With Those Who Wait
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Frances Wilson Huard >> With Those Who Wait
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The mere sound of his name would plunge him into ecstasies of joy,
accompanied by the wildest yapping and strange capers, which invariably
terminated by a double somersault in the mud so anxious was he to
convince us of his gratitude. Imagine then what might be obtained by a
caress, or a bowl of hot soup.
Last in line, but by no means least, was a splendid English pointer, a
superb, finely bred animal, who day in, day out would lie by the open
fire, lost in a profound revery that terminated in a kind of sob.
Poor, melancholy _Mireille_, what master was she mourning? For what
home did she thus pine? How I respected and appreciated her sadness.
How intensely human she became.
Finally when I could resist no longer I would take her long delicate
head into my hands and gently stroke it, seeking to impart my sympathy.
"I know that you never can be mine," I would murmur, "that you will
ever and eternally belong to him to whom you gave yourself once and
entirely. But these are sad anxious days for us all; we must bear
together. And so as my own dogs have often been my only consolation in
like times of misery and despair, oh, how I would love to comfort
you--beautiful, faithful, disconsolate Mireille!"
II
Cities, like people, seem to have souls, deep hidden and rarely ever
entirely revealed. How well must one come to know them, stone by
stone, highways, homes and habitants, ere they will disclose their
secret. I have rejoiced too often in the splendid serenity of St. Jean
des Vignes, felt too deeply the charm of those ancient streets, hoped
and suffered too intensely within its confines that Soissons should not
mean more to me than to the average zealous newspaper correspondent,
come there but to make note of its wounds, to describe its ruins.
Fair Soissons, what is now your fate? In what state shall we find you?
What ultimate destiny is reserved for your cathedral, your stately
mansions, your magnificent gardens? What has become of those fifteen
or sixteen hundred brave souls who loved you so well that they refused
to leave you? _Qui sait_?
One arrived at Soissons in war time by long avenues, shaded on either
side by a double row of stately elms, whose centenary branches
stretching upward formed an archway overhead. Then came the last
outpost of Army Police, a sentinel stopped you, minutely examined your
passports, verified their vises, and finally, all formalities
terminated, one entered what might have been the City of Death.
Moss and weeds had sprung up between the cobble stone pavings; as far
as eye could see not a human soul was astir, not a familiar noise was
to be heard, not a breath of smoke stole heavenwards from those
hundreds of idle chimneys: and yet life, tenacious ardent life was
wonderfully evident here and there. A curtain lifted as one passed, a
cat on the wall, a low distant whistle, clothes drying at a window, a
flowering plant on a balcony, sometimes a door ajar, through which one
guessed a store in whose dimly lighted depths shadows seemed to be
moving about; all these bore witness to an eager, undaunted existence,
hidden for the time being perhaps, but intense and victorious, ready to
spring forward and struggle anew in admirable battles of energy and
conscience.
The Hotel du Soleil d'Or offered a most hospitable welcome. It was the
only one open or rather, if one would be exact, the only one still
extant. To be sure there were no panes in the windows, and ungainly
holes were visible in almost all the ceilings, but the curtains were
spotlessly white and the bed linen smelled sweet from having been dried
in the open air.
A most appreciable surprise was the excellent _cuisine_, and as
ornament to the dining-room table, between a pair of tall preserve
dishes, and on either side of the central bouquet, stood an unexploded
German shell. One of them had fallen on to the proprietor's bed, the
second landing in the pantry, while twenty or thirty others had worked
more efficiently, as could be attested by the ruins of the carriage
house, stables, and what had once been a glass covered Winter garden.
On a door leading out of the office, and curiously enough left intact,
one might read, _Salon de conversation_. If you were to attempt to
cross the threshold, however, your eye would be instantly greeted by a
most abominable heap of plaster and wreckage, and the jovial proprietor
seeing your embarrassment, would explain:
"My wife and the servants are all for cleaning up, but to my mind it's
better to leave things just as they are. Besides if we put all to
rights now, when our patrons return they will never credit half we tell
them. Seeing is believing! At any rate, it's an out of the way place,
and isn't bothering people for the time being."
And truly enough this mania for repairing and reconstructing, this
instinct of the active ant that immediately commences to rebuild its
hill, obliterated by some careless foot, has become as characteristic
of the French.
The Sisters of St. Thomas de Villeneuve, who were in charge of an
immense hospital, had two old masons who might be seen at all times,
trowel in hand, patching up the slightest damage to their buildings;
the local manager of a Dufayel store had become almost a fanatic on the
subject. His stock in trade consisted of furniture, china and crockery
of all kinds, housed beneath a glass roof, which seemed to attract the
Boches' special attention, for during the four years of war just past,
I believe that scarcely a week elapsed during which he was not directly
or indirectly the victim of their fire.
The effects were most disastrous, but aided by his wife and an elderly
man who had remained in their employ, he would patiently recommence
scrubbing, sweeping and cleaning, carefully reinstating each object or
fragment thereof, in or as near as possible to its accustomed place.
It was nothing less than miraculous to survey those long lines of
wardrobes that seemed to hold together by the grace of the Almighty
alone; gaze upon whole rows of tables no one of which had the requisite
number of legs; behold mere skeletons of chairs, whose seats or backs
were missing; sofas where gaping wounds displayed the springs; huge
piles of plates each one more nicked or cracked than its predecessor;
series of flower pots which fell to pieces in one's hands if one were
indiscreet enough to touch them.
"I don't see the point in straightening things out so often"--was my
casual comment.
"Why, Madame, what on earth would we do about the inventory when peace
comes, if we were not to put a little order into our stock?" was the
immediate reply.
I was sorry I had spoken.
Among the other numerous places of interest was the store of a dealer
in haberdashery and draperies. An honest, well equipped old fashioned
French concern, whose long oak counters were well polished from
constant use. The shelves were piled high with piece after piece of
wonderful material, but not a single one of them had been exempt from
the murderous rain of steel; they were pierced, and pierced, and
pierced again.
"So pierced that there is not a length sufficient to make even a cap!"
explained Madame L., "but you just can't live in disorder all the time,
and customers wouldn't like to see an empty store. Everything we have
to sell is in the cellar!"
And true enough this subterranean existence had long ceased to be a
novelty, and had become almost a habit.
From the basement windows of every inhabited dwelling protruded a stove
pipe, and the lower regions had gradually come to be furnished almost
as comfortably as the upper rooms in normal days. Little by little the
kitchen chair and the candle had given way to a sofa and a hanging
lamp; beds were set up and rugs put in convenient places.
"We live so close to the trenches that by comparison it seems like a
real paradise to us," gently explained Madame Daumont, the pork
butcher. Her _charcuterie_ renowned far and wide for its hot meat
pates, ready just at noon, had been under constant fire ever since the
invasion, but had never yet failed to produce its customary ovenful at
the appointed hour.
"At the time of the battle of Crouy," she confessed, "I was just on the
point of shutting up shop and leaving. I'm afraid I was a bit hasty,
but three shells had hit the house in less than two hours, and my old
mother was getting nervous. The dough for my pates was all ready, but
I hesitated. Noon came, and with it my clientele of Officers.
"'_Eh bien, nos pates_? What does this mean!'
"'No, gentlemen, I'm sorry, but I cannot make up my mind to bear it
another day. I'm leaving in a few moments.'
"'What? Leaving? And we who are going out to meet death have got to
face it on empty stomachs?'
"They were right. In a second I thought of my own husband out there in
Lorraine. So I said to them 'Come back at four o'clock and they'll be
ready.'"
And then gently, and as though to excuse herself, she added--
"There are moments though when fear makes you lose your head, but there
doesn't seem to be anything you can't get used to."
"You soon get used to it" was the identical expression of a young
farmer's aid who sold fruit, vegetables and flowers beneath an archway
that had once been the entrance to the Hotel de la Clef. She had
attracted my attention almost immediately, the brilliant colours of her
display, and her pink and white complexion, standing out so fresh and
clear against the background of powder-stained stones and chalky ruin
heaps.
The next day, after an extra heavy nocturnal bombardment, we went out
in search of a melon. A shell had shattered her impromptu showcase,
dislocated a wall on one side of the archway, which menaced immediate
collapse. In fact, the place had become untenable.
"Oh, it's such a nuisance to have to look for another sure spot," was
the only lament. "Just see, there's a whole basket of artichokes gone
to waste--and my roses--what a pity!"
An explosion had gutted the adjacent building leaving an immense breach
opening on to the street from what had once been an office or perhaps a
store-room.
"Just wait a moment," she pleaded, "until I get set up inside there.
You can't half see what I've got out here."
Five minutes later I returned and explained the object of my quest.
"We've only got a very few, Madame, our garden is right in their range,
and we had a whole melon patch destroyed by splinters, only day before
yesterday. I had three this morning, but I sold them all to the
gentleman of the artillery, and I've promised to-morrow's to the
Brigade Officers. I hardly think I shall be able to dispose of any
more before the end of the week. But why don't you go and see 'Pere
Francois'? He might have some."
"You mean old Pere Francois who keeps the public gardens?"
"Yes, Madame."
"Oh, I know him very well. I've often exchanged seeds and slips with
him. Does he still live where he used to?"
"I believe so."
We were not long seeking him out, and in response to our knocking his
good wife opened the door.
"Oh, he's out in his garden," was her reply to our queries. "You can't
keep him away from it. But he's going crazy, I think. He wants to
attend to everything all by himself now. There isn't a soul left to
help him, and he'll kill himself, or be killed at it as sure as I'm
alive. You'll see, the shells won't miss him. He's escaped so far but
he may not always be so lucky. He's already had a steel splinter in
his thumb, and one of them tore a hole in his cap and in his waistcoat.
That's close enough, I should think. But there's no use of my talking;
he just won't listen to me. He's mad about gardening. That's what he
is!"
On the old woman's assurance that we would find him by pounding hard on
the gateway leading to the Avenue de la Gare, we hastened away, leaving
her to babble her imprecations to a lazy tabby cat who lay sunning
itself in a low window box.
The old fellow being a trifle deaf we were destined to beat a rather
lengthy tattoo on the high iron gate. But our efforts were crowned
with success, for presently we heard his steps approaching, his sabots
crunching on the gravel path.
His face lighted up when he saw us.
"Oh, I remember you, of course I do. You're the lady who used to have
the American sweet peas and the Dorothy Perkins. I know you! And the
dahlias I gave you? How did they turn out?"
I grew red and sought to change the conversation. Perhaps he saw and
understood.
"Come and see mine anyway!"
That sight alone would have made the trip worth while.
"I cut the grass this very morning so as they'd show off better!
They're so splendid this year that I've put some in the garden at the
Hotel de Ville."
Further on the _Gloire de Dijon, La France_ and _Marechal Niels_ spread
forth all their magnificent odorous glory onto the balmy air of this
Isle de France country, whose skies are of such exquisite delicate
blue, whose very atmosphere breathes refinement.
I felt my old passion rising;--that passion which in times gone by had
drawn us from our sleep at dawn, and scissors and pruning knife in
hand, how many happy hours had H. and I thus spent; he at his fruit
trees, I at my flower beds, cutting, trimming, scraping, clipping;
inwardly conscious of other duties neglected, but held as though
fascinated by the most alluring infatuation in the world--the love of
nature. Here now in this delightful garden kept up by the superhuman
efforts of a faithful old man, the flame kindled anew.
In an instant H. had discovered the espaliers where _Doyenne du
Cornice_ and _Passe Cressane_ were slowly but surely attaining the
required degree of perfection beneath Pere Francois' attentive care.
As I stood open mouthed in wonder before the largest bush of fuchsias I
had ever yet beheld, an explosion rent the air, quickly followed by a
second, the latter much closer to us.
"Boche bombs! Come quick," said Pere Francois without seeming in the
least ruffled.
Led by the old man we hastened to a tiny grotto, in whose depths we
could hear a fountain bubbling. Legion must have been the loving
couples that have visited this spot in times gone by, for their vows of
fidelity were graven in endearing terms on the stony sides of the
retreat. _Leon et Marguerite pour toujours, Alice et Theodore, Georges
et Germaine_ were scrawled above innumerable arrow-pierced hearts.
"All things considered, I'd rather they'd send us over a shell or two
than bomb us from above!" ejaculated Pere Francois, who spoke from
experience.
"It was one of those hateful things that hit my Japanese pepper tree on
the main lawn, and killed our only cedar. The handsomest specimen we
had here! It makes me sick every time I throw a log of it on to the
fire in the Winter. I can't tell you how queer it makes me feel. Of
course, it's bad enough for them to kill men who are their enemies, but
think of killing trees that it takes hundreds of years to grow. What
good can that do them?"
The Boche deemed at a safe distance, we visited the vegetable garden
where we purchased our melon and were presented with any number of
little packets containing seeds. We protested at the old man's
generosity and sought to remunerate him.
"Nothing of the kind; I wouldn't think of accepting it. It's my
pleasure. Why it's been ages since I had such a talk as this. I'm so
glad you came. So glad for my roses too!" and he started to cut a
splendid bouquet.
"I've been saying to myself every day," he continued, "Isn't it a pity
that nobody should see them? But now I feel satisfied."
At the gateway we held out our hands which he took and shook most
heartily, renewing his protestations of delight at our visit, and
begging us to "Come again soon."
"To be happy one must cultivate his garden," murmured H., quoting
Voltaire as we made off down the road. And within a day or two we
again had an excellent proof of this axiom when we discovered that Abbe
L. still resided in his little home whose garden extended far into the
shadow of St. Jean des Vignes.
That worthy ecclesiastic gave over every moment that was not employed
in the exercise of his sacred functions to the joys of archaeological
research, and was carefully compiling a history of the churches in the
arrondissement of Soissons and Chateau-Thierry. He had been our guest
at Villiers, and I remember having made for him an imprint of two
splendid low-relief tombstones which date back to the 15th century, and
were the sole object and ornament of historic interest in our little
village chapel.
This history was the joy and sole distraction of his entire existence,
and he never ceased collecting documents and photographs, books, plans
and maps, all of which though carefully catalogued, threatened one day
to take such proportions that his modest dwelling would no longer
suffice to hold them.
We found him comfortably installed behind a much littered kitchen table
in a room that I had heretofore known as his dining room. I was a bit
struck by its disorder, and the good man was obliged to remove several
piles of papers from the chairs before inviting us to be seated.
"I trust you will forgive this confusion," he begged, "but you see a
shell hit my study yesterday noon, and has forced me to take refuge in
this corner of the house which is certainly far safer."
"I've had an excellent occasion to work," he continued. "Our duties
are very slight these days, and the extreme quiet in which we live is
most propitious for pursuing the task I have undertaken."
"But, Monsieur l'Abbe," we cried. "What a paradox! And the
bombardment?"
"Really, you know, I've hardly suffered from it--except when that shell
struck the house the other morning. Of course, the whole edifice
shook, and at one time I thought the roof was coming through upon my
head. My ink bottle was upset and great streams trickled to the floor.
But Divine intervention saved my precious manuscript which I was in the
very act of copying, and although my notes and files were a bit
disarranged, they were easily sorted and set to rights. So you see
there was nothing really to deplore and God has graciously seen fit to
let me continue my work. It is such a joy to be able to do so."
Strange placidity! the immediate countryside for miles around having
long since been delivered up to brutal destruction, wanton waste,
hideous massacre, and a goodly number of the churches of which the
pious man was taking so much pains to record the history, were now but
anonymous heaps of stone.
All the way home I could not refrain from philosophising on the
happiness of life, perfect contentment, and the love of good. My
reflections, while perhaps not particularly deep nor brilliant, were
none the less imbued with a sense of gratitude to the Almighty, and
filled with pity and respect for poor human nature.
It is certain that for such people, the idea of escaping the terrors,
the dangers and the sight of most horrible spectacles, had not weighed
an instant in the balance against the repugnance of altering life-long
habits, or abandoning an assemblage of dearly beloved landscapes and
faces.
Naturally enough, a certain number of commercial minded had remained
behind, tempted by the possibility of abnormal gain through catering to
the soldier; and to whatever had been their habitual merchandise, was
soon added a stock of mandolins, accordions, cheap jewelry, kit bags,
fatigue caps and calico handkerchiefs--in fact all that indispensable,
gaudy trumpery that serves to attract a clientele uniquely composed of
warriors.
But, besides these merchants, there were still to be counted a certain
number of well-to-do citizens, professors, government employes, priests
and magistrates, all simple honest souls who had stayed because they
were unable to resign themselves to an indefinite residence away from
Soissons, and there was no sacrifice to which they were not resolved in
advance, so long as it procured them the joy of remaining.
I accompanied the President of the local French Red Cross Chapter on a
visit to a lady who was much interested in an _ouvroir_, and who lived
in a splendid old mansion located near the ruins of the Palais de
Justice.
The little bell tinkled several times, resounding clearly in the
deathlike silence, and presently a young maid-servant made her
appearance at a small door that opened in the heavy portico.
"Is Madame at home?"
"Oh, no, Madame! Why didn't Madame know that both Monsieur and Madame
left for the seashore last evening? Shall I give Madame their address
at Houlgate? They've been going there for the last twenty years. They
will be back the first of September as usual."
"How stupid of me," exclaimed my companion. "I might have known
though. We shall discover what we wish to know from Madame V."
We found the last mentioned lady and her daughter in a pretty dwelling
on the boulevard Jeanne d'Arc. After presentations and greetings:
"You are not leaving town this Summer?"
"Not this season; unfortunately our country house is at present
occupied by the Germans, and as the mountains are forbidden, and the
sea air excites me so that I become quite ill, I fear we shall have to
remain at home, for the time being at least. The garden is really
delightfully cool though--we sit out there and sew all day."
I asked permission to admire the exquisite embroidered initials which
both mother and daughter were working.
"I'm so glad you like them. Do you know we found that monogram on an
old 18th century handkerchief? We merely enlarged it, and really feel
that we have something quite unusual. But my table cloths are well
worth it, they were the very last that were left at the Cour Batave. I
doubt if any finer quality will ever be woven."
"Your daughter will have a wonderful trousseau."
"She will have something durable at least, Madame, a trousseau that
will stand the test of time and washing," replied the good mother
smiling blandly, touched by my appreciation.
"I still have sheets which came down to me from my great grand-mother,
and I hope that my own great grand-sons will some day eat from this
very cloth."
"But they will never guess under what strange circumstances it was
hemmed and embroidered," gently proffered the young girl raising her
big blue eyes and smiling sweetly.
"Bah, what difference does that make so long as they are happy and can
live in peace? That's the principal thing, the one for which we're all
working, isn't it?"
Such is the spirit that pervades all France. It is simple,
undemonstrative heroism, the ardent desire of a race to last in spite
of all. What more imperturbable confidence in its immortality could be
manifested than by this mother and daughter calmly discussing the
durability of their family linen, within actual range of Teuton gunfire
that might annihilate them at any moment?
As we were about to leave Monsieur S. came up the front steps. He had
been out in company of a friend, making his habitual daily tour of the
city. Like most middle aged, well-to-do bourgeois his attire was
composed of a pair of light trousers, slightly baggy at the knee, and a
bit flappy about the leg; a black cutaway jacket and a white pique
waistcoat. This classic costume usually comports a panama hat and an
umbrella. Now Monsieur S. had the umbrella, but in place of the panama
he had seen fit to substitute a blue steel soldier's helmet, which
amazing military headgear made a strange combination with the remainder
of his civilian apparel. Nevertheless he bowed to us very skilfully,
and at that moment I caught sight of a leather strap, which slung over
one shoulder, hung down to his waist and carried his gas mask.
[Illustration: MONSIEUR S. OF SOISSONS WITH HIS GAS MASK]
For several days I laboured under the impression that this mode was
quite unique, but was soon proved mistaken, for on going to the Post
Office to get my mail (three carriers having been killed, there were no
longer any deliveries) I discovered that it was little short of
general. Several ladies had even dared risk the helmet, and the whole
assembly took on a war like aspect that was quite apropos.
Thus adorned, the octogenarian Abbe de Villeneuve, his umbrella swung
across his back, his cassock tucked up so as to permit him to ride a
bicycle, was a sight that I shall never forget.
"Why, Monsieur le Cure, you've quite the air of a sportsman."
"My child, let me explain. You see I can no longer trust to my legs,
they're too old and too rheumatic. Well then, when a bombardment sets
in how on earth could I get home quickly without my bicycle?"
As visitors to the front, we were guests of the French Red Cross
Society while in Soissons. The local president, whose deeds of heroism
have astonished the world at large, is an old-time personal friend.
A luncheon in our honour was served on a spotless cloth, in the only
room of that lady's residence which several hundred days of constant
bombardment had still left intact. Yet, save for the fact that paper
had replaced the window panes, nothing betrayed the proximity of the
German. Through the open, vine grown casement, I could look out onto a
cleanly swept little court whose centre piece of geraniums was a
perfect riot of colour.
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