rhine; of home and love +buried forever in the wreckage of war and of time.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>This week Mademoiselle Froissart and I spent forty-eight hours in Paris, +during which time we purchased one thousand toys for our Christmas +party. Such a time as I had coralling a taxi to carry our large crate +of playthings to the station. Paris was gay and crowded, making up for +its four years of gravity, and the conscienceless taxi drivers were +having pretty much their own way, refusing all that were going in a +direction that did not suit their convenience, and extorting enormous +<i>pour boire</i>. I stood on the edge of the mad stream of vehicles that +pressed by on the boulevard, and watched for an empty taxi. One came, +the old reprobate who drove it casting his practiced eye about for a +likely looking customer. He deigned to notice me, recognizing me for an +American, and well knowing our national childish impatience, and its +lucrative consequences. He drove up to the curb.</p> + +<p>"Where to?" he asked defiantly, blinking his bleary eyes, his red +alcoholic face set in insolent lines.</p> + +<p>"<i>La Gare du Nord.</i>"</p> + +<p>He reflected an instant. "Bon," he decided. I got in, resolving to take +possession before breaking all the news to him.</p> + +<p>"First I must stop at the <i>Grand Bazaar</i> to call for a box," I said in +a most matter-of-fact way.</p> + +<p>"Ah ça! non! It can't be done!" he exclaimed in a fury. "How do you +expect me to earn my living if I have to go out of my way and wait a +century outside a store?"</p> + +<p>"I will pay you for your time."</p> + +<p>Still he refused to move. "Déscendez, déscendez!" he cried in an ugly +voice. I knew the next one would be just as bad, and besides I had no +time to lose. The hour of the train was approaching. Basely I resorted +to bribery: "Look here, Monsieur, I am American and I will pay you well. +Did you ever know an American to fail to make it worth your while?" He +considered, and looked me over appraisingly.</p> + +<p>"It will be twenty francs then, Madame." This was too outrageous.</p> + +<p>"Ah non," I said in my turn, but I laughed. "<i>Ecoutez</i>, do you know what +is in that box I am going to get? Toys for the little children of the +devastated regions. If I don't take it with me they will have nothing, +nothing at all for Christmas."</p> + +<p>"Eh, what?" His old heart was moved. "<i>Pays dévasté? C'est vrai? Bien, +Madame</i>, I will take you anywhere you wish." And he started the car. On +our way through traffic he related to me over his shoulder how his wife +and children had fled from Soissons while he was driving a <i>camion</i> at +the front, and that their home was gone.</p> + +<p>At the <i>Grand Bazaar</i> Mademoiselle Froissart was waiting with the huge +crate of toys. It was hoisted onto the front seat beside the chauffeur, +who, far from grumbling at its size, was most solicitous in placing it +so that it would not jar. "We mustn't break the dolls," he said with a +wink. Arriving at the station he insisted upon carrying it to the +baggage room for us. "<i>Hey, mon vieux!</i>" he addressed the baggage man, +"step lively and get that case on the train for Noyon. It's full of +dolls—dolls for the little girls." And the whole force laughed and flew +to the crate, and tenderly hustled it out to the train with paternal +interest.</p> + +<p>"Merry Christmas and many thanks," I said to our driver, holding out the +twenty francs. He did not glance at the money and pushed back my hand.</p> + +<p>"<i>Non, non, Mademoiselle, c'est un plaisir</i>," he murmured. I protested, +but his whole expression pleaded. "It's not much, Mademoiselle. It's for +the little girls—out there."</p> + +<p>Passing through the gate, I looked back and saw him still standing and +watching us. He waved his hat.</p> + +<p>"<i>Bon voyage!</i>" he called above the crowd. Then, turning, he went back +into the roaring street, doubtless to continue his business of preying +upon the intimidated and helpless public.</p> + + + +<hr style='width: 65%;' /> +<br /> +<a name='VAUCHELLES'></a><h2>VAUCHELLES.</h2> +<br /> + +<p>Three roads wander down from the hills and come together; and at the +point of meeting stands a crucifix. This large and dignified <i>Calvaire</i>, +though bearing the nicks of bullets and faded by weather, still sheds a +sorrowful beauty that is perhaps the more impressive because of these +marks of desecration. It forms the center of the tiny village, whose +houses cluster close to the mourning image and then straggle thinly +along the three roads. Not even the war which swept over in all its +ferocity has robbed Vauchelles of its winding charm. Many houses have +collapsed, but the village still retains its ancient outline of peaked +roofs, and on all sides orderly piles of bricks, fresh plaster and new +tar paper give an aspect of thrift and optimism. Vauchelles has met the +challenge of devastation and is setting things aright.</p> + +<p>Is the town asleep? The healing July sun softly warms the silent houses +and their broken walls and closed doors. No one is in sight. Yet we have +come with our camionette well laden with clothing for the inhabitants. +Ah! they are all away working in the fields. Old Mademoiselle Masson, +peering through the one pane of glass that is left in her window, sees +us, and hobbles to the door to give us the information. She beams upon +us, an unkempt yet gracious figure, and when she talks her false teeth +move slightly up and down. She will run and call her sister who is up on +the hill, and she will tell Madame Riflet as she goes. The news will +spread. The news always spreads. Already the people are gathering, for +<i>la Croix Rouge</i> is its own introduction; and these peasants, too +proud—most of them—to go and ask, will accept what is freely and +gladly given at their doors.</p> + +<p>The first person I call upon is Madame Cat. Shall I soon forget that +determined little face with its deep set blue eyes, and sharp features +unsoftened by the brown hair that is pulled back from her forehead? Or +the one room left in that tiny house, shattered and bare, yet stamped +indelibly with the character of its valiant occupants? The ashes are +swept in the fireplace. Two burnished shells tattooed in a careful +pattern and filled with flowers brighten the mantel. And the bed! Even +though made of fragments found in the debris, with naught but a hay +<i>paillasse</i> and a few old quilts dragged through the long flight and +return, it is nevertheless smooth and noble, adorned only with the +reverence and importance with which the French surround The Bed. The +daughter comes in, a thin music-voiced girl with a fine profile like her +mother's. They accept simply, and with appreciation, the useful things +the Red Cross offers. In this case I am authorized to make an unusual +present. For we have a few rolls of wall paper which we have been +holding for someone who takes a special pride in her interior. It would +cover the cracked and damp walls of Madame Cat and would add much cheer +to her little room, besides keeping out the wind. Their faces are +radiant at the suggestion. The daughter will come to the <i>poste</i> +tomorrow for it. Can they hang it themselves? "<i>Ah, c'est facile, +Mademoiselle!</i>" and the mother gives me her recipé for a wonderful glue +that will hold for years. They accompany me to the street.</p> + +<p>"You will come again soon, Mademoiselle, and see it for yourself?"</p> + +<p>I promise eagerly.</p> + +<p>Across the street lives Monsieur Martin. He comes from his house to +greet me and holds open the gate, a tall farmer in corduroys with +gentle, genial face. His wife had died during the cruel flight from the +invader, and he and his three sons have come back to the remains of +their old home. He apologizes for it, though I find it immaculate. +Shining casseroles hang by the hearth, the three beds are carefully +made, and on the fire something savory is cooking in a <i>cocotte</i>.</p> + +<p>"It needs a woman's touch," he says smiling. "We are four men and we do +what we can, but—" he finishes with a gesture of the helpless male +entangled in that most clinging, exasperating web of all—cooking and +dish-washing! "<i>Ca n'en finit plus, Mademoiselle</i>," he exclaims in +humorous misery. "One has no sooner finished, when one must begin again. +Bah! It is woman's work," with a lordly touch of imperiousness. It is +the ancient voice of Man.</p> + +<p>The next house is dark. No one answers my knock, and I lift the latch +and go in. The windows, being broken, are all boarded up to keep out the +dreaded drafts. It is a moment before I can see, though a quavering +voice that is neither man's nor woman's bids me enter. Gradually my eyes +make out two wise old faces of ivory in the obscurity by the hearth. +They are old, old—nobody knows how old they are.</p> + +<p>"<i>Entrez, Madame</i>," and the old woman rises with difficulty, leaning on +her cane, and draws forward a chair.</p> + +<p>"<i>Bonjour, Madame</i>," in far-away tones from the aged husband, too feeble +to move alone. I linger for some time with these two dear souls—for +they are scarcely more than souls. We talk of bygone, happy days, of the +war, and of their present needs—so few! Then I tell them I am American.</p> + +<p>"American?" says the old man, peering into my face, "that +means—friend."</p> + +<p>"Yes," I reply, "that means—friend."</p> + +<p>Then I come to a wooden <i>barraque</i>, a hive buzzing with children. They +are clambering at the windows and playing in the dirt before the door, +all clad in a many-colored collection of scraps which an ingenious +mother has pieced together. A little boy, wearing the blue <i>callot</i> of a +poilu on the back of his head, sits on the doorsill. He smiles and +stands up, and tells me his mother is inside. Within I find the mother +seated in a room of good-natured disorder, nursing her latest born. Her +lavish smile of welcome lights her broad sunburned face framed in tawny +braids, and she indicates a bench for me with the ease and authority of +a long practiced hostess. She sits there with the infant at her ample +breast, and on her face is written unquestioning satisfaction with her +part in life. A swift laughing tale I hear, of little frocks outgrown +and of sabots worn through, and no place to buy anything, and little +Jean so thin and nervous, "but no wonder, Mademoiselle, for he was born +during the evacuation, and only Cécile to take care of me, and she just +sixteen years old, and I had to be carried in a wheelbarrow." I picture +the flight, the father away at the front, the mother unable to walk, yet +marshalling her little ones, comforting, cajoling, scolding, and feeding +them through it all. The baby finishes with a little contented sigh and +the proud mother exhibits him. "It's a boy, Mademoiselle," as +exuberantly as though it were her first instead of her ninth. "<i>C'est un +petit garçon de l'Armistice</i>" with a happy blush.</p> + +<p>"Ah, let us hope that he will always be a little child of peace." But in +another moment she is playing with him, chucking him under the chin. +"<i>Tiens, mon coco! Viens, mon petit soldat</i>—you must grow up strong and +big, for you are another little soldier for France."</p> + +<p>Little Vauchelles, far away in the hills of the fertile Oise, I think of +you. I hope I may again visit you. And I wonder. What ripples from the +seething capitals will stir the placid thoughts of your stouthearted +peasants? And will your broad-browed women wait with age-old resignation +for the next wave of war, or will they catch the echo that is rebounding +through all the valleys of the world and join their voices in the +swelling chord for brotherhood?</p> + +<p>In your midst, where the three roads meet, still stands the image of +Christ on the Cross.</p> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13048 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + |