- from the book
- 'Paris Waits'
- by M.E. Clarke (1915)
Suspense
SUSPENSE
THE last Sunday in August was one of those particularly golden summer days when Nature seems to throw out her beauties with an almost too generous hand. In the early morning, Paris was a symphony of blue and silver mists, which later on unfolded into golden splendour. The way out to St. Germain-en-Laye showed the river and surrounding hills in all their rich and peaceful beauty, and as the train crossed the three bridges before climbing the steep hill which leads to the grey old town, a series of delightful pictures was discovered to us. Grey houses clustering along the river banks, gardens glowing with summer flowers, peaceful meadows, vine-clad terraces and, brooding over all, the wooded hills already touched with autumn gold. Everything seemed to breathe of a beauty so intense that it was almost painful, for behind it all came the question 'Will it soon be a scene of desolation instead of peace ? It is that question at the back of our minds which makes us look at every familiar object in and around Paris with a touch of pain and a great increase of affection in these days. Up in the old provincial town, with its chateau, its church, its historic houses, and its countless memories of Royal France, the same spirit of anxiety which prevails in Paris was found to prevail there. Very few people walked down the cool green alleys of the woods, the terrace was almost deserted, the blue distances sang their harmonies to an unobservant population, and Paris lay before them with something ominously mysterious in her landmarks. The sun touched Sacré-Coeur into a gleaming, opaque-like beauty, the Eiffel tower took on an almost human meaning as a receiver of news from the scene of war, Mont Valerien frowned with an air of comfortable strength; but is it as strong as it looks, and will it stand against those terrible German siege guns ? The test is, perhaps, to come; but in the meantime all is peace.
Just at the foot of the terraced hill, on a quiet reach of the Seine, lie a string of barges, immobile, waiting, with the heights of Marly and the aqueduct of Louveciennes rising in the background. Hidden among the woods are several little forts and away behind them all is the entrenched camp of Paris, which has a circumference of 145 kilometres and the strength of which, when fortified by our armies, is estimated as sufficient to hold the enemy back from Paris. It is only within the last two days or so that we have seriously considered the invasion of Paris. For a month and more, every one has said, 'They will not see Paris this time.' But we are not so sure now, and once again the Parisians have to face the possibilities of a siege and the probability of an attack.
Only this morning General Gallieni sent out an order to the effect that all people living within the dangerous zone of the forts must be prepared to evacuate their houses at an hour's notice and the inhabitants of St. Germain are already moving into Paris or going to further fields of safety. It is sad to think that the stately little town may be bombarded, that its charming old-world houses may be destroyed, that the ugly church, in which lies the tomb of James Stuart, may be burnt and that the chateau may go with the rest. The woods, the terrace, the broad parterre, are all familiar paths to us; and our hearts sink as we turn our backs on them and on our own particular dwelling - a small white house standing in a walled garden, shaded by beautiful trees, and at present gay with flowers. It is a painful moment to close the garden door behind us, to leave our field-spaniel, Jimmie, in the care of a forest guard; and still more painful is it to listen to our humble neighbours whose faces are grave with anxiety for those they have sent to fight and for those who remain at home. There is not a father or mother who is not haunted by alarming tales of Belgian atrocities, and many are planning to take their children to places of safety, even if they themselves come back to face what may happen, as many of them must. The older people in the town remember 1870, and it was one of them who told us that although the Prussians did no harm to the town, they levied a heavy tax on the inhabitants and demanded that it should be paid within twenty-four hours.
When we got back to Paris in the evening, after a journey of one hour and a half instead of the usual thirty-five minutes, we heard that a German aeroplane had flown over the city and had dropped two bombs, neither of which had done any harm, and at the same time, a written message, signed by a lieutenant of the German army, telling the Parisians they had nothing to do but surrender as they, the Germans, were at the gates. His Prussian pride must have been distinctly hurt to see how little effect his bombs and his insolence had on the Parisian population. People were curious to see the hole in the street which the bomb had made, and in the evening it was visited by crowds of interested spectators. Otherwise, no notice was taken of the event; and on the boulevards, between seven and eight, people were sitting on the terraces quite calmly, discussing the evening papers and the incident of the bombs. No official news had come through, but there were many rumours and none of them were good. 'We are going to have an interesting time now,' said a newspaper man, and a French playwright at once told us stories of the charming life that some people led during the siege of 1870. 'In those days we grew used to bombs. I was a small boy; but I can remember how the women used to pick them up and how, as they stood in lines waiting for their daily rations, they watched expectantly and without any fear, for the falling of the shells round about them. Believe me, Madame,' he said, turning to me, 'you will be as well in Paris as anywhere else, even if there should be a siege.' And I believed him.
Under all the persiflage, however, there was a note of acute anxiety, and men who were usually calm and indifferent showed signs of nervous excitement. The steady advance of the enemy, the obstinate silence of the War Office, the rumours, General Gallieni's orders to the inhabitants of the surrounding neighbourhood that they were to evacuate their dwellings and the bomb-throwing episode, were all disquieting factors, and in spite of the one ray of light which came from every one who has been near the front, that 'the armies were confident and full of good spirits,' pessimism was gradually mounting in many hearts. The German strength took on enormous proportions and there were hints that things were not going well with us in many ways. Quarrels in the administrations, traitors among the military staff, political intrigues (of course), and even une histoire de femme ! Spies loomed large before our eyes. They marched alongside our men in khaki, they positively swarmed the hospitals as doctors and nurses, and who knew but what they were hobnobbing with the General Staff! When pessimism reigns, it is more optimistic than optimism itself; for nothing is impossible in its eyes and it believes almost anything, so long as that anything tends towards the line upon which it is basing its miserable theories.
On Monday, things were even worse, for we were told that the Government was leaving for Bordeaux, that the Banque de France had gone; and, in the afternoon, came yet another avion, who threw us three or four bombs and was received with a brisk cannonading from the Eiffel Tower as well as rifle shots from soldiers in the town. A slight panic occurred near the Opera and the Gare St. Lazare, but of such short duration that it was hardly realised before it ended; and at Passy, where I happened to be sitting in a quiet, shady garden, drinking afternoon tea with some French friends, the whole thing was treated much as if it had been a sportive event prearranged for the amusement of the suburbs. From every window heads appeared to watch the curly-tailed Taube on its way; and the quiet streets were thronged with people rushing to an open space from which the wide sweep of sky round the Eiffel Tower is fully commanded. At certain moments it looked as if the machine had been hit, and there were cries that it was falling; but alas ! it sailed away quite happily towards the north, and we watched it with extreme annoyance but small emotion. The only irritation that was shown was towards the authorities, who had not sent out French machines to keep the insolent visitor away. Already Notre-Dame had been aimed at, the Opera, the Gare St. Lazare, and the Gare du Nord! 'Where are our aviateurs ?' was a question everyone asked. And the answer came very promptly the next day, for the sky gleamed with four or five armed machines all ready to meet the German should he appear in sight. But he has not come near Paris again, and we hope he will not be allowed to now. 'L'heure des Bombes,' or 'L'heure des Taubes,' as it was called at once by the Parisians, was a very short-lived, perilous pleasure, and one we were not sorry to dispense with; for it was discovered that at least one woman had been killed and several were wounded, either by the bombs or by the bullets of those who shot at the machine from the streets.
The three worst days of the week were Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday; and they were depressing beyond words. The bourgeoisie and the foreigners became thoroughly alarmed, and the authorities encouraged. every one to leave precipitately. To describe the confusion of those days is beyond me. Hurried packings, clamouring crowds for motor-cars at any price, to take whole families to the coast, to Bordeaux, to anywhere as far away from the Prussian hordes as possible. Thousands waited hours for tickets at the railway stations for Havre, or for the south; and, as fast as people poured out of the city, others poured in from the surrounding neighbourhood, in the fulfilment of General Gallieni's orders. There were moments when a dreadful desire to laugh came over one, it seemed so inconsistent to see the exodus and the advent going on at the same time, and for the same reason. All were seeking safety from the enemy, and yet some were coming and others were going.
The Germans will be in the city in three days' was what one heard on all sides, and 'the city is not going to be defended' was another affirmation. Yet, in the same breath, some one else declared that the bombardment was going to be fearful; and lurid pictures of fire, murder, and sudden death were drawn by imaginative minds. Most of us felt unhappy in our hearts for a few days and it is not surprising that everyone who could, and who had no duties to tie them to Paris, should leave it as quickly as possible, especially those who had children and who had money with which to fly. But to watch the flight was not an encouraging sight for those who were forced to stay behind, and there was something a little grim in the faces of the working population of the city as it helped to send away the very people upon whom it depended for its very existence. ' Ah, vous etes toujours la,' said a fruit-seller to a friend of ours. 'Je pensais que tous les gens bien etaient partis !
The discomforts of getting away were extreme, and it was pitiful to see the children and old people standing for hours and hours waiting for their trains and then, when the trains arrived, to see them carried along in a mad rush for the carriages. What the journey, no matter where to, must have been to many, it is painful to think; for not only was it three times longer than in ordinary times, but the heat and overcrowding of the carriages must have been appalling. Marvels of quick packing were achieved in those days; for many people who had lived in Paris for years started for America within a notice of three hours, and English people with families were known to be ready within an hour after the decision to go had been made. French people departed with the same rapidity and by every imaginable mode of transport, from a motor-car and a train to a bateau parisien and a bicycle. The diligent, farseeing business-man who can seize his opportunities must have made quite a small fortune during those days; for people were ready to pay anything to get away. Three thousand francs for a motor-car to go to Touraine was nothing; and £10 to sail down the Seine to Havre, providing your own food and hotel expenses on the way, was considered a mere bagatelle, even by people of very moderate means. There was something very fascinating about that flight in the bateau parisien. The little pleasure-boat looked so important in its new role, and the surroundings were so peaceful. The sunny river, the smiling city, the lazy lapping of the little waves against the banks, and the passengers waiting on deck with none of the bustle and dustiness of the airless railway stations which tend equally to depress the spirits of those who are leaving and of those who are being left behind. Luggage was piled in the middle of the boat and passengers sat round on the wooden seats as if they were off to St. Cloud; so they were, but the journey did not end there. They would sail down past Sevres, Suresnes, St. Germain, and on for thirty-six hours.
The journey must have been extremely trying, and the last boat was attended by some nerve- racking moments. Not far from Rouen it was stated there were Uhlans in the neighbourhood, and for a time the boat was held up under a bridge that was mined. The passengers on board did not feel happy, and some were very scared; but nothing further happened, and they finally reached Rouen in safety. The discomforts of the stations were of a still more gloomy kind, and I shall never forget the tired, scared faces, the dirty trains, the crowds, the confusion, and the smells. One train was bombarded by apaches as it was about to leave the station. They swarmed all over it, and nothing could dislodge them; so eventually the train went off with them sitting on the steps, the roof, and the buffers, crowding every carriage, and as determined as they were numerous. Thus loaded, it crawled from Paris to Lyons, stopping at every station en route, and at every stop more passengers tried to get in. The misery of that journey is still a nightmare to many who were forced to make it.
On Wednesday, the Government went to Bordeaux; and directly after its departure General Gallieni made his proclamation that he was going to defend Paris. The relief of every one who remained, when the proclamation was made public, seemed a little inadequate when one examined the defences and heard the opinions as to the strength of the forts but for the pride of the nation it was impossible even to think of allowing the Germans to walk into Paris without a protest. Moreover, General Gallieni counted on holding out for at least fifteen days, and there was always the factor of the armies. Some men said that they, not the guns, were our firmest grounds for hope in holding out. 'There will be house-to-house fighting,' said one man, and another declared that the very women would take up arms if it came to that. Many wild things were uttered in those days and wilder dreams were dreamed, but nothing desperate was done. We simply sat and talked and waited, feeling very isolated and a little dreary; but for each other's sakes we kept cheerful countenances. Stories from the suburbs came in to keep our fears alive, and stories from the front came in to feed our hopes that things were not as black as they were painted. From Maisons- Laffitte we heard that Uhlans had been seen at Pontoise and the Gare d'Ache'res had been destroyed. Every one was fleeing fast from all the neighbourhood and even the Croix Rouge had departed. From Versailles, from St. Germain, from Chantilly, from everywhere, the well-to-do-world had fled.
People ride out on bicycles at the risk of being arrested and come back with the story that they have seen a battle at Senlis. Others describe the German occupation of Compiegne. Every hour we feel the danger growing, and we watch the defence preparations with interest. Trenches are being dug about the city gates, trees are being felled to strew the roads, barbed wire is being stretched along all railings and chevaux de frise bristle in many directions. Guns are to be mounted on the fortifications and we gaze at the old fortress of Vincennes doubtfully but hopefully, and speculate as to the possibilities of Mont Valenen for holding out against German guns.
It is all very unreal, because alongside these warlike preparations the peaceful life of the citizens goes on unmoved. The women of the working population cook and clean and sew, look after their children, and send their men off to the daily routine, wherever they are lucky enough to have any men to send. The women employees of the Metro' punch the tickets with expedition and the marchande de quatre saisons cries her belles poires with a voice as steady and sonorous as ever. There is no excitement anywhere, and in the Avenue des Champs Elysées there are still enough babies to keep the Punch and Judy show going; and the woman who takes the pennies for the chairs on the footpaths still insists upon 20 centimes for an arm-chair and 10 centimes for a chair without arms. In the Bois itself, the cattle graze thousands strong, and sheep in equal numbers 'stop as they crop on the lawns of Bagatelle. Barges of good, sweet-smelling hay lie waiting down the Seine for their consumption, and whichever way one turns are proofs of the splendid measures which have been put into force in case of a siege. We shall certainly not want food for many months. To-day, we filled up our carnet de menage, by which we shall be entitled to certain rations when the time shall come to have them dealt out; but that time has not yet come. We shall have to fetch them, and we shall have to make them fit our needs. They may not be just what we like, but they will be sufficient to keep us healthy. It is wonderful what a fine digestive powder is real hunger! At least so the soldiers tell us, for they are the only ones who have experienced it yet.
The extraordinary calm of the city under the test of imminent investment, under the trial of an exodus that was almost a panic, under the test of pessimistic rumours and no official news that can be called good, is simply marvellous. Wherever one goes among the working people's quarters-and there, it must be remembered, no one has moved-there is no sign of disorder. Even if the city had been sacked, even if it be yet sacked, burned, or invested peacefully, the 'people' must stand steady or cause yet greater disaster. That it will stand, and very steadily, there is very little doubt and to its attitude the whole civilised world will pay tribute. It is, indeed, impossible to pay a tribute that is high enough to the working population of Paris; for in spite of all the rumours, all the scares, all the reports of German atrocities in Belgium, it has never wavered from its steady stand and its magnificent calm. I have wandered about almost all over the city, and I have talked with all sorts and conditions of men and women; and although I have listened to the most appalling stories of treachery in the army, treachery in the Government, treachery everywhere, I have never heard one soul among them flinch before the task of standing steady in the place where they happen to be. With the women one would say it is a case of having suffered so much, of still suffering so much, at the thought of their men who are out there fighting, that nothing very much matters. They live with the soldiers and for their own skins they have no fear. For their children, yes, but the Parisienne of the Faubourg is capable of fighting for her children, even against a German soldier at bay. They have no fear, and they have a touch of disdain. One is glad to have lived alongside such heroism and to have learned something from it oneself.
As the days go by, a wave of optimism is rising, there are even hints from the War Office that things are going well at the front and all our cheerful rumours, which last week seemed so vain, are this week gaining ground. One night, as we were going to call on a lonely friend, we ran across newly arrived Algerian troops and we stood to watch them for an hour. They had a tremendous reception from the people. Cries of 'Bring us back William's head! 'rang all down the boulevards, and promises were not wanting. 'William' will need to have a legion of heads if the Turcos do all they say they are going to do. They were a gay dare-devil crowd, not disciplined troops. They marched in loose order, and to watch them in the mass as they swept by was like watching the swinging movement of a wave. The mules, with their delicate legs, carried the mitrailleuses, and the splendid cloak of a spahi flung a splash of colour among the holland overalls with baggy legs which formed the uniform of the men. Now and then, when they were forced to halt to let a tram go by, the cafe keepers and the crowd would bring them refreshments, and the women would thrust flowers and fruit into their hands. The excitement ran high, and now and then the officers had to interfere with the merrymaking to prevent it from getting out of bounds. The march past went on all through the night, and on the following night more troops went by. We are told that reinforcements are coming from all directions, from Africa, from England, from India, and from all corners of France. In Paris, we have the Marines, and outside Paris we have the Armée de Paris, which, according to all accounts, is increasing in volume every day, almost every hour, and our hopes rise as their numbers swell.
A RESPITE
AFTER the suspense of the first week in September, when every day seemed to bring the invasion of Paris nearer and rumour made cowards of us all, there came a reaction. The enemy's terrific march was stayed, and the battle of the Marne ended in the Allies pushing back the German lines to the Aisne. There, as I write, the Germans are making a stand which, we are told, may be a long one. The violence of the fighting both on the Marne and now on the Aisne is being demonstrated to us by the wounded who are being brought into the Paris hospitals. Terrible stories are told by men who come direct from the fighting line, and visions of that awful battle-field are with all of us night and day. The German losses are said to be heavier than ours, but we are taught to believe only part of all we hear about the diminishing strength of Germany. The Imperial Guard has been 'wiped out' three times already, and on three different occasions ! The starving German soldiers are, alas! all too capable of resistance ; and even if their rifle shooting be inferior to ours, it is not of any great moment as long as they can do so much damage with their big guns. On the other hand, men come back with stories that the French have no more ammunition, that everywhere we are outnumbered, that the Russians are being beaten all along the line, and so on for ever ! It is more consoling to hear the soldiers, ill and weary though they are; for they are neither foolishly optimistic nor depressingly pessimistic. They mean to win, and they do not reason how or why. It is something they have to do at no matter what cost, and words are not going to help much.
I never realised how ill men could be from sheer fatigue until I saw a Seaforth Highlander and a Rifle Brigade man utterly prostrate in a French hospital after that awful retreat on Paris. They had marched 25 miles a day during four days, with practically nothing to eat and fighting all the way. The Highlander had been five years in India and had seen a good deal of active service on the frontier, but he frankly owned that he had never seen anything approaching the recent fighting in Belgium and Northern France. Both men spoke in the highest terms of the Belgians, and only wished that they had been able to march as lightly : 'A bandolier and a rifle, that's all they carry, it's nothing to what we have!' They had been in hospital ten days when we found them, and they were still unable to stand on their feet, although, beyond fatigue, there was nothing the matter with them. They craved food, rest, and forgetfulness of all they had seen. Their pity for the Belgian refugees was very real, and whatever English soldier you meet it is always the same they will never forget 'those heart-rending scenes of mutilated women and children, burning villages, and roads streaming with frightened groups of human beings seeking safety by walking away from their own dwellings into the unknown. Above all, they will never forget or forgive the Germans for driving the women and children before their guns as protection for themselves against the fire of the Allies. Even the laconic Highlander talked about that, and the Rifle Brigade man became eloquent. When we asked them what they would like as a little addition to hospital fare, both men asked for jam or cake; and we could not keep back a smile, for it has grown into a joke with our French friends that the English soldier must have his pot of jam and his tea or he can't fight.
In the early days of the war we found that the English soldiers were very glad to have visitors, especially when they were in French hospitals; but as the time went on and the English Red Cross took over the management of the English wounded, visitors, haphazard ones at any rate, were superfluous. The men neither needed them nor appreciated them. The nurses and their own friends saw to it that they had all they wanted and gifts could always be left at the door of the hospital. But in the early days, when only the Hertford British Hospital was in full working order, and Paris was empty of all the gros bonnets, there was plenty to be done in the way of hospital visiting. Tommy is clever enough to get all he wants without knowing any French, when he is strong and well-the language of gesture even amuses him ; but when he is ill, he prefers to ask for what he wants in his own language, and he was relieved beyond measure to find himself in an English hospital, being nursed by English nurses and treated by English doctors. That the hospital was open at that particular time is something to be thankful for ; and it is entirely due to the energy and insistence of the hospital doctors and the chaplain, that it was not closed in the first days of the scare.
The committee had decided to send the nursing staff to England, and preparations were being made for a general dispersion, when the doctors and the chaplain demanded that the hospital should not only remain open, but that its accommodation should be increased ; with the result that since then it has held the honourable position of being the head hospital of the British Red Cross in Paris-a position it was certainly indicated to take when one remembers that it was practically born out of the events of 1870. Sir Richard Wallace, whose work for France in 1870 is well known, built it and endowed it for the use of the English poor; and it is only as a result of litigation that it is now less richly endowed and unable to march with the times, in supplying the English poor in Paris with all they need. In times of peace it is not allowed to receive subscriptions, but in time of war this rule has been relaxed; otherwise it could have been but of little use to the British soldier, whose needs, when he is ill, are great. The matron could tell you what an appetite he has, and how her housekeeping books have gone up in consequence; and we all know what calls must have been made on the surgical stores, the linen-room, and pharmacy.
In a suburban hospital of the Dames Francaises, one of three divisions of the French Red Cross, we found among many wounded, all of whom were quietly cheerful, two Englishmen, one a man of the Royal Flying Corps, suffering from dysentery, and the other a man of the Cheshires, who had half his cheek blown off. In his dry north-country way he told us how ingloriously it happened. He had been through Mons, Le Cateau, and the battle of the Marne. He had seen his officers and comrades fall all round him, and he had escaped from a hundred dangers without a scratch. But when, after the enemy had been turned back, he was given a day's leave, and had spent it sightseeing in Paris, he nearly lost his life in the most stupid way imaginable. He was sitting in a café, resting his chin on the muzzle of his rifle, his fingers playing with the trigger, when the thing went off and took with it half his cheek. How or why the rifle was loaded, he could not explain. To the end of his days he will have a crooked smile and a scar, but otherwise he has come off easily, and he was well on the way to getting better when we saw him. The Flying Corps man had also seen some hard service, boy though he looked. He was the chief mechanic of a unit, and everything about him expressed dexterity and despatch, allied to the most splendid courage. They are fine expressions of our race, these flying men, and as that slim boy told his story he infected us all with his own enthusiasm for the art of war.
He told us how, on one occasion, lie had to fix a new engine to a machine within the minimum time allowed for such an operation. 'How long will it take you ? ' asked the officer. 'Three hours, sir.' 'Then you'll just do it. The enemy should be here by then. Save the car as well, if you can, and remember that the bridge you have to cross at - is to be blown up at a given time.' With one eye on a ridge on the opposite side of the valley, over which the German cavalry would appear, our boy worked with his men. It was a nervous moment; but nerves in the Flying Corps do not seem to hamper action, for it was not until the machine had flown away, and the boy with his last man beside him was turning his car at full speed round a fork in the road, that he saw German cavalry descending on them. He tried to turn the car in the direction of another road; and in doing so the clutch jammed, and they were held up. Two revolver shots laid low the Uhlan officer; and the car, as cars will sometimes, pulled itself together and they set off at top speed, followed by a rain of German bullets which whistled all round, but never touched them. It was a case of flying from the devil to fall perhaps into a deep river; for if the bridge should be already blown up, they were done. But the bridge was not blown up until a second or so after the car was on the right side of it. What the men did when they were once in the English lines, I do not know; but when the boy reached that point of his story, I heaved one of the deepest sighs of relief I have ever heaved in my life. 'I do hope you won't have any more tight corners like that,' I said sincerely, but foolishly, in my womanish way, and I was duly snubbed for my incapacity to understand that, to the Flying Corps, tight corners are the breath of life.
September 21.-We heard to-day that Reims cathedral had been bombarded and destroyed by the Germans. All Paris is stupefied at the news, and to-morrow the whole world will stand aghast before such vandalism. We are still aflame at the Belgian atrocities and the burning of Louvain; Malines and Termonde are fresh in our minds, with the still more inhuman crimes committed on women, children, and old men. Now there is the burning of Reims to add to the list; and with it, much loss of human life and destruction of private property. The first brief account of this crime was given in last night's communiqué, but it is only this morning that we know the full extent of the damage. The very printed words seem to halt before our eyes as we read them. It seems as if they hesitate to convey to us all they mean. Wherever one goes in Paris to-day, consternation and revolt are to be read on the faces of men and women, for the destruction of Reims cathedral is to each one of them a personal disaster. The world may mourn it as a universal loss, but France mourns it as an irreparable disaster. Only M. Maurice Barres seems to have struck a note of hope into French hearts by saying: 'They may destroy our cathedrals, but they will never destroy the spirit which caused them to be built.'
September 23.-The infamous way in which the Germans have behaved in Reims is now described in detail and none of their excuses for their vandalism is worth consideration. To say that the cathedral towers were used as posts of observation and that guns were placed in the tower is absurd. They have said the same thing about every village belfry they have destroyed in France, and they have been proved wrong. They have excused their murdering and plundering by calling it self-defence - self- defence for the Kaiser's army against women and children! In Reims, they put up a notice to say that any citizen resenting in any way German authority would be hanged in front of the cathedral. We have heard terrible stories of people saving themselves from their burning houses and of the roads round the city being crowded with refugees. It is the same awful tale as has been told throughout Belgium. Here, as elsewhere, the German soldiers are said to have drunk heavily, and in their drunkenness they have rioted and pillaged. But strangest of all are the spy stories that have been disclosed. Apparently Reims was a nest of spies, and cement-beds for the big German guns were ready everywhere. Underground tunnels have been found for secret communications to be made from the centre of the city to the outskirts, wireless installations have been discovered; and, to be brief, there was nothing about Reims that was worth knowing that the Germans did not know. They had their knowledge from their spies, who were acknowledged as good citizens of Reims, hidden under the disguise of almost any nationality but the proper one.
'What would they have done in Paris ?' is a question often asked in these days, and the pessimist retorts, 'What will they do in Paris even now ?' But pessimists are not in favour just now, and while the Government is at Bordeaux and the bourgeoisie remains wherever it happens to be, Paris is fairly free from discouraging opinions in spite of Reims. Optimists are nice people to live with, we find, and our most confirmed optimists are, of course, the soldiers-the men who come in from the front, wounded or sick. I was visiting a French friend the other day, and after we had exhausted ourselves in saying just what we felt about modern warfare, we were diverted by the arrival of a very pretty and very witty Frenchwoman, who had just come back from the provinces, where she had been spending two weeks with her husband and her brother, both of whom were in the same hospital, one wounded, the other ill. 'Ils sont epatants,' was her first comment. 'Never have I seen them so gay. My husband has lost half his foot and my brother looks a gaunt wreck; yet to hear them talk you would think they had been away on a holiday, and they are dying to get back. My husband certainly won't be fit for a long time, but my brother will.' Everyone was amazed at the account of her brother, for lie was well known to be one of the most neurasthenic of Parisians. Nothing pleased him for more than five minutes, and he spent his days in grumbling, taking scented baths, dabbling in the arts, and trying on new clothes. 'You should see him now. He refuses to shave, he thinks baths are superfluous, and we had to have a private dining-room in the hotel when he left the hospital because he refused to use a knife and fork. He says they complicate existence, and he told his wife she did too. C'est épatant, because, you understand, if he has to go back, it is much better that he should go feeling like that. He will be safer and we shall be less unhappy.' Charming person, and such a delightful point of view! French, and of the very best! There are moments when I think she has no equal, this gay and courageous Parisienne!
Another rare personality which is making itself felt in the war is that of an Englishwoman I know who, at the first call to arms, joined the French Red Cross and set about preparing herself for useful hospital work. She was like the workmen, she dropped her tools-for in times of peace she makes beautiful etchings and dreams beautiful dreams-and she went off to the war. For some weeks she was in Brussels and her impressions of the Belgians came to me in a letter written a week before the Germans occupied the city. 'The Belgians are most sympathiques. Just at the gate of our new hospital is a caf6 where the soldiers come to refresh themselves. They are the gayest of people. Rushing in all dusty and untidy, they fling off their heavy knapsacks and in five seconds are deep in a strange card game, at which about twenty can play. Then, in half an hour, off they go again. These, of course, are the garde civique who protect the city, how I don't know, since it isn't fortified.
Yesterday, a German aeroplane flew over the town and caused a certain excitement, but not very much. One gets accustomed to everything. We all stood by, obviously to catch a bomb and put it in water before it touched the ground (isn't that the correct treatment of bombs ?). But none came, a delicacy which one does not expect from a German.'
When the Germans marched into Brussels my friend stood to watch them for hours, and for days she listened to the rattle and rumble of their guns going by. She says that she was forcibly and unpleasantly impressed by the splendour and strength of that great army. It was then in all its pride, scarcely touched by the struggle and purposely displayed to impress. The magnificent uniforms, the fine horses, the extremely aggressive attitude of the officers (this was most noticeable) combined to give the impression of unbreakable power, backed up, as they were, by uncountable numbers. The people of Brussels silently watched them pass. Hour after hour they marched past and the hearts of those who watched must have been heavy. There was no manifestation of any kind.
Only once did the nerves of the people break and that was in an unexpected way. Suddenly, a German officer gave the word for the goose step, and as the men broke into this fantastic exhibition, the irrepressible Belgians broke into fits of merriment. They laughed till they cried, they rolled on the ground, they held their sides, and nothing would stop them. After such a strain as they had experienced before, the reaction was necessarily violent.
As the days went on and the nursing of German wounded grew monotonous, my friend decided to return to Paris if she could. She was tired of observing German regulations and of avoiding hurting their many susceptibilities. Her patients were not sympathiques like the Belgians. They went to bed with their guns, and insisted that their nurses should taste whatever food was brought to them before they could be persuaded to put it to their lips. They were heavy, dull, uninteresting, suspicious people, with shaven heads covered with 'ignominious bumps.' Besides, she wanted to nurse French or English soldiers, not Germans. So she began to make her preparations to leave. Her first trouble was with the Red Cross authorities, who strongly objected to her attitude and who would take no responsibilities for her safety should she decide to go. Another recreant member of the society also broke the chains and went away. This left my friend more than ever alone; and not possessing the characteristics of the ant, she had recklessly spent her money in the early days and was getting to the end of her stock of gold and silver. A visit to the American Legation soon revealed to her that officialdom was of no use to her. She was very curtly told that they could neither wire to Paris nor to London for money for her; they were philosophical about her starving, in the way people have of being philosophical about other people's troubles. Her only friends were six Belgian ladies who kept a tea shop, her peasant landlady, and the soldier son of that same good creature. Every day her little stock of money grew less, although she strenuously checked her appetite with strong and very cheap cigarettes. She was advised to go to the German governor to ask for a pass for Ostend, but he said 'No,' Ostend and Antwerp were just the two places to which he could not give passes. So she left him.
Then she was advised by the old ladies at the tea shop to go to Cook's manager, who, although no longer acting openly, was ready to give advice. To her surprise this official saw her at once, and was apparently ready to do all he could. He advised her to leave by simply walking out of the town early in the morning. At that time, there were comparatively few Germans in the town, and he suggested that she should find out which gates were in Belgian hands so that she might pass through easily. 'You will then have to walk to Ostend, and if you get there safely let me know and I will send others.' The idea appealed to her and she went home to count up her money, only to find that even if she got to Ostend she had not enough to pay her passage over to England. This meant that she must use an introduction she had to a lady whom she believed to be still in the city, and ask her to lend her the necessary extra money with which to get to England.
The experience was not a pleasant one, and with a solid banking account of her own it seemed absurd; but banking accounts in those circumstances were of little avail. So, with a desperation born of necessity, she set out to beg for the first time in her life. The lady was not in; twice the same message was sent out to her, and if it had been given a third time I believe she would have been in Brussels now; for begging, even under the best of conditions, is an unpleasant occupation. However, Fate was really kind, and she might have borrowed a fortune had she needed it. After saying good-bye to the six old ladies at the tea shop, all of whom were keenly interested in her and anxious for her safety, she went back to her lodgings and paid her very modest bill to the landlady, who also showed great interest in her proceedings and sent her son to discuss with her the best roads to follow. He discouraged the idea of her attempting to go at all and advised her to wait for a problematic train talked about at the American Legation. But with a map and an umbrella she set off on the following morning at three o'clock, taking care to pass through a gate guarded by Belgians.
Once outside the gates she had to consult her map; but she soon found that her guides would have to be the floods and the German shrapnel, both of which she was forced to dodge. She managed to get several 'lifts ' from peasants, and only in one instance could she persuade the driver of the cart to take any money. She was English, and that was enough to ensure her the kindest of treatment from a Belgian. At night, she slept in a farm-house inn and with the first hint of dawn she set out again. As she walked quickly along, a great voice hailed her from behind with 'Aren't you English ?' 'I am! ' 'Then I guess you are doing the same as I am, trying to get out! After that she had a companion in a young American student who, as he said, was doing the same as she was, trying to get out. They had very little trouble after that as they were within Belgian lines, and eventually they got to Ostend and from there to England, where my friend collected material as quickly as possible and came back to Paris just in time to find the city filling up with wounded from the battle of the Marne.
FRENCH IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND
IT is not often that we can take any real pleasure in seeing ourselves as others see us but just now English people are being treated kindly by the gods, and in France particularly we are tres bien vus. There are some French people who still maintain a certain defiance, of course, because we are, after all, historical enemies; and now and then the inherent suspicion of the race crops up in a little crisp sentence, or a witty sarcasm, before which we are so often helpless and mute, the ready retort not being ours. Nevertheless, we are in favour just now, and it is very pleasant. Moreover, we feel that we deserve to be ; for the heavy task we have undertaken we are doing with all our might.
Perhaps, of all English names, it is that of Kitchener which carries the most weight in France, and if he has a rival it is Sir Edward Grey. Both men are quoted with conviction, and they stand for all that is strongest and best in our nation. If the shadow of a doubt ever crosses a French mind about England standing firm, trite sentences of Lord Kitchener are recalled to the memory, and the doubt disperses. If any fear of diplomatic and political machinery disturbs the French trust in our future dealings with European Powers, the famous White Paper is again cited, and tranquillity reigns. It is really a most excel- lent thing for England to want the friendship of France, because, to get it and keep it, she will have to live up to a most amazingly high standard. The slightest mistake, the faintest suggestion of frailty, and France rises in alarm. If England expects every man to do his duty, France expects every Englishman to do two men's duty. It is a great compliment to us, but it is not an easy matter to fulfil the mission.
When the King's message to the Army was published in the French newspapers it was voted to be fitting and dignified; but when Lord Kitchener's soldierly admonition was printed, it left all France wondering. It was so short, so curt, so very much to the point, that it took away every one's breath. They remembered Cromwell and every puritanical tradition in our history. The papers told the most wonderful tales about the piety of English soldiers; and whenever the people see a soldier who has forgotten Lord Kitchener's recommendation to avoid temptation they shake their heads and feel that they run the risk of losing a very pleasant illusion. It is always disconcerting to find how childlike the French people are in spite of their keen, critical, logical minds. They know quite well that the English soldier is a man like the rest of men, that he will probably do his best to follow Lord Kitchener's advice, but that he is a saint and a confirmed abstainer they do not believe. Yet, for all that, they like to think that he carries a Bible and can claim Saint Anthony as his patron saint.
But the things by which the English soldier will be most remembered in France are quite everyday, unimportant matters. French people of this generation will tell their children that he likes tea and drinks it all day long, that he almost lives on jam and biscuits, and that his chief recreation is not sport but shaving. Nothing has struck the public so much as these few characteristics in the English soldier. His cleanliness, his tidiness, and his domestic habits are much more talked about than his bravery or his fine soldierly attributes. These, however, will be appreciated after the war, when the history is told by those who fought in it. His gaiety, sang-froid, and habit of singing are also much commented upon; and it was said that when things were going rather badly with the Allies, the English soldiers never stopped singing. They sang before the battles and directly after them-some even sang while they were fighting. 'Whenever you hear singing and laughter, you may be sure it is the English Army,' said a Frenchman of my acquaintance, 'and the greater the difficulty the louder the singing.'
It took a long time (using long as one measures time during the war) before the French people could believe that we could put an army of any account into the field at all; and although, in comparison to the French Army, ours is but a small force, we are proud to know that it has done well and will go on doing well-a point upon which we have quite convinced the French. They laugh with us over the German Emperor's hackneyed phrase concerning General French's 'contemptible little army,' and, for the moment, the valour of the Expeditionary Force has eclipsed the splendour of the Navy with the populace. In fact, the great r6le which the Navy has already played in this war has not yet been recognised by anyone in France; and the funny suggestions that the uninitiated have made, as a little something for the Navy to do, have proved it over and over again.
Politics have, of course, been swallowed up in war, and the great speeches made at the beginning of the campaign are already things of the past. But, at the time, they caused immense enthusiasm, especially those by Sir Edward Grey, Mr. Asquith, and Lord Kitchener. It would be almost safe to say that those three speeches went far to wipe out of French minds many of the lamentable scenes about which they have read as taking place in our Houses of Parliament during the last year or two, and in like manner we have forgotten the Caillaux trial; for if party politics fail to express England, so do causes celebres fail to express France. I asked a Frenchwoman the other day why a nation so sound, and a race so spirited, as hers could sit down calmly under such obviously corrupt politicians and such an amazingly corrupt jurisdiction. She told me that the secret of it all lay in the fact that the Frenchman did not really care a bit about anything but the well-being of his own family in times of peace. When things got dangerous for the country, well, he was there; but in the meantime he had his own affairs to look after and he could not be bothered with politics. He talked about them, railed against them, wrote about them, but he never did anything. Whether he will after the war, when, from all we hear now, there is to be such a series of political disclosures and such a cleansing of the couloirs as never was heard of, remains to be seen. For the country's sake it is to be profoundly hoped that the right men will be at the helm, otherwise France will set off on another journey down a pudding-bag lane. We have only to read what Paris was like in 1870 to see that in 1914 the picture was much the same when the war broke out.
If there is one thing wanting in the Englishman to make him more popular than he is in France at the present time, with the women at any rate, it is that he should become Roman Catholic. It bothers many of the lower orders to think that we are of 'the same religion as the Germans,' and whenever they see an English soldier observing the rites of the Roman Church they are immensely relieved. It brings us nearer to them, especially just now, when there is an important revival of religious fervour in the country. It is useless to try to explain our various creeds to a French mind; and not to be a Roman Catholic is sufficient to say that you must be either a Lutheran or an atheist-anyway, you are a heretic. A dear old priest, who has suffered much in this war, and whose parishioners have suffered more, would, I believe, give his life willingly if he could convert twenty Englishmen to his faith; and when he blesses us, as he often does-for the English have played a good part in the saving of his district-the tears come into his eyes, and it must be with a feeling of sadness that he turns away from us, believing us lost to salvation.
The remarkable rapidity with which our war credits have been voted has made many French people open their eyes in astonishment; and our generosity, both public and private, has been spoken of admiringly by those who know of it. But the country, as a whole, has no idea to what extent England is giving. It reads that the public funds are swelling with money and gifts to the soldiers; but it does not in the least realise what the country is doing for the Belgian refugees, and an English lady who lives in France, during a brief visit to England a few days ago, was much struck with the kindliness and hospitality of the quite poor people towards that sorely tried nation. 'How rich England must be that she can give so largely 'is what some people say over here; but it is well-known that France is richer, only she is less impulsive in her charities, if not less generous, and her first instinct is to begin them at home and end them there, unless she can see some very good reason for doing otherwise.
A further surprise to France is the magnificent way in which India, Canada, and the Colonies have come forward to help the Mother Country. For so long French people have been taught to believe that our power was waning throughout the Empire, that loyalty at such a moment was the last thing they expected. The seditions of India (many of which were hatched in Paris), the independent spirit of Canada, the hostility of South Africa, were all gospels they accepted, and our reputation for tyranny in our Colonies was as much a tradition in France as that of our reputation for being above all a practical people with a wonderful eye for the main chance. They have never understood that we could conquer and yet not tyrannise; but we may hope that many such little misunderstandings will be cleared away by this war, and, as a consolation for the suffering it is causing, the two friendly nations may arrive at a better understanding of each other's qualities.
To illustrate, very slightly, the strange opinions of the home-keeping French people, I can recall many conversations I once had with a brilliant and talkative old French lady. Nothing pleased her so much as to dish up for me the most spicy concoctions on the national sins of my country, which, she assured me, were mitigated by our individual charm. Our tyranny in India, our hypocrisy in Egypt, our perfidy in all foreign politics, caused her to grow extremely eloquent, and there was not a phase in our history for which I was not asked to blush. After thoroughly browbeating me she would tell me, in her charming way, that in spite of all our national iniquity there was no man in the world she would trust so readily as an English gentleman. I often wonder what she would say about the war; but I shall never know, for she has passed into the mists of yesterday.
Another Frenchwoman asked me the other day if we were really taking the war seriously in England! I asked her if she had seen our casualty lists ; she had not, but she had heard from a friend in London that the gaieties of the season were going on as usual; and although we were drilling recruits and helping the Belgians, we did not sound satisfactory. 'Les Anglais sont tellement froids ! she added. 'It is difficult to know what they mean and what they feel.' Another woman - and she was one of the aristocrats of le peuple-told me, with a touch of defiance in her voice, that 'it appeared we were not pleased with the French.' Her source of information was an English hospital nurse; and I had much ado to make her understand that the information might not be infallible, any more than that which I had had myself from a journalist who told me with conviction that the French were tired of the English soldier. All these potins are as unimportant as the gossip which in times of peace hovers round the tea-tables of the suburbs; but from the point of view that little brooks make big rivers, they are worthy of our notice, and it seems to me that it is as necessary for women of no importance to avoid sowing discord in their small circles as it is for them to knit socks and cholera belts. It was a terrible old French cynic who said, with all the tenderness peculiar to cynics, that 'tout savoir, c'e'tait tout pardonner,' and it is only in trying to see each other's point of view that we shall ever arrive at an understanding, if English and French are to remain friends.
back to 'Paris Waits' part 1
