Paris during the War
PARIS DURING THE WAR
August 8th, 1914. The events, the emotions, the revelations, which have been packed into this first week in August 1914, will remain for ever with those who have been through them. When Germany declared war on France, Paris was indulging in dusty summer slackness and the tourists shared with the concierges the delights of the holiday season. But, on the issue of the order for general mobilisation, the whole country sprang to action with a gesture as graceful as it was orderly, and Paris put off her holiday garb for one of more martial appearance.
From the first moment, the mobilisation plans worked with clocklike regularity. The men obeyed their summons eagerly and the women bravely seconded them. In a week Paris has been stripped of her young men and it is impossible to walk down any street or avenue in the city without feeling the sting of sudden tears, or that grip al the throat which is even more painful Yet no men could have gone off in better spirits, and there have been few open demonstrations of grief from the women they have left behind. Both the highly and the lowly born have shown a most admirable self-control on all occasions. I saw to-day, a tall, slim man in the pale-blue uniform of a hussar regiment walking with his wife, his two children, and a nurse he bent to say something to his wife they caught his little girl by the hand and ran with her down the avenue, laughing gaily The boy stayed with his mother and as passed I caught a glimpse of the pain I the woman's face, and my own eyes grew dim. Another day I was on the Metro and the carriage was full of little soldiers of the line on their way to the Gare de l'Est, the Gare du Nord. Each man had a group of relations and friends with him; wife and children, mother and father, sweetheart and friends. They were all laughing and talking. The rare signs of distress came from the women, although now and then a man would begin kissing his child with passionate affection, or you would see a husband possess himself of his wife's hand and her lip would quiver as she returned his pressure. It was very painful, and even the poorest jokes were welcomed. I remember seeing a carriage full of people grow almost hysterical with laughter because an unmarried soldier with no belongings asked a married man with too many, whether he had brought the armoire a glace. It was not a brilliant effort, but it relieved the tension. All too often the last good-byes were but broken attempts at smiles, for not even love for La France could soften the pain of that last embrace. Yet how great that love is, no one can ever doubt who has seen the country mobilise.
All personal ambition, all personal grievances, have been swallowed up in that one great emotion, La France! Both the men and women have shown themselves eager and willing to offer themselves to save their country from the danger of a second defeat by Germany, and all the threats of civil war, Socialistic influence, and hooliganism have been wiped out in the splendid rhythm of battle array. Jaure's, the Socialist leader, was shot in the back as he sat in a café, by a man who was out of his mind and whose mother had died in a lunatic asylum. There was nothing grandiose in a death like that; but it was followed immediately by a noble gesture from Hervé, his fellow leader, who at once asked to be allowed to join his regiment and headed his paper, La Guerre Sociale, with 'On a assassiné Jaure's, voir qu'on n 'assassine pas la France.' The effect of this move from Hervé on the French Socialists was probably immense; at any rate, the whisper of civil war, which was already alarming the timid, was drowned in the cry of 'Vive la France!' and the singing of the 'Marseillaise.' Bands of young men parade the boulevards waving flags and demonstrating their sympathy with the war; but there was no undue boasting, none of the madness which marked 1870, and in a very few days the Government stopped all public expressions of enthusiasm except those which arose when a regiment went off to the front. Everywhere, by everyone, and in everything, the same splendid self-control is being shown, and the volatile Frenchman has proved himself a man of iron when the occasion demanded, even as the Frenchwoman has proved herself a steady helpmate to him in the hour of need.
English people in Paris during those first days of mobilisation went through some bad hours. Rumours came from home that England, in spite of the Triple Entente, might remain neutral. Pessimists whispered in our ears that the Government was determined to stand back until it saw its way more clearly, and French people began to look at us askance in the streets. Their eyes asked 'What are you going to do ? Their attitude was reserved, even a little defiant. Always, in the scraps of conversation which were wafted to one's ears from passing groups of people, through open windows, in cafe's and from the loges of the concierges, came : ' Est-ce que les Anglais vont marcher ? ' 'Est-ce que 'Angleterre va nous trahir ' And one's own French friends asked the same questions One woman went so far as to say : ' Est-ce que vous allez e~tre perfide encore ? ' And even when Sir Edward Grey had spoken, these doubts remained for yet a day or two longer. News from England came in slowly, and once a seed of doubt is sown in a French heart it has to be thoroughly eradicated before its owner will allow that any attempt to uproot it has been made. 'Est-il vrai que l'Angleterre va marcher ? asked one man of me with obvious anxiety. 'Because they tell me that even now you can back out of it if you like.' Yet at that time our navy was known to be in the North Sea and our army was mobilising as fast as it could.
To say that the English people in France were glad when great head4ines in the morning papers announced to the French nation that England had declared war on Germany, does not give an idea of our relief. Not that England was at war, but that England was loyal to her friends and swift to punish the breakers of treaties and the invaders of neutral territories. When the Union Jack waved side by side with the Tricolour and the Russian Eagle, and all France said 'loyal England' instead of 'perfide Albion,' was a great moment to English people who know France and French people.
Personally, I hold many tributes from French friends to my country's loyalty, and they are among my most precious possessions. Letters written spontaneously when the news was announced hold expressions of affection and appreciation for England's fine gesture which must always be immeasurably dear to me. One friend writes : Certes, notre union, notre sang-froid sont admirables; mais aussi la décision de la loyale Angleterre nous rend fiers et nous donne la plus absolue confiance dans la victoire.' Another, after telling me that her two sons, both married and with young families, were on the eastern frontier, says, 'I am glad that the Tricolour and the Union Jack are waving side by side. The one will give the other courage to fight and confidence in victory.' In the streets the populace showed the same quick appreciation; and everywhere frank smiles, quick gestures of politeness, were shown to English people. Workmen in the Metro offered their seats, there was no pushing in the crowd, and rough women, of the type that sent their menkind away with a recommendation to use their fists if they lost their rifle and their bayonet, would smile kindly on an English girl and say 'Mademoiselle est anglaise, amie de la France.' And thereupon add another greengage to the pound already weighed. My own servant, a sturdy woman 0£ the people, with a kind heart and a rude tongue when she likes, wept with joy when she knew that my country was fighting alongside her own and said naively, ' On est content avec l'Angleterre.'
Still further did the French people pay tribute to England's loyalty when they learned through Sir Edward Grey and Mr. Asquith of Germany's clumsy duplicity, and the last sitting of the French Parliament after general mobilisation was ordered was memorable for many reasons, not the least being that it was then that M. Viviani, the President du Conseil, laid bare the despicable part that Germany had played in her attempt to bribe England, and England's prompt refusal to have anything to do with her corruption. Men who were present at the last sitting came away deeply impressed. For the first time they had seen the French Chamber of one mind: Republicans, Royalists, Socialists, and these divided again into various degrees of each party's particular shade of opinion-all voted as one man for the war credits. They all stood to pay tribute to Jaure's, who had been quietly buried in the morning of that same day; the bench on which he had been accustomed to sit was left vacant and many men in the Chamber recalled his eloquence in times past with sincere emotion; those who shared the same ideas, and those who did not, alike remembered him with admiration.
The message of the President of the Republic, M. Poincaré, who came back from an official visit to Russia on the very eve of the war, was also received standing, and the house rose twice again on that day once to do honour to gallant little Belgium, which was resisting with all her might the attacks of Germany on her frontier; and again to show its appreciation of England's loyalty and friendship to France. When the house adjourned sine die, many of the deputies joined their regiments at once, and others were prepared to do so when the order came. What a different scene from those which marked the Parliament of 1870 ! Then, ministers rose and fell with the culpable inconsequence of the day, and the few sane men who were forced to stand by and see them commit their follies bowed their heads in shame and humiliation. To-day, the men at the helm are less volatile and France is alertly awake to her own capabilities, and, let it be remembered, to the strength of the machine she has set out to break.
INCIDENTS DURING THE MOBILISATION
August 12, 1914. Side by side with the waving flags and the gay brave voices singing the 'Marseillaise' flows a strong current of pain. How could it be otherwise ? All the vigorous manly life of France has been called to the colours, and the women are left, not 'to weep and to wring their hands,' but to do and to think for their families, to give what service they can to their country, and to bear, if God so wills it, the loss of all they hold most dear in the world.
There are no flags to help the women, no military music to cheer them, no splendid entrainement of camaraderie. But just hard dull routine, and the haunting dread of irreparable loss. All the more honour to them for taking up their burden so gaily, with such courage and with such determination to make the best of things. Everywhere the fine spirit of patriotism and self-sacrifice has been noticeable and only in the shadows of their eyes, or in the drawn look about their mouths, have their sufferings been obvious. It has been a revelation in human nature's possibility for heroic acts to see the French nation mobilise, and the brave attitude of the women will finely second the courageous deeds of the soldiers when the history of the war shall be written.
It is only since general mobilisation was ordered that we, of this generation, have realised the full meaning of conscription. We were accustomed to every man doing his two years (lately it has been three), and every year his twenty-eight or his twenty-one days. We agreed, more or less, that the discipline was good for him; and we thought very little more about it, unless it happened to interfere with any of our own personal plans. But when suddenly every man of one's acquaintance between the ages of eighteen and forty-eight is called up for service, the matter takes on quite another aspect. We are brought face to face with the fact that 'service' may mean death, and that every man in France between those ages is called out to meet it, to take his chance and to take it at once. There is no choice for him or for the women to whom his life is precious. The rich and the poor, the high and the low-they must all go ; for the army is a great social leveller and no respecter of persons as far as service goes. You go to lunch with a friend : three sons of the house are prepared to join their regiments- one is a cavalry officer, another is an officer of the line, and the third is a little piou-piou. The footman has already gone, the chauffeur goes to-morrow, and the concierge is waiting for his orders. On the way home, you look in at a quiet courtyard where one of the cleverest cabinet-makers in the world practises the art of mending old furniture in the leisurely fashion of all true artist-craftsmen. His sheds are closely shuttered, his tools are put away; for he, too, has gone to the war. In the evening, the maid brings a pair of shoes with : 'Madame, le cordonnier est parti, ou' faut-il que je donne les souliers de Madame a etre raccommodés ?’
Where, indeed ? For the cobblers, too, must go to the front. With the breakfast-tray in the morning come clumsy pieces of bread instead of crisp and dainty rolls-the bakers are so scarce that the authorities have sent out the order that only pain de menage is to made. The doctors, the lawyers, the leaders of cotillons, the polo players, the tango dancers-they have all gone, or they are on the point of going. The actors, the musicians, the playwrights, the novelists, the journalists-every one who is young enough has joined his regiment, and those who are left behind are the ones who grumble.
In the streets there are no buses. Some are carrying stores to the front, some are lying idle on the Champ de Mars, waiting for orders to follow. The Metro trains are rare and many of the ticket collectors are replaced by women. The trams, what few are still running, also have women conductors. The boulevards, the avenues, and streets show long deserted stretches where ordinarily the traffic is congested; and most of the private motors which still run fly the Tricolour or the Red Cross to show that they are commandeered. Fiacres and taxi-autos are still to be hired, but they are looked upon as luxuries rather than necessities in these days of economy and renunciation, and people who, a week ago, grumbled if they had to walk a quarter of a mile, now cheerfully trot the length of Paris rather than spend five francs on fares.
But of all the changes mobilisation has worked in Paris, none is more noticeable than the change in the manners of the Parisians; and whatever terrors war may bring in the coming days the memory of much that was pleasant during those days of preparation cannot be wiped out. Men are quick and kindly in their help to women and children women are tender and pitiful towards each other, and from class to class there runs a chord of sympathy which expresses itself in little gestures of courtesy such as we have not seen in Paris for many years. Every soldier in the army who has passed through Paris since August 2 has experienced the pleasant thrill of brotherhood as he marched through the crowded streets, and incidents grave and gay are not wanting as the days go by and the mobilisation nears completion. Some men receive a shower of flowers from a pretty woman's hands, others have miniature flags thrust at them by children; and one soldier called to a woman of the people to give him the flag her baby was waving for luck, but the woman called back, 'No, you will bring us a better than that.' Everywhere it is the same story of gaiety and eagerness for action on the part of the men; and on that of the women, a quiet acceptance of the responsibilities which are being left to them.
All that is simple and childlike in the Frenchman has been uppermost this week, and in nothing does he show these traits more obviously than in his attitude towards religion. It has so often been said that the Frenchman has no religion; but the Frenchman is like most other men, in time of great stress he turns to prayer. In a restaurant one evening, a group of ultra-Bohemian artists were giving a farewell dinner to a camarade who was to join his regiment on the following day, when some one reminded him that his regiment was likely to be one of the first engaged in action. 'Bah! ' was the quick retort, 'What do I care ? I confessed this morning; so it doesn't matter what happens now.' No one of all that little company of dare-devils thought it odd that he should feel like that; moreover, it is a well-known fact that since the mobilisation order came, men have been in hundreds to confess before leaving for the front. 'Monsieur le Cure' must help me with the prayers. I cannot remember much of my Credo, and I have quite forgotten my Confessor; but that doesn't matter, does it, M. le Curé ? What I want is to go away with a clean slate.' Many men have said more or less the same thing, and all have gone to the priest in the same spirit. There is nothing morbid about it, but just a childlike wish to go off with their hearts and souls washed clean, according to the lights and traditions of their race.
Another pretty incident of the mobilisation happened in a cremerie at Montmartre where Willette, the painter, was drinking a bowl of chocolate with the help of a croissant. Quite by chance he heard a little midinette who was sitting near him tell some friends that she had been to have her photograph taken for her future husband to carry with him to the front, and 'figurez-vous, mon petit, it is a complete failure J'ai l'air tellement triste, tellement malade, that it will make him unhappy even to look at it, and there is no time to have another done!
She was so sad about it, so disappointed, and so pretty, that Willette, without a word, whipped out pencil and book and in half an hour produced the most charming portrait the heart of woman could desire, and it has now gone to the front, carefully guarded in the tunic of a little piou-piou whose wit is as keen as the fun of Tommy Atkins is infectious.
Less picturesque incidents of the last two weeks were those which showed us bands of rough men and boys going round the city with hatchets, destroying all property that was marked by a German name, or anything approaching a German name. During some hours a great deal of damage was done, and several people were hurt, but the police dealt summarily with the malefactors, and since all has been calm. As a result of this momentary madness, however, every tradesman in Paris has run up a French flag above his doors and pasted on his shutters a legend to say what he is and where he is : 'Le patron est Francais et a rejoint son regiment, ainsi que tout son personnel.' 'Le patron est a la frontiere et laisse son magasin, sa femme et ses enfants sous la protection des citoyens de Paris.' Where the name over the shop is obviously German, the owner has put up his naturalisation papers as a proof of its right to be there, and a well-known dressmaker, whose partner was undoubtedly German, ingeniously covered the name-plate with patriotic flags, and put up a notice on the doors to say that the firm was French, and he himself was fighting for his country. A brave mattress-maker wrote on his door: ‘Le Matelassier est a la Frontiere.' Another tradesman politely informed his clients that he was a' la frontiere, and regretted that he was unable, therefore, to receive them as usual. Here and there an old legend, dating from times of peace, states confidently that the shop will reopen in September. We doubt it, for each day's news suggests that a long and painful struggle is before us.
Stories and proofs of the discourtesy and brutality of the Germans towards foreigners, wherever they come into contact with them, have caused the French people to rise up in their wrath and denounce them as savages and cowards. The men and women of the people very naturally draw no distinction between Germans and Germans, and it has been hard for more knowledgeable people to do so when courtesy has been wanting in high German quarters. The treatment of the French Ambassador in Berlin was unheard of. Not only was he unnecessarily sent home by Copenhagen; but before he was allowed to start at all, he was robbed, insulted, and made to pay for his own train in ready money, his banking account having already been confiscated by the German Government. The Dowager Empress of Russia was rudely prevented from returning to Russia, and was also despatched to Copenhagen. The Grand Duke and Grand Duchess Constantine were treated worse than emigrants; and as to consuls and their families, ordinary travellers and people who had been residents in Germany, no indignity was spared them when they asked for their passports, and in many cases they have been made to suffer hunger and actual insults. On the frontiers, already, terrible stories are current of the German soldiers shooting down children, threatening peaceful citizens, firing on the Red Cross, and breaking the laws of war in every direction and on every occasion.
Before the German Ambassador in Paris received his passports the Parisians were tempted in every way to do him some violence. But France has herself well in hand, and the sight of Germany using the weapons and manners of savages has only made her more determined to prove her power of self- control. Nevertheless, it was trying for the Parisians to see M. de Schoen's luggage standing for nearly a week in the courtyard of the German Embassy, while he himself walked up and down outside the gates, inviting observation and, some people say, an attack on his person. It has also been said that M. de Schoen persisted in frequenting, with ostentation, the clubs of which he was a member, thereby making it extremely uncomfortable for Frenchmen with whom he had for long been on friendly terms. A frigid politeness greeted him everywhere, and from no source did he receive the slightest cause for complaint. But not until the position was strained to breaking point did Germany recall her Ambassador, and men who knew him say that when he left he was greatly changed. Much of his self-confidence and high manner had disappeared, and on more than one occasion he is reported to have broken down completely. His departure was attended by the usual ceremony, and although it was conducted with funereal silence no courtesy was omitted that was officially due to an Ambassador.
M. William Martin, the chef du protocole, was rigorously ceremonious throughout; but, instead of taking the hand that was offered to him by M. de Schoen, he bowed sternly and stood immovable to watch the Ambassador on to the platform and into his special train.
The leave-taking of the Austro-Hungarian Ambassador, Count Scezsen, took place some days later; and that, too, was left until the patience of the French nation was almost at an end. The press grew sarcastic about the affection the Austrian Ambassador was showing for the delightful gardens of the historic Embassy in the Rue Vaneau, and repeatedly His Excellency was asked by the Government to explain his lingering. Finally, however, he received orders from Vienna to ask for his passports, about the delivery of which there was no delay. Once again M. William Martin was called upon to conduct the ceremony of an ambassadorial departure, and it must be said that Count Scezsen showed more savoir faire in his leave- taking than Baron von Schoen; for he did at least have the politeness to send a telegram to the French Government, thanking it for its courtesy in providing for his comforts en route, a delicate attention the German Ambassador neglected to observe.
The social importance of the German and the Austro-Hungarian Ambassadors in Paris is such that their attitude and behaviour during this crisis has been much discussed. Their rank, officially and socially, their splendid dwelling-places, their riches, are all of enormous influence in Parisian society; and the foreign diplomatic world, which is, perhaps, the leading social world in Paris, is all agog with gossip about the personalities round and about both embassies. The exclusiveness of the haughty Austrian aristocracy was only equalled by the powerful Prussian spirit which reigned at the German Embassy, and both were recognised as important factors in the land by the Parisians.
FOREIGNERS IN PARIS DURING THE WAR
It is now August 17 and in spite of the anxiety and tension which every one feels about what may be happening on the frontiers, life in Paris is subsiding into superficial calm. We are growing accustomed to martial law, to the complete suppression of all pleasures, to deserted streets, closed shops and the cutting down of every possible expense in our private lives. It seems almost natural that the cafe's should be closed at 8 o'clock every evening, that most of the newspapers should be reduced to a single sheet, and that sheet filled solely with news about the war; news, moreover, that is told ten times over and then told again. For the Ministere de la Guerre has announced that no information from the seat of war will be forthcoming for several days.
The latest governmental measure in the interest of promoting order and quelling excitement in the city is the suppression of the sale of absinthe everywhere. The green fiend is thus a prisoner of war, and there are no open protests against her imprisonment. It is also forbidden that the public shall dine or drink their coffee sitting outside the restaurants. All tables and chairs are ordered to be taken from the pavements outside the cafes, and even the ornamental shrubs and plants have been put away and the streets look very shaven and shorn in consequence.
But no one dreams of rebellion, and a calm that is almost melancholy reigns everywhere. Ten days ago, the scene was very different. Then, all was confusion, orderly confusion as far as the military authorities were concerned, and even the Government seemed quite calm and pleased with itself. But with the public, especially the foreigners, it was a very different tale. The Parisians were undecided whether to go or stay, and the foreigners were busy getting their official papers which would allow them either to leave for home or to stay in France by special permission. Men and women of all nationalities flocked to their embassies, their consulates, the police station of their particular quarter and to the stations for railway tickets. English, Americans, Austrians, Germans, Russians, Poles, Italians, Chinese, and Japanese, of all sorts, conditions, and ages, besieged the officials to know what they were to do and how they were to do it. Large printed notices set forth in curt terms how short was the time allotted for the necessary formalities to be gone through; and greatly did they alarm those who knew neither French nor the French people.
Some people had money, some had none, and a great many had the wrong sort of money. Some wanted to stay, others to go, and a still greater number did not know what they wanted to do; but all, no matter what their wishes, had to stand in the streets outside the official buildings, through all weathers and for as long as eighteen hours and more, before their turn came to be questioned by one or other of those special specimens of humanity who sit in inferior official state, with authority to make 'crooked places straight' and the invariable habit of making them more twisted than ever in an extremely unpleasant manner. Old men dropped from sheer fatigue, women fainted under the strain and stress of hunger and long standing, impatient men lost their tempers, and more than once very unpleasant quarrels happened between the crowds and the police, and among the crowds themselves; for they were made up of an extremely motley collection of men and women. On the Place de l'Italie the scene was one to be forgotten as quickly as one's nose and one's imagination would allow. All the degenerates of every race seemed to collect before that particular police station; and as they waited, hour after hour, day after day, for a week and more, their appearance and atmosphere became more and more unpleasant. They have now returned to their respective eyries in Paris, or to their own countries; but the memory of them still remains with some of us, and we still ask ourselves what part many of them would play should the revolution promised by the pessimists ever burst upon us.
In the richer quarters of the city the scene was rather that of a picnic than anything else, but a picnic from which all the gaiety has been abstracted : well-dressed women sat moodily on boxes borrowed from a neighbouring grocer, and allowed themselves to be sustained with cakes and glasses of syrop and water, bought for them from the patissier next door by their husbands or sons. Others were fed by friends on the outside of the crowd who had already been given their papers; some went hungry all day long because they dared not lose their places and had no one to bring them anything. Men of all kinds waited and grumbled, raged, or remained silent-men whose names impress one in the big reviews-novelists, explorers, painters, illustrators ; they were all in the same circumstances; and, according to their temperament and philosophy, so did they bear with the discomforts of the hour. Sudden friendships were born, unconsidered confidences were made and strong antagonisms were felt in those trying hours. A big Australian told of his happy experiences in England, an American lady related her adventures in many lands, an Englishman who had been decorated with the Legion of Honour put its value to the test and was ushered in to receive his papers irrespective of other people's numbers, patience, or devotion. Another Englishman spent two hours interpreting for the convenience of a policeman and several people who could not speak or understand French, and by so doing lost his turn to go in for his own papers. 'But, . .' he began.
'No use! ' said the policeman for whose convenience he had been so busy. 'You have lost your turn, you must now go to the back of the crowd and see you don't do it a second time.' Such is the reward of virtue!
The wit of the officials who gave out, or withheld, the passports which allowed foreigners either to go or to stay in France during the war, had full play, even during the busiest days, and no thought of the weary waiting throngs outside would make any of these important persons hurry in the very least. They flourished their pens, twirled their moustaches and gave vent to their bons mots and their sarcasms with the utmost sang-froid. They retired for their meals with great regularity, and announced the fact personally to their waiting victims. Two hours for luncheon and a pause for an occasional aperitif made pleasant intervals for them; but for the crowds outside in the drenching rain, or the burning sun (and we had both), they meant merely prolonged torture. To humiliate further the people they were supposed to be helping, these 'Jacks in office' took every opportunity to sharpen their own wits on the ignorance of foreign women both in the language and in the laws of the land, and their behaviour was all the more noticeable in that, elsewhere, politeness and courtesy are the invariable rule.
At the railway stations the confusion was even worse than at the consulates and police stations. All traffic, except for military purposes, was stopped or nearly so, and the most weird stories are told of people who slept in the stations and in the trains for several nights and days on end before leaving for England. The same weary waiting for tickets went on here as for passports at the consulates; and when, after a day or two of standing a ticket was bought, much time was spent in deciphering the written number on the back of it, which indicated the one and only train for which it was available. No luggage except hand luggage was allowed, and that was limited ; no tickets except third-class ones were of any use, as there was no distinction of class, and compartments intended to hold ten people frequently carried fifteen or nineteen. The journey to England took anything from fourteen to twenty-four hours, and the people who had not put Keating's powder in their hand-bags were very unhappy indeed during that time; for the trains were all old ones which had not been in service for many months, and they were in consequence very dusty and stuffy. All these things were uncomfortable, but they were not tragic; and although some people grumbled a little, the majority took everything quite cheerfully and found nothing but praise for the general organisation of the railway authorities and the politeness of the porters, who, in times of peace, are known to be somewhat lacking in that particular virtue.
Strenuous energy was also shown at the various homes, hostels, and clubs for English and American women in Paris during all the early days of this month. They were overwhelmed by members, and people travelling through Switzerland and elsewhere, and the services they gave to helpless women and girls who suddenly became panic-stricken are countless and very valuable. They lodged and fed twice the number of people their houses were supposed to provide for, and they helped each distracted traveller to get through the formalities necessary for departure with a patience and courtesy it is impossible to praise too highly. There have been moments during these recent days when one has felt inclined to put patience, courtesy, and all the gentle arts of living, higher even than courage, energy, and brilliance; and certainly they stand higher than that terrible form of serving one's country which shows itself in pushing all things and every one aside so that a flag may be waved in a prominent position, indifferent to the fact that several people are suffering from the bruises and batterings they have received from this very energy.
A PICTURE OF PARIS
August 21.-Paris has stiffened her back to the rigorous necessities of martial law, and the attitude suits her well. She wears very few fine feathers in these days and her jewels are put away altogether. Her gardens bloom and her fountains play and the glory of the sunset gilds her domes and turns her river into a liquid stream of light. But there are no night-time revelries, and the poetry that is born of the fumes of absinthe is no longer written; for the cafe's still close at 8 o'clock and the restaurants at 9.30. Ml the theatres are shut, not even a cinema is open. Music is never heard, either in private or in public, even children have set aside their scales, and students of singing their exercises. The museums are closely shuttered, and we know that many of the treasures of the Louvre have been safely put away in iron or steel cases, so that if a German aeroplane should drop bombs there is every chance that they will not be injured. The streets are swept and patriotic flags wave from every window, and most of the shops are closed in the Rue de la Paix and along the boulevards. Big shops like the Printemps and the Bon Marche are open, but with a very much reduced staff of assistants. No motor-buses dash about the streets, no luxurious private cars, and even the taxi-autos and fiacres are rare in comparison to what we see in ordinary times. Heavy commercial traffic no longer exists, but military traffic is considerable and extremely swift. A notice has been put up that civil traffic is to give way before it, and we now slow down at all corners to avoid being crushed by some motor-car flying the Tricolour or the Union Jack and going at break-neck speed. All the private cars have been requisitioned for military service and great grey lorries, charged with foodstuffs, uniforms, wire netting, barbed wire, ammunition and every possible kind of war material, rush through Paris night and day.
The markets and the flower kiosks still brighten the boulevards, the fruit barrows and little flower wagons continue to tempt foot passengers to buy, but the gaiety and the mocking wit of the boulevard population have now turned to a quiet strained anxiety.
As far as actual material needs are concerned, we have little to grumble about. Food is plentiful and moderate in price, and fruit has never been cheaper or better. In the early days of the month we had something rather like a panic about provisions, as everybody recalled the stories of 1870 and prepared for a siege. The French housewives waited in hundreds outside the provision shops for many days on end, and the result was a shortness of all dry foods and preserves. It was not a pleasant sight to see; for many of the women were still red-eyed from saying good-bye to their menkind, and the shopmen were sometimes unable to make out their bills from sheer emotion and anxiety. 'You will excuse me, Madame,' said one man to me, 'but my son left last night and I have not slept, c'est maiheureux, but I am incapable of adding up the simplest sum to-day !'
Poor man, his son was killed in his first action, and the last time I went by the shop all the women assistants were wearing mourning. The masses of stores which were collected in those first days of the war must still be lying in the cupboards of those who secured them at such pain of limb and with such wonderful patience. Certainly they have not been used; for half the people who bought so recklessly in their prudence are now flying away to the provinces, to England, or to America. One woman I know carried off her daughter and child and left her servant with a houseful of eatables. 'Ask your brother, the policeman, to come with his wife and family to help you eat up that great big ham,' said her mistress, 'and there is cheese enough to last you six months.' Other mistresses were less considerate and left both servants and dogs to fend as best they could, with disastrous results.
Money, also, was difficult to get in those early days, for there was as great a rush on the banks as there was on the provision shops, and crowds waited all day outside the bank buildings to pass before the caisse to draw out what they could. Foreigners inundated American and British banks, clamouring for money to leave the country, and it was almost funny to see millionaires going about with enormous cheques which they could not change, and aggrieved expressions at being forced to walk or take the Metro' because their small change would not allow of them hiring a cab. Later on, when the paper money was issued, things righted themselves somewhat; but it is still difficult to get anything over a twenty-franc note changed in a restaurant, and for the first time I have seen an English sovereign fetch less than its face value: there were days when the exchange was as low as 21 francs 50 centimes.
People with children began to get very scared when milk supplies became limited, and the authorities were obliged to take the matter up seriously. For a week or two, only families with children were sure of getting any milk at all; and they had to register at the mairie, stating how many children there were and what were their ages. In some cases, the officials demanded to see the children, fearing that they were being deceived. What was over of milk when the accredited people had been served was sold to those who got there first; but milkless tea and black coffee were the breakfast drinks of many of us for quite a lengthy period. We even boasted about it a little, thus proving that our hardships were not very grievous.
August 28.-Beyond the fact that English troops are being landed all along the northern coast of France we have had no news from the front for days. The communiqués tell us nothing ; the rest of the paper, no matter what its name, is just 'packing.' Regularly, our household devours seven or eight papers a day, and if we read one of the seven we should be just as wise. In the morning, for breakfast, we search diligently through the Echo de Paris, the Figaro, and the Matin. At mid-day we buy Paris Midi, before that we study the Daily Mail and the New rork Herald. In the afternoon we buy the Temps and sometimes we indulge in the Liberte and the Intransigeant. Whenever The Times or the Morning Post comes our way, we feel as if we had been talking to the General Staff, until we realise that, after all, we are none the wiser as to the real way things are going. Then there are the rumours which come through the soldiers, the journalists, the ministries and the scaremongers. To tell a tithe of what we hear would fill a volume. But it is obvious that every one is getting more and more anxious every day, and there is even fear for the safety of Paris. ' Some one in the Ministry' advises a friend of lii5 to leave Paris. 'Some one against the Government' hints darkly at treachery. The man who serves you with coffee berries mutters angrily that it is useless to provision yourself, for all Paris will be in the flames of revolutionary fire before another week has gone. A letter from England says that it is rumoured in London that the flower of the British Army is already 'wiped out.' How I have learned to hate that phrase since the war began!
Then all at once we hear that the Belgian Government has retired from Brussels to Antwerp, and immediately afterwards we know that the Germans are in Brussels. Following sharply on this comes the burning of Louvain! And not only Paris, but all the civilised world, stands aghast before such vandalism. Then come Malines and Termonde, and before we have hardly realised that the British Expeditionary Force is in France we learn that it has already suffered great loss in the fighting line and the great, decisive attack near Waterloo has failed. Just how and when we learned all these things in Paris I cannot say, for the great feature of our lives during these last weeks in August is our complete ignorance of the real state of the military position. Fact and rumour jostle each other from one end of the city to the other, and many strong-nerved men and women are put to the most severe test by the cross currents which sway their opinions and judgments backwards and forwards without leaving them a single point d'appui of which reason can be proud. Instinct is the only thing left to us in these days, and the men come off badly in consequence.
With every bad communiqué the nervousness of the population increases very rapidly, and in one day over 40,000 people left the city. They poured out in motor-cars and thronged the stations in search of trains.
The anxiety is particularly noticeable among the foreigners and bourgeoisie, and every day sees the residents in the richer quarters of the city closing their shutters and bidding their concierges good-bye. Mysterious rumours are, to a great extent, answerable for this state of things, and never has the old proverb about the danger of a little knowledge had better demonstrations. Everybody has a special source of information, and those which come from ministerial circles are all pessimistic. The advice is 'Leave Paris,' in the majority of cases, and the foreign embassies do all they can to persuade people to go.
The American Embassy, in particular, has been besieged by inquiring subjects of the United States, and the patience and courtesy of the many officials are being severely taxed. 'You advise me to go, then ?' 'Yes.' 'Then you think there is danger?' 'As to that, I should not care to say, but the Ambassador advises all people who are not obliged to stay, to go.' 'But if I stay, I shall be safe ? ' 'That I cannot be answerable for.' 'Then you think Paris will be bombarded?' By this time the unhappy attaché or whatever he might be, is edging the lady to the door, and it is probably on account of such encounters that a notice has been put into the New York Herald to advise Americans 'for obvious reasons' to leave Paris as quickly as possible. Already the stampede has begun; and, as the French and English have received information of much the same kind, there is much confusion in the land and not a little terror.
In the working quarters of the city the scene is quite different. Every one is calm and no one thinks of moving. Very few people are in employment, and those who have no economies are obliged to live on the State grant of I franc 25 centimes a day, with 50 centimes extra for each child under sixteen. In the warm August weather the women sit at their doors and windows sewing patiently; the children play in the streets, where there is no traffic to speak of. The old men and boys lounge about reading the newspapers, or do odd jobs about the house, and the great event of the day is the publication of the evening papers. At five o'clock every one rushes to the boulevards in the hope of news.
In spite of their outward calm, however, the people, as well as the bourgeoisie, realise that things are not going well at the front, and there is not one among them but recalls the treachery of 1870 and fears that it may be the same this time. The panic sowers are getting very active and some of them are extremely dangerous. They sit in the wine shops and talk, they buttonhole people in the streets and whisper, they even hold forth on the box-seat of the cabs they drive, and we ourselves, on one occasion, were much reviled by other drivers because our cabman would insist on turning his back to his horse the better to address us with much eloquence and no sense on the subject of the war. He poured forth volumes of recrimination against every one in power, and accused all the world of treachery against France. 'You will see,' he said, ' in two weeks the Prussians will be in Paris. Already they are at Reims.' We scoffed at him. In the meantime, he nearly ran into several motor-cars, just failed to knock over two foot passengers, and missed by a hair's-breadth ever so many lamp-posts.
With so many excitable elements in our midst, the situation is a nervous one, and no one realises the danger more than those steady women in the streets, who go about their daily tasks with such calmness and dignity. In their hearts they fear terribly for the husband who is fighting and for the children who are left in their charge; but they do not show it, and it is for that reason they have my most profound admiration. They will scarcely speak of the war, although they devour the daily papers, and to all Inquiries as to what they think, they answer: 'Qu'est-ce que vous voulez ? If they come, they come!' And they go on with their stitching, calmly, but not very hopefully.
In the midst of all this anxiety and mystery the papers have suddenly woken up all Paris to something like excitement by announcing that there are great governmental changes. A National Defence Government has been formed, and the Military Governor has been changed. M. Millerand is Minister of War, M. Briand is Minister of Justice, and M. Delcassé is Minister of Foreign Affairs. In place of General Michel, as Governor of Paris, we now have General Gallieni. The uninitiated are extremely surprised and not a little alarmed at this sudden announcement; and the rumours which follow on its heels of the dangers we have all been running, and may still run, are not reassuring. Apparently, neither General Michel nor M. Messimy were the best men for the posts, but we are assured that General Gallieni and M. Millerand will soon strengthen all the weak points. As to the Government in general! Well, we all know what every one always thinks of the Government, no matter what it happens to be. Moreover, M. Caillaux is said to be dictating even now, and there are stories going round which declare him to be Paymaster-General of the Forces. It is all very uncomfortable and nerve-racking, and that we are walking on very thin ice seems the only fact about which we can be positive.
The immediate result of General Gallieni's appointment as Governor of Paris is the suppression of all special newspaper editions and the order that no paper is to be cried in the streets. The difference this order has made to the life of the city is extraordinary. We have been for so long accustomed to the false excitement of those raucous cries, 'La Patrie!' 'La Presse!' and a dozen others, that not to hear them is as remarkable as not to hear the crashing of the motor-buses and the rushing of traffic in general. No longer do we see those peculiarly alarming men rushing along the streets with their loads of papers and their harsh voices. In their places, we have all sorts of quaint newspaper sellers : small boys, little girls, gentle old women and pretty young ones. A few of the irrepressible spirits have found ways of drawing special notice to their particular paper by writing the name in large letters and sticking it in their caps. Others sing in low tones, 'Will you buy my paper, the name of which I am not allowed to cry ?' A patient, silver-haired old woman moans pathetically, 'La Guerre Sociale! '-and a nice little boy offers you Le Bonnet Rouge much as he might ask you to tell him the story of Red Riding Hood. Newspaper selling is, indeed, almost a gentle art under General Gallieni's stern rule.
Undoubtedly, we are passing through curious times in Paris, and occasionally we realise it, in spite of much that is apparently normal. A certain amount of business goes on, the charities are very active, the weather is glorious and the food is plentiful and cheap. It would be delightful to wander about the gardens and parks if our minds were less anxious, and the long, broad, silent avenues are pleasant places in which to loiter in the twilight. Every evening brings us a sunset that is more beautiful than the last, and the nights fall ' as a benediction.'
Yet, for all our outward calm, we are most unhappy about the future of Paris. Anxiety is mounting to a flood; and, with every new move from the military authorities or the Government, the entire population lifts its head in alarm. Rumours of very unpleasant things come from the front, and the emphasis with which the writers of articles in the daily papers implore us to have confidence, patience, and calm begins to irritate us. The only consolation we have is the invariable report that the nearer you get to the fighting line the more cheerful is the outlook. All the soldiers are confident and in good spirits, and the idea of anything but victory never enters their heads, or if it does, they certainly never let it find expression in words.
Further consolation came to us with the public announcement of the new treaty between the Allies, which was a security against peace being concluded with Germany unless agreed upon by all three Powers. But then, as we sighed with relief at the present precaution, we shivered in thinking of the dangers which had necessitated it. The fantastic stories which grew up round the making of that treaty were worthy of the hour in which they were born No wild invention was too wild to be believed, and what General Joffre had threatened, what Lord Kitchener had sworn, what Sir John French had affirmed, and what politicians of evil repute had failed to achieve, made up a volume of sensational literature suggestive of a cinema drama. Moreover, we did not yet know if Paris was to be defended or not in case of a German advance, everything hung uncomfortably in the balance, and we were the helpless spectators who, at any moment, might be forced into active members of the struggle or unwillingly passive victims of Prussian brutality.