France at War

In spite of their love of drama, there is not much "window–dressing" in the French character. The Boche, who is the priest of the Higher Counter–jumpery, would have had half the neutral Press out in cars to advertise these vast spectacles of men and material. But the same instinct as makes their rich farmers keep to their smocks makes the French keep quiet.

"This is our affair," they argue. "Everybody concerned is taking part in it. Like the review you saw the other day, there are no spectators."

"But it might be of advantage if the world knew."

Mine was a foolish remark. There is only one world to–day, the world of the Allies. Each of them knows what the others are doing and—the rest doesn't matter. This is a curious but delightful fact to realize at first hand. And think what it will be later, when we shall all circulate among each other and open our hearts and talk it over in a brotherhood more intimate than the ties of blood!

I lay that night at a little French town, and was kept awake by a man, somewhere in the hot, still darkness, howling aloud from the pain of his wounds. I was glad that he was alone, for when one man gives way the others sometimes follow. Yet the single note of misery was worse than the baying and gulping of a whole ward. I wished that a delegation of strikers could have heard it.

. . . . . . .

That a civilian should be in the war zone at all is a fair guarantee of his good faith. It is when he is outside the zone unchaperoned that questions begin, and the permits are looked into. If these are irregular—but one doesn't care to contemplate it. If regular, there are still a few counter–checks. As the sergeant at the railway station said when he helped us out of an impasse: "You will realize that it is the most undesirable persons whose papers are of the most regular. It is their business you see. The Commissary of Police is at the Hotel de Ville, if you will come along for the little formality. Myself, I used to keep a shop in Paris. My God, these provincial towns are desolating!"

PARIS—AND NO FOREIGNERS

He would have loved his Paris as we found it. Life was renewing itself in the streets, whose drawing and proportion one could never notice before. People's eyes, and the women's especially, seemed to be set to a longer range, a more comprehensive gaze. One would have said they came from the sea or the mountains, where things are few and simple, rather than from houses. Best of all, there were no foreigners—the beloved city for the first time was French throughout from end to end. It felt like coming back to an old friend's house for a quiet talk after he had got rid of a houseful of visitors. The functionaries and police had dropped their masks of official politeness, and were just friendly. At the hotels, so like school two days before the term begins, the impersonal valet, the chambermaid of the set two–franc smile, and the unbending head–waiter had given place to one's own brothers and sisters, full of one's own anxieties. "My son is an aviator, monsieur. I could have claimed Italian nationality for him at the beginning, but he would not have it." . . . "Both my brothers, monsieur, are at the war. One is dead already. And my fiance, I have not heard from him since March. He is cook in a battalion." . . . "Here is the wine–list, monsieur. Yes, both my sons and a nephew, and—I have no news of them, not a word of news. My God, we all suffer these days." And so, too, among the shops—the mere statement of the loss or the grief at the heart, but never a word of doubt, never a whimper of despair.

"Now why," asked a shopkeeper, "does not our Government, or your Government, or both our Governments, send some of the British Army to Paris? I assure you we should make them welcome."

"Perhaps," I began, "you might make them too welcome."

He laughed. "We should make them as welcome as our own army. They would enjoy themselves." I had a vision of British officers, each with ninety days' pay to his credit, and a damsel or two at home, shopping consumedly.

"And also," said the shopkeeper, "the moral effect on Paris to see more of your troops would be very good."

But I saw a quite English Provost–Marshal losing himself in chase of defaulters of the New Army who knew their Paris! Still, there is something to be said for the idea—to the extent of a virtuous brigade or so. At present, the English officer in Paris is a scarce bird, and he explains at once why he is and what he is doing there. He must have good reasons. I suggested teeth to an acquaintance. "No good," he grumbled. "They've thought of that, too. Behind our lines is simply crawling with dentists now!"

A PEOPLE TRANSFIGURED