With Those Who Wait
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Frances Wilson Huard >> With Those Who Wait
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The brilliant noonday sun shone down and bathed everything in gold.
In the shadow of the little church the engine, attended by two
white-bearded men, churned along, from time to time sending forth a
shrill whistle. Women with bandana handkerchiefs tied down closely
about their heads, unloaded the carts, and lifting the heavy sheaves in
their brawny arms, would carry them to the machine, where others,
relieving them, would spread them out and guide them into the aperture.
Two handsome girls that might have served as models for goddesses
stood, pitch-fork in hand, removing the chaff. The breeze blowing
through it would catch the wisps and send them dancing in the air,
while the great generous streams of golden grain flowing from the
machine seemed like rivers of moulten metal.
The children and tiny babies lay tucked away in the straw, sound asleep
beneath a giant elm that shaded one corner of the square. Now and
again a woman would leave her companions and wiping the perspiration
from her brow, approach this humble cradle, lift her infant in her
arms, and seeking a secluded spot, give it suckle.
I cannot tell how long I stood watching this wonderful rustic
spectacle, so rich in tone and colouring, so magnificent in its
simplicity, so harmonious in movement. There was no undue noise--every
motion seemed regulated, the work accomplished without haste but with
an impressive thoroughness. Here then was the very source of the
country's vitality. Elsewhere the war might crush and destroy lives,
cities and possessions, but this was the bubbling spring-head from
whence gushed forth, unrestrained, the generative forces; stronger than
war, stronger than death, life defiantly persistent. And I was seized
with an immense pride, an unlimited admiration for these noble, simple
women of France who had had the courage to set forth such a challenge!
For it is the women who have done it, of that there can be no doubt.
[Illustration: MAXENCE]
The census indicates that in 1914 the total number of inhabitants
within this little village was seven hundred and fifty. Of these, one
hundred and forty men were mobilised, and forty-five have already been
killed. The masculine element, therefore, has been reduced to a
minimum.
Thevenet, the carpenter, grocery man and choir leader, gifted with a
strong voice and a shock of curly black hair, but lame in both legs, is
certainly, when seated behind his counter, the noblest specimen of the
stronger sex that the village possesses.
His pupil, disciple and companion, called Criquet, is, as his pseudonym
indicates, extremely small of stature, and though he regularly presents
himself before the draft boards, he has invariably been refused as far
too small to serve his country in the ranks.
Of course, there are quite a number of sturdy old men, who have had
ample occasion to do their bit by helping their daughters or their
sons' wives on their farms. So in the village itself there remains
hardly any one.
Old man Magnier is so bent with rheumatism that each movement is
accompanied by an alarming cracking of his bones, and one is tempted to
ask him not to stir for fear of suddenly seeing him drop to pieces, as
would an antiquated, over-dry grandfather clock, on being removed from
a long stay in the garret.
Monsiau, the inn-keeper, is ready and willing to do almost anything but
he is so terribly stout that the slightest physical effort causes him
to turn purple and gasp for breath. He therefore remains seated,
nodding like a big Buddha, half dozing over the harangues of his friend
Chavignon, the tailor, whose first name, by the way, is Pacifique. But
in order to belie this little war-like appellation, Chavignon spends
most of the time he owes to the trade dreaming of impossible plans and
preparing ghastly tortures, to which the Kaiser shall be submitted when
once we have caught him.
Bonnet, the hardware dealer, in spite of his seventy-eight years, comes
and goes at a lively pace--coughing, grumbling, mumbling--always in a
hurry, though he never has anything special to attend to.
And finally there is Laigut; Laigut whom one consults when at his wits'
end, simply because he knows everything in general, and nothing in
particular, his knowledge covering all the arts and sciences as resumed
in the Grand Encyclopedia. He is a little man with spectacles, and a
short grey beard, costumed winter and summer alike in the same suit of
worn brown velvet, a rabbit skin cap on his head, his feet shoved into
wooden sabots.
His reputation before the war was not what one would call spotless.
His passion for fowl (other people's on principle) had led to his being
strongly suspected. He was a poacher, as well, always ready to bring
you the hare or the pike you needed, at a fixed date and hour, more
especially when the shooting and fishing seasons were closed.
His was one of those hidden geniuses which the war had revealed.
Otherwise we should never on earth have suspected him of being so
capable. But be it requested that he repair a sewing machine, a
bicycle or a watch; sharpen a pair of scissors, put in a pane of glass,
make over mattresses, shear a horse, a dog or a human, paint a sign,
cover an umbrella, kill a pig or treat a sprain, Laigut never
hesitates, Laigut is always found competent. Add to this his commerce
in seeds and herbs, his talent for destroying snakes and trapping
moles, the fact that he is municipal bell ringer and choir boy, and you
will have but a feeble idea of the activities of this man whose field
seems so unlimited.
In a little old shed behind his house he carefully stores the
innumerable and diverse objects which are confided to his care, and
contrary to what one might suppose, he bears no malice for the lack of
esteem bestowed upon him in times gone by. Not at all. His breadth of
character is equalled only by the diversity of his gifts. From time to
time a fowl may still disappear, but none save _Maitre Renard_ is now
accused. In these days there are so many foxes about!
If I may seem to have gone deep into detail concerning these people it
is only because I am anxious to make better understood what life means
in a village without men. That is to say without valid men who care
for the cattle, steer the plough, keep the furrows of equal depth and
straight as a die; rake, hoe and sow; reap, harvest and carry the heavy
burdens, in fact, perform all the hard, fatiguing labour that the
upkeep of the soil requires.
And yet, in spite of their absence, not a foot of ground has been
neglected. The cattle are robust and well cared for, the harvests
reaped and brought to cover, the taxes and the rents have been paid,
and down under the piles of linen in those big oak cupboards lie many
blue bank notes, or several bonds of the National Defense. And France
has crossed the threshold of her fifth year of war.
To whom is this due? The women.
There were no training schools to teach them how to sow or reap--no
kindly advisors to take the husbands' places and tell them what animals
to keep and feed, at what time to sell, or at what price. They had to
learn from hard experience, taxing their intuition and great common
sense to the utmost.
And with it all they are so shy and modest; at heart a little bit
ashamed when you speak to them in terms of admiration for what they
have done.
"We didn't really know what to do at the end of that first year when we
found there wasn't any one to take care of the ground," explained Julie
Laisne, who lives just behind Aunt Rose.
"I would have tried to plough, been glad to do it, but I was afraid the
others would make fun of me," said Anna Troussiere.
"That's just the way I felt about it," exclaimed Julie. "I nearly went
crazy when I knew time was flying, winter coming, and no wheat in.
I've no doubt it was the same with all the others. Then one day the
news ran round like lightning that Anna was out ploughing her fields,
with her kid and her grandfather to help her. Nobody took the time to
go and see if it was true. Each one got out her plough. Of course,
the first furrows were not very straight, but soon we got used to it,
and Lord, how we laughed over my first attempts, when my husband came
home the next fall on furlough."
I wish that some great master of the pen might paint in words as simple
as the Golden Legend, in stanzas as pure as the Litanies of the Holy
Virgin, the picture of this little Julie, up and about with the first
rays of dawn, always hard at work, and whom when night has closed in I
have often come upon, bending over beneath her tallow candle, writing
to the dear one at the front. To this task as to all the others she
concentrates her every effort and attention, anxious that no news be
forgotten,--news which is as fresh and naive as the events and the
nature that inspires it. "The sow has had twelve little pigs, the
donkey has a nail in its hoof, little Michel has a cold, and butter now
sells for forty-three sous the pound."
Her farm is too small and brings in too little for her to dream of
taking on some one to help. But she keeps three cows, and three
calves; a dozen or two pigs, a donkey and all the chickens she can
afford to feed. Forty acres is quite a responsibility for so small a
person, and it requires lots of courage to replace the missing muscle,
to till the soil, care for the kitchen garden and the animals, and send
three small children off to school on time, all of them washed and
combed, without a hole in their stockings or a spot on their aprons.
It needs something more than courage to be able to sing and dissimulate
one's anxieties, to hide in one corner of that envelope that will be
opened by him "Out there," a little favourite flower, tenderly cared
for, nursed to maturity.
"Bah!" she laughs as I sympathise. "It might be bad if one were all
alone in his troubles. But we're all in the same boat, down here!"
Yes, all of them have done their duty--more than their duty, the
impossible. In other villages it is just the same--in other Provinces.
From one end to the other of France such marvels have been accomplished
that the government decided that so much devotion merited recompense.
So one fine morning a motor was seen to stop in front of the Cafe
Lacroix, a gentleman in uniform (some say it was the Prefet)
accompanied by two other men, got down and walked over to the town hall
that is near the church.
A few moments later Criquet was dispatched on bicycle to Anna
Troussiere's and Claudine Charpin's, with orders to bring them back
with him.
He soon returned accompanied by the two frightened creatures, who
fearing ill news had not unrolled their sleeves nor removed the
handkerchief from their heads, but jumped on their bicycles and
hastened to the town hall.
Then suddenly the gentleman in uniform appeared on the steps, made them
a little speech, and stepping down pinned a medal on their heaving
breasts. He thrust a diploma which bore their names into their
trembling fingers, shook hands with them most cordially, and mounting
in his car, drove away in a cloud of dust.
Every one, much excited, gathered around the two women. The medals
were handed about, commented upon.
"Beautiful," exclaimed Criquet who is something of a wag. "I think
they're made of bronze. Too bad they're not chocolate so you might
give us all some."
"Claudine," said Anna Troussiere, "it's time we went home if we don't
want to be teased to death. Goodness, if only we'd known, we might
have brushed up a bit!"
But the incident did not end there. The government, anxious to show
its gratitude, offered to send them help, in the shape of war
prisoners. The proposition was tempting. A bourgeois who had several
big farms said he would accept four. This almost caused a revolution.
The four Germans were quartered in a shed and an old territorial
mounted guard over them.
"They were good fellows," Julie explained when she told me the story.
"Hard workers too. Very kind to the animals and understanding
everything about a farm. I don't know--I used to have a funny feeling
when I saw them. But, poor souls, I don't suppose they wanted the war,
they'd probably have much rather been home and yet they were as
obliging as could be. Always ready to lend a hand when there was a
hard job to be tackled.
"They made rather a good impression, and two or three of our women
farmers had almost decided to send for some. Well, this lasted until
the next Sunday. As they were all catholics, of course they came to
church, and were seated on the first bench, with their sentinel at the
end. Everything went finely until the Curate got up to preach, first
reading the announcements for the week. When he asked that prayers be
said for Jules Lefoulon and Paul Dupont, both from our parish and both
killed on the Field of Honour, and we looked up we could see the four
Boche sitting calmly in front of us--I can't tell you what it meant!
Every one was weeping. Of course, we didn't let them feel it. They
saluted every one most politely, you could almost see that they weren't
bad men--but every one said, 'No, none of their help needed. We've got
on without them up till now. I fancy we can see it through.'"
Even Madame Fusil, the baker, who was in most urgent need of
assistance, resolved to be equal to her task alone. It is her little
daughter who delivers the bread to all the numerous patrons, quite a
complicated undertaking for so young a child, who must drive her poor
old nag and his load down many a bumpy side path. One can hear her
little voice all over the country side. "Here Jupiter--get up, I say."
I met her one morning in the Chemin du Moulin, whip in hand, pulling
old Jupiter by the bridle. But Jupiter had decided to take a rest.
Nothing could make him budge, nothing, neither cries nor complaints,
sweetmeats nor menaces. Jupiter was as determined as he was obstinate.
The unfortunate child was red with indignation, almost on the verge of
tears.
"_Oui, oui,_" she fairly sobbed, "he just ought to be sent to the
front. That would teach him a lesson. He does it on purpose, I do
believe. He knows well enough I'll be late to school! It's already
half past seven. I've got three more deliveries to make, and must take
him home and unharness him!"
"What time did you start out, child?"
"Why, four o'clock as usual, Madame. But I'm sure to be late this
morning."
I promised that as I was passing by the school I would step in and tell
Madame Dumont, the head mistress, the reason of her tardiness. She
felt much better after that, and presently our combined efforts got
Jupiter to move.
True to my word I sought out Madame Dumont, and found the good woman
already extremely busy at this early hour.
A peasant mother and her three children all arrayed in their Sunday
best, were grouped together at one end of the garden, smiling blandly
into the lens of a camera which the school mistress set up and prepared
to operate.
"There--that's it--smile! Click! It's all over. Now then, Magloire,
climb up on a chair. Hold yourself quite straight, dear, so your papa
will see how much you've grown."
Magloire was photographed with her nose in the air, her mouth wide
open, her other features registering the most complete lunacy. Joseph,
her brother, at whom they fairly shrieked in order to make him smile,
produced the most singular contortion of the mouth that I have ever
seen, which denoted an extreme gift for mimicry, rare in so young a
child.
Little Marie was taken on her mother's lap, and I thought of the
ecstasy of the brave fellow to whom one day the postman would bring the
envelope containing the glorious proofs. With what pride he will show
them to his companions, how he will gloat over his Magloire and his
Joseph, his petite Marie and his _bonne femme_. Then, drawing away
from the others, he will study them again, each one in turn. Nights
when on duty, those cold nights of vigil, way out there in Saloniki,
when fatigue and homesickness will assail him, he will slip his hand
down into his pocket, and his rough fingers will touch the grease
stained envelope that contains the cherished faces of his dear ones.
It all recalled other powder-blackened hands clenched forever about
soiled remnants of envelopes, from which protruded the edge of a
precious photograph. A shiver ran down my spine as the brave mother
and her three little ones passed by me on their way to change their
clothes--assume their humble dress.
"_Merci, Madame Dumont. Merci bien._"
"At your service, Madame Lecourt." And Madame Dumont turned to examine
her mail. Rather voluminous in size, but with the Mayor, his
substitute, and her husband at the front, she had become town clerk,
and the quantity of paper and printed matter a village like this daily
receives, is quite unbelievable. Quickly the little school mistress
ran through the envelopes, finally breathing a deep sigh of relief.
"Ah, nothing this mail, thank Heaven!"
"Why, what were you expecting?"
"Oh, I wasn't expecting anything, but I live in terror of finding that
fatal official bulletin announcing the death of some man in our
community. Each time I leave the house, the eyes of every living soul
are fairly glued to me. The women here love me, I know, and yet I feel
that I frighten them.
"If on going out I start up the road, those who live below here breathe
again, relieved. You cannot imagine the tricks I must resort to in
order not to arouse false suspicions. Then, as soon as I open their
door they know the reason of my coming, and what poor miserable
creatures I often take in my arms and try vainly to console.
"Ah, Madame, the wives you can cope with, say things to, put their
babies in their arms. But the mothers, Madame, the mothers!"
"And no one complains, Madame Dumont?"
"No one, Madame, they all know that we've got to win this war."
All along the road home I walked slowly, lost in reverie. But I had no
time for musing after my arrival, for Aunt Rose met me at the doorstep,
a small boy by her side.
"Listen, my dear," she cooed, "I've a great favour to ask you. Would
you mind walking around to the farms and telling them that Maxence will
be here to-morrow morning? His little boy has just come over to tell
me."
The coming of Maxence produced an indescribable enthusiasm wherever I
announced the news. Maxence is the only blacksmith in Neuilly. Of
course he's serving in the artillery, but during his quarterly ten-day
_permissions_, he tries to cover all the work that is absolutely
indispensable to the welfare of the community. He arrived much
sun-burned and tanned, accompanied by two other chaps who were not
expected, having travelled two days and two nights without stopping.
They seated themselves before a succulent repast prepared by Madame
Maxence, and in the meantime the crowd began gathering in the shop.
"Get in line! Get in line!" he called to them joyfully. "Give me time
to swallow my coffee and I'll be with you."
Abandoning his uniform, he put on his old clothes, his sabots and his
leather apron, and for ten long days the hammer beat incessantly upon
the anvil.
Sometimes between strokes he would look up and smile, calling out:
"Why, they won't even give me time to catch a mess of fish, or go to
see my grandmother at Paray!"
There is always some tool to be repaired, a last horse to be shod.
"What do you know about this for a furlough! And every time it's the
same old story."
The others, all those whom I have seen return from the front, do
exactly as did Maxence.
Pushing open the gate, they embrace their pale and trembling wives,
cuddle the children in their arms, and then five minutes later one can
see Jean or Pierre, clothed in his working suit, seized and subjected
by the laws of his tradition.
Sunday though, the whole family must go to Mass. The careful housewife
has brushed and cleaned the faded uniform, burnished the helmet, put
new laces in the great thick-soled shoes. The children cling to their
father, proud of his warlike appearance. Then afterwards, of course,
there are many hands to be shaken, but no extraordinary effusions are
manifested.
"Ah, home at last, old man!"
"You're looking splendid. When did you get here?"
"Did you come across Lucien, and Bataille's son?"
They hardly mention the war. They talk of the weather, the crops, the
price of cattle, but never of battle. I have even found a certain
extraordinary dislike for discussion of the subject. Or when they can
be persuaded to speak, they laugh and tell of some weird feat.
"There are those who make the shells, those who shoot them, and those
who catch them. We're doing the catching just at present. There
doesn't seem to be much choice!"
They return, just as they came, without noise, without tears.
"Gigot's son's gone back this morning."
"Is that so? How quickly time flies!"
They take the road with a steady step, loaded down beneath their
bundles. But they never turn their heads for a last good-bye.
"Aren't you going to mend my pick-axe, Maxence?" queried an old
neighbour.
"Sorry, mother, but I've got to leave."
"Well, then, it'll be for next time."
"If next time there is!"
There is that terrible conditional "If" in all such village
conversations, just the same as in every conversation all over France.
Two years ago still another "If" hung on every lip. The hope that it
entertained seemed so vastly distant that no one dared give it open
utterance. But each in his secret soul nurtured and cherished the
idea, until at length those whispered longings swelled to a mighty
national desire,
"If only the Americans . . ."
They have not hoped in vain. The Americans have come.
FINIS
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