Skip to main content

Full text of "The peak of the load : the waiting months on the hilltop from the entrance of the Stars and stripes to the second victory on the Marne"

See other formats 


pf*"  ^5B!!! 

94-0  S 

\2m 


IWfWIHtlHimitfWHOHHfHtitlMKHttllHittOtttHmiUttHHmi 
WttHMtHKiniimtttUttitmttittmiHtfliitiiitiemimtinmt 


'iK 

^WH'   ...••. ju 


laFaloise' 
^^/FoJleville 
"  *£  MONTD 
ifxtlgi 

'53?T7Tr"A 


5i4sy 


feui/^ 


y::s.a 
^rtael 


Presented  to  the 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO 
LIBRARY 

by  the 

ONTARIO  LEGISLATIVE 
LIBRARY 


vac 


are  nil 


5.0 


fa 


cy-Martiers 


Mljfi^»irifflK    "Chau^t-! 
,£*$%**    V^       PorcitH^1 
>issonn 


3fiflfr*'KdraP^  «5 

leyfchateP 


'Braisne 


S>l2retwiv  »f       ttv*  ^   •*>  DUUI 

*W«ds££S£?1& 


jntmirai 


ebats 


.***o->' 


^QCKampenoise^ 
Innantriw      A***'" 

rt" 

ii?  W  t.,  >i\«".    /.-s.  JlAl/aej 


THE   PEAK   OF   THE   LOAD 


J 


THE  FRENCH  CENSOR  ALLOWED 
THE  MANUSCRIPT  OF  THIS  BOOK 
TO  PASS,  HAVING  ALREADY  PER- 
MITTED THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE 
LETTERS  WHICH  COMPOSE  IT.  BUT, 
IN  ACCORDANCE  WITH  THE  PRES- 
ENT REGULATIONS  REGARDING 
PHOTOGRAPHS,  THE  PHOTOGRAPHIC 
ILLUSTRATIONS  WHICH  WERE  TO 
ACCOMPANY  THE  MANUSCRIPT 
WERE  NOT  ALLOWED  TO 
LEAVE  FRANCE 


-.  '* 

THE  PEAK*/ 
OF  THE  LOAD 


THE     WAITING     MONTHS     ON     THE     HILLTOP 

FROM    THE    ENTRANCE    OF    THE    STARS 

AND    STRIPES    TO    THE    SECOND 

VICTORY  ON   THE    MARNE 


BY 

MILDRED   ALDRICH 

AUTHOR    OF    "A    HILLTOP    ON    THE    MARNE,"     "TOLD    IN    A 

FRENCH    GARDEN,   AUGUST,     1914,"     "  ON    THE 

EDGE    OF    THE    WAR    ZONE  " 


TORONTO 


THE  MUSSON  ^ 

LIMITED  '   & 


Copyright,  1918 
BY  MILDRED  ALDRICH 


First  printing,  October,  1918 
Fifteen  thousand  copies 


THE    UNIVERSITY    PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,   U.  S.  A. 


TO    THE    BOYS    OF    THE 

*     AMEX     * 

WHO    HAVE    GONE    OVER    THE    HILLTOP 
INTO    THE    FIGHTING    LINE 


THE   PEAK   OF  THE   LOAD 


THE   PEAK  OF  THE   LOAD 


Dear  Old  Girl:  At>ril  20> 

I  HAVE  had  a  rather  busy  two  weeks,  dur- 
ing which,  for  many  reasons,  I  have  not  felt 
in  the  spirit  to  sit  down  and  write  you  the 
long  letter  I  know  you  expect  in  response  to 
your  great  epistolary  cry  of  triumph  after 
the  Declaration  of  War. 

Personally,  after  the  uplift  the  decision 
gave  me,  came  a  total  collapse  and  I  had 
some  pretty  black  days.  I  had  to  fight 
against  the  fear  that  we  were  too  late,  and 
the  conviction  that,  if  we  were  really  to  do 
our  part  at  the  front,  the  war  was  still  to 
last  not  one  year,  but  years.  An  army  can- 
not be  created  in  a  day,  and  the  best  will 
in  the  world,  and  all  the  pluck  I  know  our 
lads  to  have,  will  not  make  them,  inside  of 
at  least  a  year,  into  a  fighting  army  fit  to 
stand  against  the  military  science  of  Ger- 
many, and  do  anything  more  serviceable  than 
die  like  heroes. 

Besides,  no  matter  from  what  point  of 
view  one  looks  at  the  case,  it  does  make  a 
difference  to  think  that  our  boys  are  coming 
over  here  to  go  into  this  holocaust. 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

You  must  know  that,  even  among  officers 
in  the  army,  who  welcome  with  enthusiasm 
the  entrance  of  the  States  into  the  ranks  of 
the  Allies,  there  are  plenty  who  are  still 
optimistic  about  the  war's  duration,  and  who 
smile,  and  say:  "  Don't  fret.  Your  boys  will 
march  in  the  triumphal  procession.  The  gen- 
erous aid  the  States  have  given  us  earns  them 
that  right,  but  they  cannot  get  ready  to  fire 
their  guns  in  time  to  do  much  at  the  front." 

I  hope  you'll  take  it  in  the  right  spirit 
when  I  say  that  I  don't  want  it  to  end  like 
that,  and  I  am  sure  it  won't.  Personally  I 
think  the  end  is  a  long  way  off,  and  I  can't 
tell  you  how  our  boys  are  needed.  Besides, 
put  it  at  the  fact  that  Fate  is  to  take  a  pro- 
portionate toll  from  our  army  —  the  other 
nations  will  have  had  nearly  four  years,  if 
not  quite  four,  before  our  losses  begin. 

Our  men  are  going  to  leave  their  women 
and  children  in  safety,  in  a  land  that  can 
never  know  the  horrors  of  invasion.  I  don't 
want  to  dwell  on  that  idea,  but  it  is  a  comfort 
all  the  same. 

You  say  in  your  last  that  our  boys  are 
coming  across  the  ocean  "  to  die  in  a  foreign 
land."  Yes,  I  know.  But  they  are  coming 
to  a  country  where  they  are  already  loved. 
Wonderful  preparations  are  going  to  be 
made  to  care  for  them,  and  I  do  believe  the 
United  States,  as  a  government  and  as  a 
people,  is  going  to  make  the  great  sacrifice 

[    2    ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 


—  economic,  material  and  spiritual  —  which 
the  situation  demands  of  her  in  a  manner 
which  will  make  us  all  proud  of  her  as  a 
nation  and  will  set  a  seal  of  nobility  on  the 
future  of  the  race,  and  place  our  sort  of 
democracy  in  the  front  ranks  forever. 

More  than  that,  I  believe  that  the  States 
will  come  out  of  it  more  united  than  they 
have  ever  been,  and,  I  hope,  with  the  many 
elements,  resulting  from  our  long  wide- 
opened  door  of  immigration,  welded  into  a 
people. 

You  and  I,  who  love  our  country,  in  spite 
of,  not  because  of,  her  faults,  can  surely  at 
this  stage  of  the  game  agree  that  the  lessons 
we  are  going  to  learn  are  needed,  and  that 
out  of  the  sorrow  we  know  is  before  us  may 
come  results  that  could  never  have  been 
achieved  otherwise. 

I  —  who  have  been  living  so  long  in  the 
midst  of  it,  and  have  seen  with  what  undying 
gaiety  youth  meets  even  these  conditions  — 
smile  even  through  the  certainty  of  later 
tears  when  I  think  of  some  aspects  of  the 
situation.  Just  reflect,  for  example,  on  the 
thousands  of  our  boys  who  never  dreamed 
of  "  coming  to  Europe,"  who  don't  even 
know  its  geography  or  its  history,  who  never 
bothered  about  architecture  or  archaeology, 
who  are  going  to  make  the  voyage  across 
the  big  pond.  They  are  going  to  see  foreign 
parts,  hear  foreign  tongues,  rub  elbows  with 

[  3   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

races  they  never  saw  or  thought  of  seeing 
before.  They  are  going  to  have  hard  times, 
but  crowds  facing  hard  times  together  seem 
to  get  some  fun  out  of  it.  They  are  going 
to  be  hardened  into  fine  physical  form  by 
exercise.  They  are  going  to  learn  discipline, 
which,  if  the  youth  of  any  country  ever 
needed,  ours  does,  and  they  are  going  to 
learn  the  meaning  of  obedience,  which  the 
youth  of  America,  accustomed  to  domineer 
over  its  elders,  will  be  the  better  for 
learning. 

You  see  I  always  look  for  the  compensa- 
tions, and,  as  I  have  told  you  before,  if  one 
looks  hard  enough,  they  are  to  be  found. 

In  my  mental  vision  always  hangs  the  idea, 
which  so  many  are  fearful  to  face  —  death 
is  the  common  fate  of  us  all. 

However,  I  never  sit  up  straight  at  a 
thought  so  ordinary,  with  such  calm  philos- 
ophy, that  a  little  imp  does  not,  with  a  mali- 
cious gesture,  sweep  the  mists  out  of  my  eyes, 
and  make  me  realize  that,  from  Macaulay  — 
with  his : 

"  To  every  man  upon  this  earth 
Death  cometh  soon  or  late, 
And  how  can  man  die  better 
Than  facing  fearful  odds 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers 
And  the  temples  of  his  gods?  " 

To  the  priest  in  his  pulpit,  the  orator  in  his 
tribune  —  and  me  sitting  before  my  type- 

[   4   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

writer  —  words  are  easy.  Yet  even  when  I 
smile,  I  know  that  you  and  I,  and  oh !  how 
many  million  others,  would  rather  be  out 
there  "  somewhere  in  France "  than  sitting 
quietly,  inactively,  at  home,  looking  at  the 
thick  curtain  which  the  necessary  censor 
hangs  before  us,  and  waiting  in  patient  sus- 
pense. The  helpless  looker-on  in  any 
struggle  suffers  more  than  those  who  are 
absorbed  in  its  action.  Is  n't  it  a  mercy  that 
we  believe  this,  whether  it  be  wholly  true  or 
not?  Also,  though  Macaulay  sounds  grandil- 
oquent, the  idea  is  as  true  to-day  as  it  was  in 
the  days  of  old  Rome  of  which  he  wrote, 
for  our  boys  are  coming  over  not  to  fight 
for  France,  but  to  fight  for  Liberty,  which 
is  the  very  altar  of  our  national  existence, 
and  for  the  same  ideas  for  which  our  ances- 
tors —  the  founders  of  the  original  Union, 
now  ashes,  —  laid  down  their  lives. 

I  don't  mean  this  to  be  a  sad  letter.  I  am 
not  exactly  sad.  My  feeling  is  too  big  a  one 
for  that.  But  I  think  we  are  all  of  us  learn- 
ing to-day  to  think  of  death  more  calmly, 
more  continually,  and  more  philosophically, 
than  we  have  ever  done.  We  are  getting 
above  the  sentiment  that  it  is  a  subject  to  be 
avoided,  and  arriving,  quite  naturally,  at  a 
mood  which  used  only  to  be  common  to  those 
who  had  reached  an  age  at  which  it  was 
natural  and  logical  to  feel  that  it  might  be 
encountered  at  any  moment.  I  think  it  a 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

great  advance  anyway.  But  we  will  talk 
more  about  that  another  time. 

Things  are  pretty  quiet  here  now. 

After  the  sunny  weather  which  came  in 
to  celebrate  the  entrance  of  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  came  some  pretty  cold  days,  and  on 
one  of  them,  when  I  was  shivering  over  a 
tiny  fire  made  of  green  twigs,  came  the  news 
that  the  n8th  had  been  badly  cut  up  behind 
Soissons  in  the  last  advance,  and  that  of  all 
the  little  group  who  had  stood  about  me  in 
the  library  that  sunny  Sunday  morning,  but 
one  was  left. 

I  just  put  my  cap  on  and  went  out  to  walk. 

I  kept  telling  myself  that  "  it  was  all 
right,"  as  I  tramped  along  the  road  —  that 
in  half  a  century  all  of  us  in  and  about  this 
great  struggle,  would  be  safely  au  delat  and 
that  though  men  die,  and  women,  too,  the 
idea  for  which  they  die  to-day  is  immortal. 
It  looks  easy  on  paper,  but  —  my  word!  — 
it  is  not.  I  have  to  fight  for  it.  You  will 
soon  have  to,  on  your  side  of  the  water. 

Activity  is  the  only  help.  I  came  back 
and  worked  like  a  dog  —  my  dog  does  not 
work  at  all  —  tidying  up  all  the  stuff  left 
over  by  the  cantonnements,  making  heaps  of 
straw  and  other  debris  on  the  side  of  the 
road  and  trying  to  burn  it. 

I  had  given  it  some  weeks  to  dry?  but  it 
had  not  done  its  part  very  well.  The  result 
is  that  it  is  not  all  burned  yet.  I  light  it  half 
[  6  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 


a  dozen  times  a  day,  and  it  smoulders.  Some 
time  I  expect  it  will  all  be  burned,  and  then 
we  '11  spread  it  over  the  garden.  So,  instead 
of  putting  any  more  words  on  paper,  I  ought 
to  go  out  to  rake  that  brush  fire  up  again. 

Incidentally  I'll  look  off  at  the  hill  and 
down  the  valley.  All  the  fruit  trees  are  in 
flower.  Down  the  hill  towards  Conde  there 
are  lovely  pink  clouds  which  mark  the  peach 
trees,  and  across  the  Morin,  to  the  south,  the 
plum  trees  are  like  dainty  white  mists.  The 
alleys  in  the  garden  at  Pere's  look  like  a 
millinery  show,  all  wreaths  of  apple  blos- 
soms strung  on  the  trellises  that  border  the 
paths,  and  the  magnolia  parasol,  which 
marks,  with  its  spreading  shape,  the  middle 
of  the  path,  and  under  which  Amelie  sits  in 
summer  to  darn  my  stockings,  is  already 
putting  on  its  young  green  cover.  I  am 
going  to  send  you  a  photograph  of  that  gar- 
den path  one  day. 

Of  course  we  don't  talk  or  think  of  any- 
thing here  but  the  German  retreat  —  Hin- 
denburg's  famous  strategic  retreat.  No  one 
denies  that  the  whole  thing  has  been  a  great 
lesson  in  military  science,  were  it  not  for  its 
accompaniment  by  acts  so  unmilitary  as  to 
put  another  blot  on  the  very  word  "  Ger- 


man." 


Every  one  has  a  different  way  of  regard- 
ing the  fact  that  —  possibly  to  avoid  or  out- 

[   7   .1 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

wit  the  threatened  Allied  spring  offensive  — 
Hindenburg  felt  it  prudent  to  establish  a 
new  and  stronger  line  of  defence  thirty  kilo- 
meters in  the  rear  of  the  line  he  had  been 
holding  so  long,  —  a  line  to-day  known  as 
the  Siegfried  line.  Whether  or  not  we  were 
outwitted  history  will  tell  us  some  day  in 
the  future  —  I  suppose.  The  fact  from 
which  there  is  no  getting  away  is  that,  al- 
though this  move  was  rumoured  even  among 
civilians  as  long  ago  as  July  of  last  year,  he 
succeeded  in  doing  it,  and  that  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  the  Allied  pursuit  was  prompt 
and  more  or  less  harassed  his  rear,  and  per- 
haps pushed  him  further  and  more  rapidly 
than  he  at  first  intended. 

Soldiers  do  not  deny  the  cleverness  of  the 
move,  but  the  acts  of  no  military  import 
which  accompanied  the  retreat  fill  us  with 
horror.  To  destroy  roads  and  bridges,  to 
cut  down  forests  and  raze  houses  that  could 
have  served  as  shelters  or  military  posts, 
well,  any  army  would  do  that.  But  to  poison 
wells,  to  uproot  orchards,  to  carry  off  young 
girls  —  these  are  acts  of  war  that  are  —  to 
say  the  least  —  unmilitary.  It  is  no  use  talk- 
ing about  it.  But  what  a  ruined  northeast 
France  it  is !  Yet,  in  spite  of  that,  almost 
the  day  after  the  retreat  began  the  poor 
refugees  who  had  left  in  August,  1914,  be- 
gan to  hurry  back,  ready  to  reconstruct  their 
devastated  homes.  It  is  a  wonderful  spirit, 
[  8  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

and  thank  God  for  it !  It  is  to  be  the  saving 
of  France. 

I  wonder  if  mere  words  on  paper  can 
make  any  one  realize  exactly  what  has  hap- 
pened. I  am  sure  that,  horror-stricken  as 
we  have  been  by  some  of  the  details,  we  have 
no  full  sense  of  it,  and  how  can  you,  merely 
reading  it  in  letters  of  black  and  white  in  a 
newspaper,  realize  what  it  is  hard  for  us  to 
take  in  when  it  is  told  us  by  men  who  looked 
on  it?  Imagine  264  villages  wiped  off  the 
map :  towns  like  Chauny,  a  big  industrial 
centre  where  there  were  bleach  fields  and 
chemical  works,  razed:  255  churches  and 
38,000  houses  reduced  to  mere  heaps  of  rub- 
bish. Can  you  take  it  in?  I  confess  that  it 
is  hard  for  me. 

I  saw  an  officer  who  was  in  the  pursuit 
who  told  me  that  the  Boches  left  groups  of 
women  who  had  been  outraged  shut  up  in  cel- 
lars in  the  ruined  towns  and  villages,  and 
carried  off  all  the  girls  in  their  late  'teens. 
What  a  record  for  "  Kultur  " !  Does  it  not 
wipe  the  word  out  of  all  decent  vocabularies 
and  inscribe  it  among  those  forbidden  and 
hidden  away  in  pornographic  dictionaries? 

The  demoniac  ingenuity  of  the  destruction 
really  surpasses  all  the  demonstrations  of 
German  efficiency  which  this  war  has  yet 
brought  to  notice.  You  have  probably  read 
that  they  sawed  down  all  the  orchards  and 
did  their  utmost  to  render  the  fertile  soil 

r" 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

for  a  long  time  unproductive.  But  that  was 
rather  a  large  order,  I  am  afraid.  At  any 
rate  they  made  inanimate  objects  their  in- 
fernal aid.  They  left  hidden  mines  to  ex- 
plode. They  left  large  trees  standing,  along 
where  roads  had  once  been,  sawed  almost 
through,  so  that  the  first  strong  wind  would 
send  them  crashing  on  engineers  at  work  re- 
pairing the  roads  or  convoys  passing  in  pur- 
suit. My  word !  but  these  Germans  give  the 
traditional  Old  Nick  all  the  trumps  in  the 
pack  and  beat  him  still  in  devilishness. 

You  remember  Coucy-le-Chateau,  that 
marvellous  ruin,  which  Violet-le-Duc  con- 
sidered the  finest  specimen  in  Europe  of 
medieval  military  architecture,  and  which 
after  two  hundred  and  fifty-six  years  of  ex- 
istence was  dismantled  by  Mazarin  in  1652, 
and  has  since  then  been  a  public  monument 
—  a  wonderful  ruin?  I  am  sure  you  have 
climbed  over  it,  every  one  has,  and  sat  in 
the  shade  and  looked  off  at  the  view.  I  had 
a  letter  the  other  day  from  a  cavalry  officer 
who  is  now  stationed  there,  in  which  he  said, 
'You  thought  it  a  ruin  when  you  saw  it. 
You  should  see  it  now.  The  brutes!" 

In  the  meantime,  the  English  are  still  out- 
side St.  Quentin,  to  the  very  outskirts  of 
which  the  French  cavalry  pushed  in  March. 
That  has  always  been  a  fatal  spot  to  the 
French.  It  is  rather  ironical  to  remember 
that  it  was  near  St.  Quentin  —  which  was 
[  10  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 


part  of  the  dower  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots, 

—  that  the  French  were  defeated  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty  years  ago  by  the  allied  Eng- 
lish, German  and  Flemish  armies,  and  that 
there,  in  January,  1871,  the  French  Armee 
du  Nord  was  beaten  by  General  Goeben  of 
the  Prussian  forces.     I  shall  feel  more  easy 
in  my  mind  once  the  English  are  in  the  town, 
although  we  hear  that  it  is  largely  destroyed 

—  another    big    factory    town  —  a    sort    of 
French  Lowell  or  Lawrence  —  gone. 

In  your  last  letter  you  reproach  me  be- 
cause I  say  "nothing  about  Russia."  Yes, 
I  know — Russia  is  our  "great  delusion." 
What  can  one  say?  I  have  never  known 
much  about  Russia.  I  used  to  think  I  did. 
Most  of  the  Russians  I  knew  were  revolu- 
tionary men  who  were  political  exiles  here. 
But  I  have  been  no  greater  fool  about  it 
than  most  of  the  governments  of  this  world. 
What  can  I  say  except  that  I  suppose  they 
are  going  to  fail  us  —  and  then  what?  Well, 
one  thing  is  certain,  the  curtain  is  getting 
torn  and  we  are  likely  to  know  more  about 
the  Russians  than  we  have  ever  known  —  to 
our  cost.  You  need  not  bother  to  twit  me 
that  I  used  to  say  the  "  Russians  were  a  great 
people."  Of  course  I  did,  and  I  say  it  still. 
They  may  not  prove  it  until  I  have  gone  on, 
but  that  is  not  important. 

You  may  have  the  laugh  on  me.  But  is 
it  worth  while  ?  You  have  it  on  a  lot  of  big 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

people.  Let  that  content  you.  Besides,  the 
only  thing  you  ever  had  against  the  Russians 
was  that  they  were  "  queer,"  and  that  their 
language  was  "hard  to  learn."  And  then 
you  did  not  like  the  paintings  they  exhibited 
at  the  Salon.  My  reasons  for  liking  them 
were  better  than  yours  for  disliking  them. 
I  suppose  that  I  shall  find  excuses  for  them 
if  the  very  worst  that  can  happen  comes  to 
pass.  So  don't  think  you  can  take  any  rise 
out  of  me  on  that  subject.  There  are  a 
great  many  other  things  that  I  think  about 
which  I  do  not  write  to  you.  To  begin  with, 
the  censor  would  work  on  my  letters  with  his 
ink  brush,  and  you  would  be  none  the  wiser, 
and  I  would  have  bothered  myself  in  vain. 


II 

May  /, 

I  HAD  hardly  mailed  my  last  letter  to  you 
when  things  got  very  exciting  here  again. 

Early  in  the  morning  of  April  24  —  that 
was  Tuesday  of  last  week  —  we  heard  that 
the  cavalry  was  trotting  into  the  valley  again, 
and  that  we  were  to  have  the  32nd  Dragoons 
quartered  on  us. 

Naturally,  the  first  thing  I  said  was, 
"What  a  pity  it  isn't  the  23rd,"  which  was 
so  long  with  us  in  the  winter  that  we  felt  it 
was  really  our  regiment.  When  the  32nd 
began  to  ride  in  we  learned  that  the  23rd 
was  not  far  off  —  only  five  miles  down  the 
valley  at  La  Chapelle,  just  opposite  Crecy- 
en-Brie. 

Well,  I  could  not  complain,  for  I  had  an- 
other charming  young  officer  in  the  house  — 
another  St.  Cyr  man,  a  lieutenant  with  a 
"  de"  to  his  name  —  a  man  a  little  over 
thirty,  and  very  chic. 

On  Wednesday  —  that  was  the  25th  —  I 
was  sitting  in  the  library  trying  to  work, 
when  I  heard  an  unusual  movement  in  the 
road,  and  looked  out  to  see  a  group  of  five 
officers  of  the  23rd,  followed  by  a  couple  of 

[  13  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

orderlies,  dismounting  at  the  gate  —  coming 
to  make  an  afternoon  call  —  all  booted  and 
spurred  and  fresh-gloved  and  elegant,  as  if 
there  were  no  such  thing  as  war,  though  they 
were  burned  and  bronzed  by  the  campaign 
from  which  they  had  but  just  retired. 

It  was  good  to  see  them  again,  especially 
the  Aspirant,  and  though  I  would  have  liked 
to  hear  all  the  details  of  the  famous  "  strate- 
gic retreat,"  I  got  only  a  few,  as  of  course 
you  know  it  is  forbidden  the  soldiers  to  talk 
to  civilians,  and  a  good  thing,  too. 

However,  I  did  hear  a  few  interesting 
things,  one  of  the  most  striking  being  that 
when  the  French  cavalry  dashed  through 
Noyon,  the  poor  French  people  did  not  rec- 
ognize them.  The  population  in  the  invaded 
district  was  waiting  for  the  famous  pantalon 
rouge.  They  did  not  even  know  that  their 
army  had  changed  its  uniform,  and  when 
they  saw  the  blue-grey  cavalry  coming  they 
thought  it  was  still  the  enemy  and  ran  to 
hide  again. 

They  told  me  that  the  joy  of  these  poor 
people  who  had  been  two  years  and  a  half 
under  the  German  heel,  when  they  finally 
realized  that  it  was  their  own  army  which 
had  arrived,  was  pathetic. 

Hardly  had  the  group  of  officers  taken 
leave,  and  ridden  up  the  hill,  when  Lieuten- 
ant de  G came  in  to  sit  down  for  a  little 

chat  about  home  and  children.  I  can't  tell 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

you  how  these  men  like  to  talk  about  home. 
In  the  course  of  the  conversation  I  made 
arrangements  with  him  to  have  some  of  his 
horses  and  men  help  in  the  fields  the  next 
morning,  for  the  work  here  is  terribly 
behind. 

When  he  went  down  the  hill  to  dinner  I 
rushed  to  tell  Amelie,  and  to  have  everything 
ready  for  next  morning,  and  you  can  imagine 
my  disappointment,  when,  at  nine,  Lieutenant 

de  G came  in,  quite  disconsolate,  to  tell 

me  that  orders  had  arrived  to  sound  "  Boots 
and  Saddles "  at  half  past  six  the  next 
morning. 

I  ought  not  to  have  been  surprised  for  the 
officers  of  the  23rd  had  told  me  that  it  was 
not  a  long  stay  —  only  an  etape. 

The  next  morning  —  that  was  last  Thurs- 
day—  was  a  beautiful  day.  I  was  up  early. 

I  met  Lieutenant  de  G on  the  stairs, 

where  he  bowed  over  my  hand,  and  made 
me  such  a  pretty,  graceful  speech  of  thanks 
for  my  hospitality  —  you  can  count  on  any 
French  soldier,  from  an  officer  down  to  the 
ranks,  doing  that. 

I  had  hardly  got  out  into  the  garden  after 
he  left,  when  a  detachment  of  the  23rd  pulled 
up  at  the  gate,  and  the  sous-officier  in  com- 
mand, saluted,  as  he  said:  "Aspirant  B< 's 

compliments.  The  23rd  is  cantonning  at 
Mareuil  to-night.  I  am  going  ahead  to  ar- 
range the  cantonnement.  If  it  is  possible 

[  15  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

the  Aspirant  counts  on  calling  on  you  this 
afternoon  to  make  his  adieux.  We  march 
again  to-morrow,"  and  with  another  salute 
the  little  troop  galloped  down  the  hill. 

The  23rd  rode  away  at  half  past  seven, 
and  they  passed  the  6th  Dragoons  riding  in, 
to  take  their  places. 

The  little  body  of  cavalry  that  came  up  our 
hill  was  in  command  of  a  marechal  des  logis 
—  a  handsome,  tall,  slender  lad  of  not  over 
twenty,  —  who  explained  that  it  was  only  a 
twenty-four-hour  rest  for  men  and  horses. 
They  carried  no  kitchens  at  all,  —  no  revict- 
ualment  of  any  sort.  Each  man  had  two 
days'  rations  in  his  sac,  and  the  horses  car- 
ried their  feed-bags  and  oats. 

It  was  a  new  kind  of  cantonnement  for 
me,  and  the  most  picturesque  I  had  ever 
seen. 

When  everything  had  been  arranged  the 
marechal  des  logis  came  to  the  door  and 
asked  if  I  could  conveniently  put  him  up. 

I  led  him  to  his  room,  and  you  would  have 
laughed  if  you  could  have  seen  his  expres- 
sion when  I  showed  him  the  big  freshly 
made-up  bed. 

"Am  I  going  to  sleep  in  that?"  he  ex- 
claimed, and  then  we  both  laughed  as  if  it 
were  a  real  joke.  You  see  we  need  so  little 
excuse  to  laugh  these  days. 

The  weather  was  beautiful. 

The  boys  sat  or  lay  all  along  the  roadside 
[  16  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 


in  the  sun,  and  the  horses,  relieved  of  all 
equipment,  and  well  brushed,  were  tethered 
to  the  banks  and  in  the  courts,  wherever 
there  was  a  blade  of  grass  —  in  fact  they 
were  "  turned  out  to  grass  "  for  the  first  time 
since  last  fall,  —  while  the  soldiers  ate  and 
smoked  and  slept  beside  them,  or  rolled, 
frolicking  like  youngsters  full  of  springtime 
spirit.  It  was  the  most  unmartial,  bucolic 
sight  imaginable. 

There  was  not  much  pasturage  for  the 
horses,  and  I  looked  at  my  lawn,  and  at  what 
Louise  calls  the  "prairie"  under  the  fruit 
trees,  and  I  went  out  in  the  road  and  cere- 
moniously invited  as  many  of  the  best- 
behaved  horses  as  could  feed  there  to  come 
in  to  lunch. 

The  marechal  des  logis  was  writing  letters 
in  the  salon  when  I  led  my  little  cavalcade 
along  the  terrace  —  they  had  selected  the 
most  obedient  horses  who  did  not  even  need 
halters  —  and  he  came  out  to  say  that  it  was 
a  pity  to  trample  my  lawn  —  as  if  I  cared 
for  that ! 

You,  who  so  adore  horses,  would  have 
loved  to  see  them.  There  was  plenty  of 
good  feed.  There  was  sunshine  and  shade, 
and  they  nibbled  and  snorted,  while  the  sol- 
diers who  had  charge  of  them  rolled  on  the 
grass  and  smoked.  I  did  wish  I  could  have 
got  a  snapshot  for  you,  but  no  one  had  a 
camera. 

[  17 1 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

As  it  was  Thursday  Louise  was  working 
in  the  garden  —  Thursday  is  her  day.  Sud- 
denly she  shaded  her  eyes  and  looked  down 
towards  the  Marne,  and  called  out  to  me 

that  Aspirant  B was  coming.  Sure 

enough,  there  he  was,  coming  on  foot  across 
the  fields  as  if  he  had  seven-league  boots, 
and  waving  his  cap.  Mareuil,  where  the 
23rd  had  gone,  is  only  two  miles  away. 

He  arrived  hot  and  breathless,  to  explain 
that,  while  he  was  not  really  out  of  bounds, 
still  he  had  not  asked  permission  and  so  had 
come  on  foot,  and  dared  not  stay  long,  but 
that  he  could  not  bear  to  leave  the  Seine 
et  Marne  without  coming  to  say  good-bye, 
as  orders  might  come  at  any  moment  to 
advance,  and  no  one  had  the  faintest  idea 
what  their  destination  would  be. 

I  had  half  a  moment's  foolish  hesitation, 
as  I  remembered  that  the  marechal  des  logis 
was  in  the  salon.  I  did  not  know  what  the 
military  etiquette  was,  or  how  officers  like  to 
meet  unceremoniously.  So  I  said:  "  Shall  we 
sit  out  here,  or  will  you  come  into  the  salon  ? 
The  marechal  des  logis  of  the  6th  is  there." 

"Oh,  let's  join  him,  of  course,"  replied 
the  Aspirant. 

As  I  led  the  way  I  wondered  how  I  was 
going  to  introduce  them.  I  did  not  know  the 
marechal's  name.  But  I  need  not  have 
fretted. 

I  opened  the  door.    The  marechal  sprang 

[   18  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

erect.  The  two  youngsters  both  so  tall,  so 
slender  and  straight  —  saluted,  flung  their 
names  at  each  other,  thrust  out  their  hands 
and  gripped.  Then  they  smiled,  sat  down, 
crossed  their  long  legs,  and  fell  to.  It  was 
like  a  drill  —  so  exactly  in  unison  —  and  so 
young  and  charming,  that  I  just  leaned  back 
in  my  chair  and  listened  and  thought  a  lot. 

Don't  you  know  how  there  used  to  be  a 
tradition  about  "  little  Frenchmen  "  ?  I  vow 
I  don't  know  where  they  all  are  now.  I 
thought  of  it  Wednesday  when  the  group  of 
officers  stood  about  in  my  salon  —  their 
heads  almost  to  the  rafters  —  and  I  thought 
of  it  again  to-day  as  I  saw  these  two  twenty- 
year  olds  —  both  nearly  six  feet,  if  not  quite. 

When  the  brief  visit  was  over  the  lads 
parted  like  friends. 

As  the  Aspirant  was  saying  good-bye  on 
the  lawn,  and  laughing  at  the  idea  of  my 
having  "  the  horses  in  to  tea,"  as  he  called  it, 
although  I  called  it  "  spending  the  day,"  he 
directed  my  attention  to  the  road  across  the 
field  by  which  he  had  arrived,  and  I  looked 
down. 

"  Hulloa  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Here  comes 
the  23rd  racing  to  visit  its  pet  cantonnement 
at  Huiry.  You  know,  Madame,  they  never 
have  been  so  happy  anywhere  else  as  they 
were  in  what  they  call  4  ce  joli  petit  pays  de 


Sure   enough,   there   came   Hamelin   and 

[  19  1 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

Vincent,  who  had  lodged  at  Amelie's,  and 
Basset  and  all  the  rest  who  had  lived  about 
us  in  December  and  January. 

So  you  see  we  had  rather  an  exciting  day. 

The  result  was  that  I  was  very  tired,  and 
I  slept  very  soundly. 

As  a  rule  when  troops  are  here  I  always 
hear  all  the  night  movement.  Whenever  any 
officer  in  the  house  received  a  night  message, 
in  spite  of  all  their  precautions,  I  invariably 
heard  the  cyclist  arrive.  But  that  night  I 
heard  nothing.  I  waked  at  six.  I  opened 
my  shutters.  The  sun  was  shining  brightly. 
The  morning  was  clear  and  warm.  I  looked 
out,  wondering  at  the  silence.  I  expected  to 
see  the  horses  being  groomed  all  along  the 
road.  To  my  surprise  all  the  stable  doors 
were  wide  open  —  no  one  in  sight,  —  no 
horses,  no  soldiers  anywhere. 

When  Amelie  appeared  she  said  the  order 
had  come  at  midnight.  They  had  marched 
at  three  —  and  I  had  not  heard  a  sound. 
Am  I  not  getting  used  to  a  military  life? 

But  I  must  give  you  some  evidence  that 
the  race  famed  for  its  politeness  has  not  lost 
any  of  the  quality  in  the  war,  and  all  its 
hurry. 

Although  Lieutenant  de  G ,  who  left 

Thursday  morning,  had  formally  thanked 
me  for  my  hospitality,  within  twenty-four 
hours  I  received  the  following  note  from 
him. 

[    20    ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 


Madame  : 

I  must  again  express  to  you  all  my  gratitude  for 
the  charming  welcome  you  extended  to  me  under 
your  roof.  Our  roving  life  did  not  allow  us  to  stay 
long  at  Huiry,  but,  thanks  to  you,  we  shall  always 
cherish  a  charming  recollection  of  our  too  short  visit. 

And,  twenty-four  hours  after  the  6th  rode 
away  in  the  night,  I  received  the  following 
letter  from  the  young  marechal  des  logis.  It 
seems  to  me  such  a  pretty  letter  for  a  lad  of 
twenty  that  you  deserve  to  see  it. 

With  the  Army,  April  28,  1917 
Madame: 

I  hope  you  will  have  the  kindness  to  excuse  me 
if,  before  my  departure  this  morning,  I  did  not  have 
the  opportunity  of  thanking  you  for  the  charming 
welcome  you  extended  to  me  in  your  pretty  home. 
It  was  late  when  I  came  in  last  night,  and  it  was 
still  dark  when  we  took  leave  of  your  dear  little 
village  this  morning,  and  I  was  therefore  unable  to 
see  you,  to  my  deep  regret,  and  to  express  to  you  in 
person  all  the  gratitude  I  felt,  and  my  deep  joy  to 
find  that  the  sympathy  which  the  Americans,  our 
new  allies,  express  for  us,  is  no  vain  word.  Your 
kindness  to  us  all  was  the  best  of  evidence,  and  I  beg 
you  to  believe,  Madame,  that  the  sentiment  is 
reciprocated. 

All  my  men,  as  well  as  my  two  comrades  and  I, 
were  deeply  touched  by  the  welcome  extended  to  us 
in  your  village,  and  especially  by  you  in  person,  and 
we  should  have  been  only  too  happy  had  we  been 
able  to  stay  with  you  longer.  We  are  much  less 
comfortable  to-night  than  we  were  last  night,  but 
a  soldier  is  forced  to  consider  himself  comfortable 
anywhere.  All  the  same  he  is  more  than  happy,  now 
and  then,  to  find  himself  among  kind  people  who 

[    21     ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

offer  him  the  comforts  of  home  of  which  he  has 
been   deprived   for  nearly  three  years.     Even   our 
horses  are  less  gay  than  they  were  yesterday.    This 
afternoon  they  had  no  green  lawn  to  nibble. 
I  beg  you,  dear  Madame,  etc. 

Marechal  des  logis  G . 

The  politeness  of  these  French  boys  and 
their  aptness  in  writing  letters  promptly  is 
remarkable.  It  is  a  national  characteristic. 
It  is  a  great  contrast  to  the  American 
sans  gene  manner,  which  surprises  French 
people.  For  example,  all  the  French  sol- 
diers nursed  in  our  little  ambulance  write 
immediately  they  get  back  to  the  Directrice, 
the  Sisters,  and  their  special  nurse  to  reiter- 
ate the  thanks  they  have  so  profusely  ex- 
pressed before  leaving,  and  anyone  to  whom 
I  have  shown  the  smallest  courtesy  while 
there  writes  to  me.  The  little  hospital  has 
never  sheltered  but  one  American.  When  he 
returned  to  his  post  every  one  gave  him  an 
address,  and  every  one  expected  a  postcard 
from  him,  at  least.  Of  course  he  could  not 
write  French,  but  he  could  send  a  picture 
postcard  with  his  name,  and  a  line  which  he 
knew  I  would  render  into  French.  No  word 
ever  came  back.  Dear  Soeur  Jules  is  sure 
he  is  dead.  I  never  see  her  but  she  asks : 
uHave  you  had  news  from  -  -?"  And 
when  I  say,  "  No,"  she  shakes  her  head  sadly, 
and  exclaims,  "  Poor  lad !  Of  course  he  has 
been  killed.  Poor  nice  boy !  We  were  so  at- 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

tached  to  him."  I  let  it  go  at  that.  It  is 
so  hard  to  explain  that  it  is  very  American. 

Lovely  day  —  so  good  after  the  terrible 
winter. 

I  am  already  planting  peas  and  beans  and 
potatoes.  But  the  flower  garden  will  not  be 
very  pretty  this  year,  I  lost  so  many  rose 
bushes  in  the  awful  long  spell  of  January 
and  February  cold.  But  what  of  that?  Po- 
tatoes are  the  only  chic  thing  this  year. 
They  are  planted  everywhere  —  on  the  lawn 
at  the  chateau,  in  the  front  gardens,  under 
the  fruit  trees.  I  was  tempted  to  plant 
them  on  my  lawn,  only  that  would  have  been 
pretentious,  as  Pere  had  more  land  than  we 
needed,  and  it  would  have  cost  more  to  turn 
up  my  lawn  than  the  mere  patriotic  look  of 
the  thing  was  worth. 


Ill 

May  18,  Jp/7 

JUST  the  loveliest  day  you  can  imagine. 
When  I  went  into  the  garden  early  this 
morning  I  did  wish  you  were  here.  A  soft 
puffy  breeze  was  blowing,  and  a  thin  haze 
veiled  the  sun.  There  was  only  one  word 
for  it  —  divine.  I  never  see  the  country 
looking  as  it  did  at  that  moment  that  I  do  not 
long  to  own  a  big  camera  and  become  an 
expert  with  it.  It  would  only  be  in  that  way 
one  could  ever  get  a  proper  picture  of  it. 
It  is  so  wilfully  changeable  that  to  do  it  jus- 
tice—  to  catch  it  at  its  best  —  the  camera 
would  have  to  be  on  the  spot  —  ever  ready. 

We  have  had  a  week  of  really  hot  weather. 
It  has  been  good  for  planting,  and  I  Ve 
planted  carrots  and  turnips  and  beets  and 
onions,  tomatoes  and  cucumbers,  and  if  this 
lasts,  I  am  going  to  try  golden  bantam  corn. 
What  do  you  think  of  that  for  a  farmer? 
Hush  —  Louise  does  the  hard  work,  and  I 
boss  it.  I  sit  in  the  field  on  a  camp  chair 
with  the  seeds  in  a  basket,  and  a  green  um- 
brella over  my  head,  and  big  gloves  on  my 
hands,  while  Louise  grovels  in  the  dirt  and 
carries  out  my  ideas.  I  get  terribly  tired, 

[    24    ]    ' 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

and  very  red  in  the  face,  but  Louise,  brown 
as  a  berry,  comes  out  fresh  as  possible. 

Well,  anyway,  I  am  going  to  have  some- 
thing to  eat  —  in  time  —  and  that  comforts 
me. 

At  noon  to-day  it  clouded  over,  and  a  cold 
wind  came  up  which  drove  me  indoors. 
Though  it  is  as  cold  here  as  outside,  still 
I  am  out  of  the  wind,  and  that  is  how  it 
happens  that,  though  I  have  nothing  much 
to  write  about,  I  am  going  to  try  to  make  a 
letter.  Everything  in  the  world  is  still  — 
but  though  we  hear  no  sound  of  cannon,  I 
have  the  thought  of  it  always  with  me.  It 
is  more  persistent  than  the  poor. 

I  have  been  looking  over  some  of  your 
letters,  and  I  find  that  you  have  often  asked 
me  questions  about  my  beasties,  and  because 
I  have  almost  always  had  other  things  to 
write  about  I  have  never  got  to  telling  you 
about  anything  in  the  beastie  line,  except 
cats  —  and  you  got  that,  you  remember  be- 
cause you  were  nasty  about  my  efforts  to 
"  wake  up  the  States,"  which  had  been  hardly 
less  successful  at  that  time  than  dear  Lord 
Roberts'  great  "  Wake  Up,  England!" 

Well,  since  you  want  to  hear  about 
beasties,  so  be  it. 

Of  course,  you  remember  that  in  the  old 
days  I  never  had  any  beasties  in  the  apart- 
ment, except  birds.  When  I  came  out  into 
the  country  to  live  I  did  not  see  any  place 

[  25  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

either  in  my  little  house  or  in  my  new  life 
for  that  huge  cage  and  the  twenty  birds  that 
lived  in  it,  in  Paris. 

I  had  loved  them  in  the  Paris  apartment. 
High  up  in  the  air,  with  that  broad  open 
space  across  the  Montparnasse  cemetery  to  fill 
the  wide  balcony  with  sunlight  and  warmth, 
they  had  seemed  quite  in  the  picture.  But 
the  idea  of  caged  birds  on  this  hilltop  seemed 
to  me  silly.  What  happiness  could  a  cage 
full  of  birds  have  when  surrounded  by  sing- 
ing birds  in  liberty?  Also  every  one  out  here 
kept  cats. 

In  Paris,  high  up  above  the  street,  the 
morning  concerts  had  been  the  only  gay  thing 
in  the  sad  and  lonely  house.  I  learned  to 
love  them.  I  loved  giving  them  their  bath 
in  the  morning,  doing  up  their  house  for 
them,  and  preparing  their  meals.  I  loved 
seeing  them  flying  about,  dancing  and  singing, 
swinging  and  balancing,  and  eating. 

I  loved  believing  they  were  happy.  But 
I  could  not  imagine  them  happy  out  here, 
so  they  did  not  come  with  me.  I  gave  them 
and  their  gilded  palace  to  some  one  whom 
they  had  always  known,  and  now  and  then 
I  still  go  to  see  them. 

So  when  I  came  out  here  I  had  no  beasties. 

The  first  one  I  had  was  a  dog.  He  was 
a  beautiful  Airedale  —  a  big  dog  with  a  dear 
chestnut-coloured  head  and  legs  and  belly, 
and  a  nicely  fitting,  undulated,  black  jacket. 

[  26  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

But,  alas!  I  did  not  have  him  long,  and  it 
was  altogether  a  sad  experience. 

When  he  arrived  he  was  homesick. 

Did  you  ever  see  a  homesick  dog?  Or, 
what  is  worse,  did  you  ever  live  with  one? 
For  days,  before  he  learned  to  love  me,  he 
followed  me  about  in  a  patient,  resigned  way 
which  made  me  pretty  sad.  I  had  not  had 
much  experience  in  owning  beasties,  except 
birds.  I  had  to  get  acquainted  as  well  as  he. 
It  was  hard  on  both  of  us.  Besides,  the 
house  was  all  fresh  and  clean,  and,  as  I  was 
determined  that  he  should  feel  that  it  was 
as  much  his  home  as  mine,  he  was  allowed 
everywhere,  and  brought  in  a  lot  of  dirt,  and 
my  habit  of  having  everything  in  apple-pie 
order  —  by  the  way,  what  kind  of  order  is 
that?  —  got  a  shock. 

But  I  grew  used  to  all  that,  and  reconciled 
to  it,  as  he  became  attached  to  me,  and,  even 
in  the  little  time  he  stayed,  I  got  so  that  I  did 
not  mind  when  he  leaped  all  over  me,  and 
wiped  his  muddy  paws,  and  he  could  not 
walk  out  with  me  without  embracing  me 
every  few  minutes.  I  was  so  grateful  to  him 
for  showing  pleasure  in  my  society  that  for 
a  while  I  did  not  even  try  to  break  him  of  it. 
I  ended  by  getting  deeply  attached  to  him, 
and  he  to  me.  I  was  so  proud  of  him.  I 
loved  walking  out  with  him,  carrying  his 
leash  and  whip,  with  a  whistle  in  my  sweater 
pocket.  He  was  naturally  obedient.  He 

[  27  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

always  walked  close  to  my  heels  except  when 
I  told  him  to  "  go,"  and  then  he  was  off  like 
a  flash.  But  he  never  went  out  of  sight.  If 
he  reached  a  turn,  he  stopped  to  look  back 
and  see  if  I  were  coming,  and  if  I  hid  he 
dashed  back  and  sniffed  around  until  he 
found  me.  Of  course  this  is  all  common- 
place to  people  who  have  always  had  dogs 
of  their  own.  But  it  was  a  new  experience 
to  me. 

If  he  saw  anyone  coming  towards  me  he 
retired  quietly  to  my  side  —  not  as  if  afraid, 
but  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  I  was  not 
going  to  be  molested.  For  a  few  weeks  that 
was  all  right.  He  seemed  gentle  and  was  as 
playful,  once  he  was  domiciled,  as  a  small 
dog. 

I  had  never  had  a  watch-dog  —  didn't 
know  anything  about  them.  I  had  him  for 
company.  But  one  day  Amelie  was  sweep- 
ing the  terrace.  Argus  was  lying  in  the  sun. 
I  was  standing  at  the  gate,  which  was  closed. 
The  postman  came  up  the  road  and  started 
to  open  the  gate.  Argus  was  there  in  one 
bound.  He  snarled,  then  growled  deep  down 
in  his  throat.  The  man  did  not  come  in. 

Amelie  laughed  aloud.  Instinctively  I 
said,  "  No,  no,  Argus!"  but  Amelie  simply 
screamed  at  me:  " Laissez  done"  and  she 
patted  him  on  the  head.  "  At  last,"  she  said. 
"  I  was  wondering  if  that  dog  was  anything 
but  beautiful.  Pat  his  head,"  she  com- 
[  28  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

manded,  u  and  tell  him  he  is  a  good  dog." 
I  obeyed  orders,  and  Argus  wagged  his  tail, 
and  strutted,  and  from  that  day  he  was  the 
terror  of  the  commune.  He  never  passed 
anyone  on  the  road  without  growling,  and 
he  barked  at  every  one  who  passed  the  gate. 

Personally  I  thought  he  carried  his  ardour 
too  far,  since  he  could  not  bear  a  stranger 
near.  He  barked  when  they  arrived,  and 
he  kept  it  up.  Every  one  was  afraid  of  him, 
though  I  was  always  convinced  that  he  was 
not  a  dangerous  dog.  He  never  attacked 
anyone.  On  the  road  he  always  came  the 
instant  he  was  called,  and  patiently  allowed 
himself  to  be  leashed. 

I  confess  I  never  got  at  his  psychology  — 
he  did  not  live  long  enough.  As  I  say,  he 
never  attempted  to  attack  anyone,  though  he 
did  attack  a  big  dog.  He  never  attached 
himself  to  anyone  outside  of  the  household. 
I  had  heaps  of  theories  about  him.  At  times 
I  thought  there  was  a  savage  strain  in  him. 
At  other  times  I  imagined  he  was  as  afraid 
of  people  as  they  were  of  him.  But  I  don't 
know. 

When  he  was  ill,  and  I  sent  for  the  veter- 
inary, Argus  was  upstairs  lying  at  my  bed- 
room door  when  the  doctor  arrived.  I  called 
him.  He  came  half-way  down  the  stairs  and 
stood  barking.  The  doctor  said:  "As  hand- 
some an  Airedale  as  I  ever  saw,  but  I  would 
not  touch  him  for  a  fortune." 

[  29  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

"But,  doctor,"  I  said,  "he's  perfectly 
gentle." 

"  With  you,  perhaps.    I  can't  touch  him." 

So  I  went  upstairs  with  the  dog,  and  he 
let  me  tie  up  his  nose,  and  I  held  him  while 
the  doctor  examined  him. 

Well  —  he  died.  Never  mind  about  that. 
I  don't  like  even  now  to  remember  it.  I  like 
to  think  of  him  as  we  used  to  walk  out  to- 
gether, when  he  was  the  first  comrade  of  my 
new  life. 

Oh,  yes,  I  have  another  dog  now,  but  he 
is  just  a  dog  to  me.  I  like  him  well  enough, 
and  play  with  him,  but  my  heart  is  not  set 
on  him  as  it  was  on  my  big  dog  of  whom  I 
was  so  proud. 

This  dog's  name  is  Dick.  He  is  a  big 
black  poodle  and  a  perfect  fool.  He  is  what 
the  French  call  "pas  mechant  pour  deux 
sous"  just  a  common  or  garden  fool.  He 
is  a  thoroughbred,  but  he  has  never  been 
trained  at  all,  and  as  he  was  nearly,  if  not 
quite,  four  years  old  when  he  came  —  with 
his  character  —  training  has  been  impossible. 
He  was  bought  when  a  baby  as  a  plaything 
for  a  child  at  Couilly.  When  the  war  broke 
out,  his  family  went  to  Switzerland  and  left 
Dick  a  boarder  at  Amelie's.  At  Couilly  he 
left  a  bad  reputation.  A  child  had  hit  him 
with  a  stick  and  hurt  him,  and  Dick  had 
sprung  on  her  —  the  one  naughty  act  of  his 

[  30  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

life,  but  it  was  enough  to  give  him  a  bad 
name  —  so  he  had  to  come  up  here  to  live. 

No  one  knows  everything  about  a  dog 
except  after  long  years  of  experience. 
Though  he  is  the  silliest,  gentlest,  most  play- 
ful dog  in  the  world,  though  he  adores  chil- 
dren, and  the  cats  sleep  all  over  him,  I  have 
to  own  that  he  has  never  forgotten  the  child 
at  Couilly  who  struck  him  with  the  big  stick, 
and  the  very  sight  of  her  to-day  —  after  more 
than  five  years  —  brings  out  a  quality  of 
ugliness  in  him  that  he  never  shows  at  any 
other  time.  Apart  from  that  one  trait  he  is 
a  comic,  frolicsome  dog,  whose  delight  in 
life  is  to  "  go,"  and  whose  dream  of  happi- 
ness is  to  have  anyone,  no  matter  whom, 
throw  stones  for  him. 

He  was  boarding  at  Amelie's  when  I  came 
here.  While  Argus  lived  he  never  came  near 
the  house.  But  after  Argus  had  gone 
Amelie  used  to  bring  him  down  here  with 
her,  and  I  got  used  to  seeing  him  about. 
Neither  Amelie  nor  Abelard  had  been  con- 
tent that  there  was  no  dog  here  at  night,  and 
finally  I  consented  to  let  Dick  sleep  in  the 
kennel ;  he  has  been  sleeping  there  ever  since. 
The  only  protection  he  gives  is  to  bark  when 
anyone  approaches  the  house,  and  that  is 
really  all  that  is  necessary.  When  he  barks 
furiously  in  the  night  —  as  every  one  knows 
his  voice,  —  someone  comes  to  be  sure  that  I 
am  all  right. 

[  31  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

When  I  say  he  barks  at  every  one,  that 's 
not  quite  true.  He  used  to  bark  at  every 
one,  but,  for  some  reason,  since  we  have  had 
so  many  soldiers  cantonned  here,  he  never 
barks  at  a  poilu.  It  is  the  only  exception. 
He  barks  at  the  children,  at  the  postman,  at 
the  neighbours  he  sees  every  day  on  the 
road,  but  he  never  barks  in  these  days  at  a 
common  soldier.  Droll,  that,  I  think!  I 
have  asked  him  to  explain  himself,  but  I  am 
too  stupid  to  understand. 

Of  course  Melie  has  a  big  dog  —  a  black 
retriever  —  who,  though  he  is  already  huge, 
is  hardly  more  than  a  puppy.  He  came  last 
winter,  and  I  named  him  Marquis,  and  it 
was  at  once  abbreviated  into  Kiki.  Amelie 
brought  him  in  her  apron  one  night  when 
he  was  about  as  big  as  a  small  cat,  and 
showed  him  to  Khaki  and  Didine.  Khaki 
gave  one  look  at  him,  and  asked  for  the 
door.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  went 
out  with  very  stiff  legs  and  a  line  of  bristling 
hair  down  his  back,  as  much  as  to  say  "  An- 
other? Dear  me!  "  But  Didine  went  up  to 
him  as  he  lay  on  Melie's  knee,  examined 
him,  and  deliberately  cuffed  him  first  on  one 
side  of  his  head,  and  then  on  the  other,  and 
hard  cuffs,  too.  Marquis  has  grown  up  since 
then,  but  he  has  no  taste  for  cats. 

Although  Marquis  is  still  only  a  puppy,  he 
is  already  much  bigger  than  Dick,  and  Dick 
is  still  just  as  much  of  a  puppy — and  will 

[  32 1 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

be  to  the  end  of  his  days  —  and  it  is  lovely 
to  see  them  play  together  —  such  races  and 
boxing  matches  as  they  have !  They  don't 
always  observe  the  rules  of  the  Marquis  of 
Queensbury  to  be  sure,  but  they  never  get 
cross  over  their  game.  Marquis  is  just  as 
good  a  sport  as  Dick,  but  though  he  is  heav- 
ier he  does  not  tire  so  easily,  and  often  when 
Dick  retires  to  his  corner  to  get  his  breath 
back  and  lies  with  his  tongue  hanging  out, 
Marquis  goes  and  pulls  him  into  the  ring  by 
his  hind  leg. 

So  there  you  have  the  dogs  that  run  with 
me  when  I  cross  the  fields.  I  have  to  keep 
them  with  me  as  all  dogs  must  be  leashed 
or  muzzled.  I  carry  muzzles  and  whip  and 
whistle  when  I  walk,  and,  as  they  are  both 
obedient  to  the  whistle,  I  can  call  them  if  I 
see  anyone  approaching,  and  get  them  on 
their  leashes  if  I  don't  have  time  to  muzzle 
them.  Some  time,  if  I  get  a  chance,  I  '11  ask 
them  to  send  you  their  pictures. 

Though  I  don't  have  birds,  I  have  hens 
and  chickens.  I  have  four  hens  setting  at 
Amelie's  now.  I  don't  want  anything  of  that 
sort  round  here.  So  I  have  arranged  an  imi- 
tation of  a  basse  cour  and  hen-house  at 
Amelie's.  You  'd  laugh  if  you  could  see  it. 
I  began  it  last  summer.  I  sent  Amelie  to 
town  to  buy  a  dozen  chickens  —  ten  of  them 
proved  to  be  cocks,  so  we  fed  them  to  be 
eaten,  and  bought  another  dozen,  with 

t  33   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

hardly  better  luck,  except  in  the  matter  of 
winter  food.  I  began  the  spring  with  a 
rooster  and  seven  hens,  and  every  one  of 
those  hens  shall  set  if  she  wants  to.  Amelie 
pulls  a  long  face,  and  says,  "  How  are  you 
going  to  feed  them?"  Well,  if  I  can't,  I 
can  eat  them,  or  give  them  to  other  people 
to  eat. 

Food  is  a  very  interesting  question  in  these 
days.  Besides,  hens  are  about  the  only 
creatures  I  can  contemplate  eating  with 
equanimity.  They  are  amusing  enough  at 
feeding  time,  but  they  are  ugly,  selfish,  un- 
lovable birds,  except  when  they  have  a  brood 
of  fluffy  little  ones  about  their  feet,  and  then 
they  are  adorable. 

The  most  amusing  experience  I  have  ever 
had  was  with  goats,  —  and  that  one  experi- 
ence impressed  on  me  the  fact  that  I  'd  need 
several  more  years  of  training  to  become  a 
real  farmer,  or  a  stock  breeder,  —  perhaps 
even  another  incarnation. 

When  milk  got  short  it  was  a  serious 
dilemma,  and  the  future  looked  even  more 
serious.  Milk  is  a  very  important  item  in 
my  diet,  and  how  we  were  to  get  through 
another  winter  short  of  milk  was  a  question. 

One  day  Amelie  remarked  that  if  we  had 
a  goat,  that  it  would  be  some  help,  as  she 
and  Pere  liked  goat's  milk.  So,  one  day,  at 
Meaux,  I  told  her  I  'd  make  her  a  present 
of  a  goat,  if  she  could  find  one.  I  was 

[  34  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

amazed  when  she  came  back  to  the  wagon 
carrying  the  cunningest  little  beastie  in  her 
arms  you  ever  saw. 

"Why,  Melie,"  I  cried,  "that  won't  give 
any  milk!" 

"  Give  it  time,"  she  replied.  "  It  is  such  a 
pretty  one." 

So  I  named  it  Jeannette,  and  it  came  to 
live  "  at  the  farm." 

It  was  as  frisky  as  a  kitten  and  we  all 
made  a  plaything  of  it.  It  followed  Melie 
up  and  down  from  her  house  to  mine,  and 
when  it  got  to  know  the  way  it  came  by  it- 
self to  call.  I  was  eternally  catching  it  in 
my  garden,  standing  on  its  hind  legs,  nib- 
bling my  rose  bushes,  and  picking  it  up  in 
my  arms  and  carrying  it  home.  But  it  was 
so  fascinating  on  its  stiff,  wooden,  peglike 
legs,  and  it  side-stepped  so  gracefully  when 
I  was  catching  it,  and  danced  on  its  hind 
feet,  and  butted  at  me  sideways,  that  I  could 
not  get  cross. 

Sometimes  I  'd  hear  a  rustle  in  the  hedge 
as  I  was  reading  in  the  shade,  and,  going  out 
to  the  gate  to  see  what  was  trying  to  get 
through,  would  find  Jeannette  standing  on 
her  hind  legs,  eating  the  old  hedge  with  all 
her  might.  I  did  n't  mind  that.  It  did  not 
hurt  the  hedge  to  be  trimmed.  But  when 
she  began  to  eat  pansies,  roses  and  gera- 
niums, I  drew  the  line,  and  protested.  I 
drove  her  home  one  day,  and  began  to  ask 

[  35  1 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

myself  if  other  goats  had  as  much  liberty  as 
Jeannette,  and  decided  that  they  did  not  and 
that,  in  fact,  she  was  being  badly  brought  up. 

I  looked  over  the  fields  and  saw  goats 
nibbling,  each  with  a  long  rope  attached  to  a 
stake. 

So  I  went  up  to  Amelie's  to  have  a  serious 
talk  about  the  upbringing  of  her  goat.  I 
found  Pere  —  it  was  just  afternoon  —  taking 
his  nap  in  a  big  chair  with  Jeannette  hugged 
in  his  arms  as  she  lay  on  his  knees. 

I  had  to  laugh.  It  was  not  a  moment  to 
argue. 

The  proper  moment  came  a  few  days 
later. 

It  was  early  in  the  morning.  I  heard  some 
one  talking  angrily  in  the  road,  and  it  only 
took  a  little  listening  to  discover  that  Jean- 
nette had  been  in  a  neighbour's  garden  and 
made  a  good  meal  of  peas.  The  owner  was 
angry,  and  I  did  not  blame  her.  It  was  one 
thing  for  Jeannette  to  destroy  my  garden 
or  Pere's,  but  quite  another  matter  when  she 
went  trespassing  and  laid  us  liable  to  a 
proces. 

This  time  I  stiffened  my  lips  —  I  hate  to 
argue  with  Melie  —  and  just  went  at  the  job. 
I  emphatically  stated  that  it  was  absurd  to 
let  a  destructive  animal  like  a  goat  roam  at 
liberty,  that  goats  were  usually  attached,  and 
that  there  was  no  reason  why  Jeannette 

[  36  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

should  not  be.  By  the  time  I  had  done, 
Melie  was  in  tears. 

"  Poor  Jeannette,"  she  sobbed.  "  She 
loves  her  liberty,  and  I  love  mine,  and  can 
sympathize.  Poor  Jeannette,  I  know  just 
how  she  feels." 

Of  course  I  had  to  say,  "  Sorry,  Melie, 
but  we  did  not  buy  the  goat  for  a  plaything, 
and  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  she  can- 
not always  run  free,  so  one  time  is  as  good 
as  another.  There  is  plenty  of  place  for  her 
to  eat.  There  is  the  little  meadow  out  under 
the  trees  where  she  can  be  tied  up.  She  will 
be  near  the  house,  and  the  grass  there  is  full 
of  all  sorts  of  good  things  —  dandelions, 
chicory,  sanfoin,  and  there  is  the  court  here, 
and  there  is  the  little  enclos  at  the  top  of  the 
hill  where  we  put  the  horse  and  donkey,  and 
there  is  the  grass  land  up  the  hill,  and  when 
once  the  cassis  is  gathered,  she  can  be  put 
there." 

"Oh,"  replied  Amelie,  "there  are  places 
enough,  if  it  must  be  done." 

It  was  done,  but  it  was  too  late  to  be  done 
with  comfort  to  anyone.  Jeannette  had  been 
made  a  family  pet.  She  was  used  to  com- 
pany. Wherever  we  put  her  she  b-1-laated 
for  hours  at  a  time,  unless  one  of  us  went 
and  sat  with  her.  I  protested,  but  I  used 
to  catch  Amelie  taking  her  sewing  to  sit  with 
Jeannette,  and  Pere  used  to  go  and  lie  near 
her  on  the  ground  to  take  his  noon  nap  — 

[  37   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

and  as  long  as  she  lived,  she  would  never  be 
cured  of  that  longing  for  society,  if  not  for 
liberty. 

Well,  the  time  came  when  Jeannette  be- 
came a  mother.  It  was  about  the  quickest 
performance  I  etVer  kndw  of.  Jt  was  a 
Thursday.  Louise  was  working  in  the  gar- 
den, as  is  usual  on  all  Thursdays.  She  had 
gone  to  Pere's  to  carry  a  wheelbarrow  of 
grass  —  we  had  cut  the  lawn.  I  saw  her 
returning  without  the  wheelbarrow  on  a 
quick  run,  calling  as  she  came,  "  Is  there 
any  hot  water?  Jeannette  has  got  twins!" 

I  did  not  wait  for  Louise  to  get  the  hot 
water.  I  just  sprinted  —  in  my  way — for 
the  stable.  There  were  the  little  long-legged 
things  —  walking,  if  you  please,  while  Jean- 
nette looked  over  her  shoulder  at  them  in 
wide-eyed  surprise.  Talk  about  cunning 
things !  They  beat  all  I  had  ever  seen. 
They  were  both  white.  One  had  a  thin  black 
line  down  his  spine  to  his  cute  little  stub  of  a 
tail,  and  the  other  had  a  similar  black  line 
half  as  long.  On  the  spot  I  named  them  — 
it 's  my  way —  Pierre  and  Paul. 

For  a  few  weeks  those  little  goats  were 
my  every-day  amusement.  They  were  play- 
ful as  kittens.  We  used  to  attach  Jeannette 
up  the  road  in  an  open  field,  and  leave  Pierre 
and  Paul  with  her,  but  if  I  dared  to  heave 
in  sight,  both  the  little  beasties  rushed  to 
meet  me.  Then  Jeannette  set  up  a  yell,  and 

[  38  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

I  had  to  catch  them  and  take  them  back. 
Then  I  was  as  bad  as  Amelie,  for  I  would 
sit  in  the  shade  and  watch  them.  The  field 
was  up  a  bank,  and  they  used  to  butt  each 
other  down,  and  dance  and  do  side-steps  un- 
til I  used  to  call  Amelie  to  come  and  look  at 
them,  and  we  would  both  sit,  like  a  pair  of 
geese,  and  laugh.  I  forgot  as  much  as  she 
ever  had  what  the  goat  was  bought  for. 

Pierre  was  a  bit  more  venturesome  than 
Paul.  He  was  always  the  leader.  The  only 
queer  thing  was  that  they  never  varied  their 
methods.  For  example,  they  would  both 
come  close  to  the  door,  and  turning  their 
heads  sideways,  look  in.  Then  Pierre  ven- 
tured in,  and  Paul  followed.  The  dining- 
room  was  always  darkened  in  the  daytime  to 
keep  it  cool,  but  the  door  was  open.  Pierre, 
followed  by  Paul,  would  come  and  look,  and 
then,  although  there  was  no  sill,  bound  in 
as  though  over  a  barrier,  and,  after  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation,  Paul  did  the  same  thing. 
There  was  hardly  a  day  they  did  not  come, 
and  they  never  varied  the  antic,  nor  failed, 
when  I  went  to  catch  them  and  put  them  in 
the  stable  at  night,  to  side-step,  bound  side- 
wise  on  their  hind  legs,  and  butt  at.  me  with 
such  a  pretty  turn  of  the  head.  But  no  one 
ever  drew  a  picture  or  made  an  image  of  a 
goat  in  any  other  movement,  so  all  goats 
must  do  it.  Only  these  were  the  first  with 
which  I  had  ever  been  intimate. 

[  39   1 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

Well,  all  country  idyls  end  in  tragedy. 

Last  Saturday  —  Saturday  is  market  day 
at  Meaux  —  after  I  had  taken  my  coffee, 
which  I  got  myself,  as  Amelie  and  Pere  had 
arranged  to  go  to  market  early  on  account 
of  the  heat  —  I  went  up  to  the  pasture  to  see 
why  Jeannette  was  crying  so.  I  found  her 
still  tied  in  the  stable  instead  of  in  the  pas- 
ture, as  I  had  expected,  and  there  was  no 
Pierre  and  Paul. 

I  had  a  sort  of  sudden  premonition.  I 
went  back,  and  sat  in  the  garden  until  I  heard 
the  wagon  coming.  I  gave  one  look  at 
Melie's  red  eyes.  I  did  not  have  to  ask. 
I  knew  that  Pierre  and  Paul  had  gone  to 
market. 

Jeannette  did  not  get  over  crying  for  days. 

Well,  as  Pere  remarked,  "  She  was  bought 
to  give  us  milk." 

You  see,  next  time  I  '11  know  how  to  bring 
up  a  goat.  I  can  only  be  thankful  I  don't 
get  attached  to  chickens.  I  Ve  that  much 
luck. 

You  can't  call  this  a  war  letter,  can  you? 
The  real  absolute  truth  is  that  just  now  it  is 
hard  to  believe  there  is  any  war,  it  is  so  calm 
and  still  here,  and  the  nights  are  heavenly. 
I  often  sit  out  until  midnight,  and  I  have  even 
fallen  asleep  with  my  head  on  my  arms, 
simply  hating  to  come  indoors  and  leave  all 
the  beauty  of  the  night.  I  wish  often  that  I 
had  one  of  those  tents  in  which  the  Virginia 

[   40   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

boys  slept  on  our  common.  I  think  it  will 
be  the  next  thing  I  present  myself. 

You  can  never  realize  the  wonder  of  the 
nights  here  until  you  see  them.  It  is  not  dark 
until  after  ten,  —  summer-time,  of  course. 
There  is  no  sound  except  from  the  passing 
trains,  and  nothing  breaks  the  line  of  the 
hills,  except,  now  and  then,  the  end  of  a 
searchlight  from  the  other  side,  a  thin  line 
only,  but  it  visualizes  "war,"  reminding  us 
that  the  watch  is  kept. 

Of  course  we  have  all  been  bitterly  disap- 
pointed again  that  the  push  does  not  go  on. 
We  don't  understand,  but  we  must  have  faith 
in  those  who  do,  —  or  we  hope,  do. 


IV 

June  15,  1917 

I  HAVE  been  so  busy  learning  to  be  a 
farmer  that  during  the  last  three  weeks  I 
have  had  no  time  to  write  letters.  I  have 
read  the  newspapers,  tried  to  be  patient,  and 
been  up  to  Paris.  That 's  my  life. 

We  have  had  lovely  hot  weather  and 
everything  is  growing  well.  Still,  in  spite 
of  rains  in  May,  just  after  I  wrote  to  you, 
which  seemed  to  me  sufficient  to  wet  the 
ground,  every  one  is  yelling  for  rain.  I  con- 
fess the  ground  does  look  dry. 

Yesterday  nine  chicks  came  out  of  a  nest 
of  thirteen  eggs.  I  was  delighted,  but 
Amelie  is  disappointed.  They  ought  all  to 
have  hatched.  I  recognized  that,  when  she 
called  my  attention  to  it.  Until  then  I  had 
thought  it  a  brave  showing.  I  shall  do 
better  next  time,  or,  if  I  don't,  be  wiser  in 
speech. 

I  went  up  to  Paris  on  June  3rd  and  stayed 
a  whole  week,  which  was  unusual  for  me,  but 
I  had  work  to  do  there  and  could  not  seem 
to  get  back.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  my 
garden  when  I  did.  It  was  like  a  wilderness 
of  flowers.  It  looked  absolutely  unkept, 

[  42   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

although  it  was  clean  and  tidy.  But  no  one 
would  dream  of  cutting  the  roses  when  I  am 
not  here,  and  the  Gloire  de  Dijon  over  the 
front  door,  and  the  big  Pink  Rover  over  the 
dining-room,  had  bloomed  and  bloomed  and 
shed  their  petals  until  the  air  was  full  of 
them.  The  grass  was  high,  the  geraniums 
and  pinks  a  mass  of  colour.  I  would  not 
have  dreamed  that  a  week  or  ten  days  could 
have  done  the  work  it  had,  although,  of 
course,  it  was  hot  weather. 

In  Paris  no  one  talked  of  anything  but  the 
taking  of  Messines,  and  now  that  the  Allies 
have  the  three  heights  —  Bapaume  taken  in 
March,  Vimy  in  April,  and  Messines  last 
Monday,  —  every  one  is  hoping  for  another 
phase  of  a  general  offensive.  Wise  and  well- 
informed  people  say  it  is  impossible,  and  the 
gospel  of  patience  is  preached  everywhere. 
All  the  same  Messines  was  a  great  affair, 
one  of  the  most  astounding  bits  of  prepara- 
tion the  war  has  yet  seen. 

We  surely  needed  that  bit  of  encourage- 
ment, with  all  the  disquieting  things  that  are 
going  on  in  Russia,  and  with  the  perpetual 
disturbances  of  the  Socialists  and  Pacifists, 
who  find  it  so  hard  to  understand  even  yet 
that  peace  to-day  can  only  be  a  German 
peace,  with  Germany  not  only  victor,  but 
conqueror.  Before  this  war  can  end  well 
all  the  hopes  of  any  decency  or  generosity  or 
good  breeding  or  justice  on  the  part  of  the 

[  43   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

Germans  must  be  wiped  out  of  the  minds  of 
every  race  she  is  fighting.  The  Allies  must 
quit  talking,  quit  explaining  their  position, 
which  is  clearly  known  now,  and  get  down  to 
work.  This  struggle  will  never  be  settled 
except  by  guns  and  aeroplanes,  and  it  is  waste 
effort  to  talk  about  Germany  until  she  is 
beaten  to  her  knees,  and  until  she  is,  though 
this  war  lasts  twenty  years,  it  will  never  end. 
As  a  well-known  American  man  said  to  one 
of  my  friends  in  Paris,  "  Our  boys  must  not 
come  over  here  to  get  licked,"  and  unless 
Germany  is  licked  they  will  be. 

Day  before  yesterday  we  began  to  gather 
cherries.  They  are  not  very  plentiful,  and 
as  for  prunes  —  almost  none.  However,  we 
have  enough  for  ourselves,  and  as  we  have 
almost  no  sugar,  the  scarcity  is  not  so  dis- 
turbing as  it  would  be  otherwise.  But  it  de- 
prives the  pockets  here  of  sous,  and  they 
need  them. 

To-day  is  a  very  hot  day.  It  is  so  hot  that 
Pere  left  for  Meaux  to  take  a  few  things  to 
market  before  four,  and  was  back  for  his 
coffee  at  seven. 

You  see  how  we  occupy  ourselves  here  in 
spite  of  the  war.  At  this  minute,  but  for  the 
newspapers,  which,  in  the  silence,  we  read 
and  try  to  understand,  and  but  for  the  sol- 
diers in  our  ambulance  —  more  sick  than 
wounded  just  now — and  but  for  such  heart- 
breaking affairs  as  the  air  raids  on  London 

[  44  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

when  school-children  were  killed,  we  seem  at 
times  almost  as  far  off  from  the  war  as  you 
are.  We  do  not  get  used  to  it.  No  one 
ever  will,  but  more  and  more  we  are  begin- 
ning to  understand  that  if  war  is  to  be  we 
must  prepare  to  meet  all  the  atrocities  of  a 
nation  like  Germany,  fighting  for  its  mis- 
taken ideas,  and  its  continued  existence  on  a 
wrong  road.  The  world  had  no  right  to  let 
itself  be  taken  by  surprise.  Germany  had 
never  made  any  secret  of  her  ambitions. 
Apart  from  all  the  military  and  economic 
books  in  which  all  her  ideas  of  her  future  de- 
velopment and  her  belief  in  conquest  have 
been  clearly  set  down,  no  German  writer  on 
any  subject  has  been  able  to  escape  putting 
the  national  ideas  into  books  of  no  matter 
what  nature.  Even  as  long  ago  as  1861 
Hermann  Grimm  in  an  article  on  Emerson, 
after  prophesying  one  Church  and  one  State, 
remarked :  "  But  what  next?  The  strife  will 
then  be  to  make  this  one  sovereignty  the 
Germanic,  to  which  the  Slav,  the  Mongolian, 
the  Romanic,  and  whatever  other  races  are 
called,  shall  submit,"  and  less  than  twenty 
years  later  (1879),  James  E.  Hosmer,  a 
professor  of  German  literature  in  St.  Louis, 
in  spite  of  an  intelligent  effort  to  deal  justly 
with  the  comparative  struggles  of  England, 
Germany  and  the  States,  announced  his  opin- 
ion that  the  world  was  slowly  being  German- 
ized. After  all,  who  knows,  if,  but  for  this 

[  45   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

stupid  war,  his  prophecy  might  not  have 
become  true?  There  is  no  doubt  in  any  of 
our  minds  that  the  world  had  been  in  a  way 
hypnotized  by  Germany  ever  since  1870.  If 
the  Hohenzollerns  had  not  returned  to  the 
methods  of  the  days  of  Hannibal,  there  is 
no  knowing  what  might  have  happened. 
Listen  to  what  I  came  across  accidentally  the 
other  day,  about  old  times  when  "  upon  their 
great  white  shields  they  slide  down  the  slopes 
of  the  Alps  to  do  battle.  They  have  armour 
of  brass  and  helmets  fashioned  into  resemb- 
lance of  heads  of  beasts  of  prey.  The 
women  fight  by  the  side  of  their  husbands, 
then,  as  priestesses,  slay  the  prisoners,  letting 
the  blood  run  into  brazen  caldrons  that  it 
may  offer  an  omen.  Even  the  Romans  are 
terrified,  veterans  though  they  are  from  the 
just  ended  struggle  with  Hannibal.  Papirius 
Carbo  goes  down  before  them,  and  Rome 
expects  to  see  in  her  streets  the  blond  North- 
men, as  she  had  just  before  looked  for  the 
dark-skinned  Numidian.  Caius  Marius 
meets  them,  100  B.C.  in  southern  Gaul,  and 
again  in  northern  Italy,  the  front  rank  of 
their  hosts  —  that  they  may  stand  firm  — 
bound  together  man  by  man,  with  a  chain, 
and  the  fierce  women  waiting  in  the  rear  with 
uplifted  axes  to  slay  all  cowards.  But 
Marius  comes  off  conqueror  from  the  corpse- 
heaped  battle-fields,  and  Rome  has  a 
respite !  " 

I  46  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

I  have  always  told  you,  the  world  does  not 
change,  —  and  how  more  than  true  it  is  that 
history  repeats  itself.  Our  age  and  time  has 
been  deaf  to  the  warnings  of  the  past,  and 
blind  to  the  writing  on  the  wall.  Yet  even 
that  is  the  virtue  of  a  failing.  It  is  danger- 
ous to  think  too  well  of  a  people,  but  it  is, 
after  all,  a  generous  fault.  Germany's  is  the 
reverse  —  she  thinks  too  ill  of  every  one  but 
herself,  and  knows  herself  as  little  as  she 
knows  other  people. 

If  you  have  handy  a  book  containing 
Grimm's  essay  on  Frederick  the  Great  and 
Macaulay,  do  read  it,  just  for  phrases  like 
this: 

'That  a  German  should  write  a  history 
of  France,  Italy,  Russia,  or  Turkey  would 
seem  no  wise  unsuitable,  or  contradictory, 
but  imagine  an  Italian,  Frenchman,  or  Turk 
writing  a  history  of  Germany  !  If  the  book 
by  chance  imposed  on  some  innocent  mind 
because  written  in  a  foreign  language  it 
would  only  be  necessary  to  translate  it." 

Well,  by  their  own  acts  they  have  im- 
peached themselves  —  and  late  as  it  is,  it  is 
lucky  for  the  world  that  it  is  not  later. 

I  suppose  it  will  not  be  long  now  before 
our  boys  begin  to  arrive,  but  I  have  no  mad 
expectation  of  their  being  fit  for  action  be- 
fore the  end  of  the  year,  if  they  are  then. 
Kitchener's  first  mob  was  dressed  for  the 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

field  in  eight  months,  but  England  is  nearer 
than  the  States,  and  the  submarines  were  not 
so  active  in  1915  as  they  are  now.  It  is 
not  only  a  long  way  to  Tipperary —  it  is  a 
mighty  long  way  to  New  York.  The  only 
prayer  I  ever  feel  like  saying  these  days  — 
and  even  that  is  against  my  habits,  for  I 
don't  believe  as  much  in  asking  for  things  as 
I  do  in  being  grateful  for  them  —  is :  "  Hurry 
up,  America !  May  the  Allies  hold  out  until 
you  get  here." 

Though  I  say  so  little  about  the  war,  and 
although  we  keep  on  doing  the  little  ordi- 
nary things  of  everyday  life  —  we  must,  you 
know  —  our  hearts  are  all  out  there  in  the 
north,  where,  since  the  so-called  strategic 
retreat  some  of  the  toughest  fighting  in  the 
war  has  written  Craonne,  Tete  de  Conde 
and  Chemin  des  Dames  in  letters  of  fire  on 
our  memories.  The  beginning  of  these 
things  happened  'way  back  in  April,  but  the 
news  we  get  is  so  meagre  in  details  that  it 
is  only  now  that  we  realize  all  the  heroism 
of  the  effort,  or  are  able  to  put  a  proper 
name  on  the  battles.  Of  course  we  did  get 
the  news  of  the  wonderful  English  work  at 
Messines  eight  days  ago,  at  once.  That 
was  such  a  noisy  affair  that  it  could  not  be 
kept  out  of  notice,  besides  it  had  been  pre- 
paring for  so  long,  and  was  so  soon  over. 
I  am  told  they  heard  the  explosion  in  Lon- 
don, when  the  long-prepared  mines  were 

[  48  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

touched  off.    It  was  one  of  the  things  we  did 
not  hear  here. 

Well,  Constantine  is  off  his  throne,  —  an- 
other wandering  crowned  head  to  be  a  politi- 
cal danger  to  the  future.  At  any  rate  it  will 
protect  us  from  getting  a  blow  in  the  back 
down  there,  though  it  comes  at  a  late  day. 
Next! 


[  49 


July  $f  1917 

WELL,  the  first  of  our  boys  have  marched 
in  the  streets  of  Paris. 

I  did  not  see  them.  I  was  not  able  to  go 
up  to  town,  nor  was  I  in  the  mood  to  see  such 
a  procession.  So  in  honour  of  the  day  —  it 
was  July  4th  —  I  put  up  all  my  flags,  and 
waited  to  hear  about  the  enthusiasm  with 
which  the  boys  were  received,  from  other 
people. 

The  day  before,  Petain  had  addressed  the 
French  army  in  these  words : 

"  To-morrow,  the  anniversary  of  the  Dec- 
laration of  Independence  of  the  United 
States  of  America,  the  first  American  troops 
to  land  in  France  will  march  in  Paris.  Soon 
after  they  will  join  us  at  the  front. 

"  Salutations  to  our  new  comrades  in 
arms,  who,  without  arriere-pensee  of  money 
or  conquest,  inspired  simply  by  the  desire  to 
defend  the  cause  of  justice  and  liberty,  have 
come  to  take  their  place  at  our  side. 

"  Other  divisions  are  preparing  to  follow 
them. 

"The  United  States  of  America  is  pre- 
pared to  place  at  our  disposition,  without  re- 

[  SO  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

garding  the  cost,  her  soldiers,  her  factories, 
her  ships,  —  the  entire  resources  of  her 
country.  They  are  inspired  by  a  desire  to 
pay  a  hundred-fold  the  debt  of  gratitude 
they  feel  to  Lafayette  and  his  comrades. 

"  With  one  voice,  on  this  Fourth  of  July, 
let  the  cry  go  up  from  every  point  on  our 
front  '  Honour  to  the  great  Sister  Republic ! 
Fivent  les  Etats-Unis!' " 

The  order  was  obeyed  with  spirit.  It  was 
one  great  echo  of  the  cheers  that  split  the 
air  in  April,  and  yesterday  America  owned 
Paris.  One  of  my  friends  who  was  there 
wrote  me  last  night:  "  I  wonder  you  did  not 
hear  the  cheers  on  the  Hilltop.  The  walls 
of  Paris  shook  with  them.  And  Pershing 
had  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks  as  he  rode 
through  the  shouting  crowds." 

I  would  have  liked  to  know  what  he 
thought  of  Paris,  as  the  capital  of  an  in- 
vaded country.  I  am  afraid  it  will  prove  a 
terrible  temptation  to  our  boys,  for  there  is 
no  question  that  Paris  has  a  charm  which 
few  can  resist  long.  I  guarantee  that  before 
long  the  States  will  hear  all  sorts  of  tales 
about  the  unlicensed  acts  of  our  boys  in  their 
first  encounter  with  an  atmosphere  so  new 
to  them,  and  a  people  so  strange  to  them. 
Don't  let  that  worry  you.  It  is  a  phase 
which  was  to  be  foreseen,  and  was  logically 
impossible  to  prevent.  A  large  percentage 
of  our  boys  —  whose  last  thought  was  that 

[  51  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

they  would  ever  be  soldiers  sent  to  fight  on 
foreign  soil  —  know  nothing  about  the 
French.  They  have  all  heard  of  Paris  as  a 
"  gay  city,"  where  wonderful  things  take 
place,  and  of  France  as  a  country  where 
things  are  permitted  which  would  not  be  tol- 
erated at  home.  You  know  no  race  belies 
itself  in  its  light  literature  as  the  French. 
And  it  is  the  light  literature  which  is  the 
most  known  in  translations.  To  judge  by 
that,  women  are  never  virtuous,  men  are 
never  loyal,  and  we  all  know  how  often  it 
has  been  said  that  "home"  has  no  equiva- 
lent in  French  because  the  thing  itself  does 
not  exist  here.  You  and  I  know  France 
better  than  that.  We  know  that  nowhere  in 
all  the  world  is  home  life  more  beautiful,  or 
family  ties  stronger  than  where  the  words 
"  ma  mere"  are  sacred,  and  where  father 
and  son  are  not  ashamed  to  embrace  in  pub- 
lic. If  there  is  less  hypocrisy  of  speech  and 
opinion  about  some  of  the  natural  incidents 
of  human  experience  than  exists  in  some 
other  parts  of  the  world,  those  who  draw 
too  quick  conclusions  from  that  will  be  liable 
to  find  themselves  mistaken.  If  the  French 
make  less  fuss  than  we  do  about  certain  acci- 
dents of  life,  it  is  to  their  credit,  and  they 
are  only  a  bit  in  advance  of  the  rest  of  the 
world  —  in  the  vanguard  of  advance  —  in 
fact  the  banner-bearers,  as  they  always  have 
been,  of  civilization.  Then,  besides,  you 

[  52  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

know,  and  the  world  will  know  when  this  is 
over,  that  the  so-called  "emotional  French" 
are  less  hysterical  than  we  are. 

So  don't  you  worry  over  any  of  the  tales 
about  the  American  boys  in  Paris  which  are 
sure  to  go  across  by  cable  and  special  corre- 
spondents. Over  here  our  boys  will  grow 
into  self-reliant,  self-respecting  men.  They 
will  be  broken  of  many  of  the  bad  habits 
which  we  have  to  know  exist,  and  they  will 
go  home  —  such  of  them  as  return  —  to 
build  up  a  new  type  of  American.  Hard- 
ships will  model  their  faces,  which  when  I 
was  last  in  New  York  looked  too  round  and 
pudgy;  exercise  will  harden  their  frames 
which  were  too  molle.  In  fact,  they  will  be 
in  every  way  the  better.  They  will  leave  a 
great  heritage  to  the  future  and  make  a  race 
with  a  right  to  pride.  Besides,  they  will  com- 
plete their  education  in  a  way  that  no  uni- 
versity could,  and,  after  it  is  over,  no  one  will 
be  able  to  accuse  us  justly  again  of  being  "  a 
race  of  provincials." 

I  felt  that  I  had  to  say  this  quickly,  as 
judging  by  the  letters  I  got  to-day  the  Ameri- 
cans have  given  Paris  a  shock,  and  the  ma- 
terial is  too  good  to  be  long  neglected  by 
the  space  writers.  So  don't  worry.  It  is 
unimportant. 

I  have  another  brood  of  chickens  —  this 
time  twelve  out  of  thirteen,  —  and  yet 
Amelie  is  not  content.  I  hope  the  next  will 

[  S3   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

be  really  satisfying,  —  expect  them  in  a  few 
days. 

I  don't  need  to  tell  you  that  I  was  very 
popular  here  on  the  Fourth.  Every  one 
treated  me  as  if  I  were  the  entire  United 
States  of  America.  After  long  years  of 
doubting,  it  was  a  fine  feeling.  I  felt  all 
warm  and  comfy  about  my  heart.  I  had 
waited  so  long  for  it. 


[  54  ] 


VI 

July  27,  1917 

I  WAS  surprised  on  looking  in  my  letter- 
book  to  find  that  it  is  already  three  weeks 
since  I  last  wrote  to  you.  But  a  farmer's 
life  is  a  busy  one,  and  we  have  had  strange 
weather  —  so  changeable.  The  seventh  and 
eighth  were  hot  and  muggy,  the  ninth  like  a 
chilly  autumn  day,  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
were  very  hot;  on  the  seventeenth  we  had  a 
rainstorm  that  turned  my  garden  into  a  lake, 
and  the  road  into  a  brook.  Then  came  one 
awfully  hot  day  —  just  scorching  —  and  since 
then  it  has  been  beautiful.  All  this  has  been 
good  for  our  crops.  I  Ve  had  peas  and 
beans,  cucumbers  and  tomatoes,  strawberries 
and  raspberries  —  in  fact  I  think  every  day, 
as  I  sit  down  at  noon,  that  I  live  just  as  well 
now  as  I  could  at  any  crack  restaurant  in  the 
world.  Next  week  I  shall  have  green  corn 
and  all  sorts  of  other  dainties.  It  is  a  pity 
that  it  is  not  summer  every  day  in  the  year. 

On  the  tenth  I  saw  the  first  camions  full 
of  Americans  going  over  the  road  towards 
Meaux.  As  I  sat  in  the  little  cart  watching 
them  go  by,  I  did  wish  I  could  tell  them  that 
I  was  an  American,  but  it  seemed  best  not 

[  55  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

to.  They  are  —  for  prudential  reasons,  — 
advised  not  to  talk  to  strangers,  and  it  is 
wise.  So  I  contented  myself  with  smiling  at 
them  —  every  one  does  that — and  feeling  a 
bit  chagrined  that  they  did  not  recognize  in 
me  a  fellow  citizen. 

All  the  commune  has  been  busy  for  a  fort- 
night picking  cassis  —  the  black  currants  — 
and  the  English  are  going  to  risk  buying 
them  to  make  jelly  for  the  soldiers.  It  is 
always  one  of  the  prettiest  times  of  the  year, 
when  little  children  as  well  as  men  and 
women  are  sitting  on  low  stools  under  the 
laden  bushes,  in  the  hot  sun  and  the  showers. 
But  it  is  weary  work,  and  they  look  so  tired, 
as  at  four  o'clock  they  rest  for  a  bite  and  lie 
sprawled  everywhere  to  eat  their  bread  and 
cheese. 

We  have  had  some  trying  days,  days 
when  leading  a  normal  life  seemed  absurd. 
On  the  seventeenth  the  bombardment  was  so 
heavy  that  the  very  house  shook,  and  the 
twenty-first  was  no  better.  Yet  the  news- 
papers gave  no  news  that  would  seem  to 
explain  in  either  case.  It  simply  recalls  to 
our  minds  that  it  is  going  on  always,  —  this 
war. 

Last  night  was  a  hard  one.  I  was  reading 
in  bed,  and,  for  lack  of  anything  new,  I  had 
taken  up  Benson's  "  Lord  of  the  World"  — 
more  interesting  now  than  when  I  first  read 
it.  Suddenly  I  was  literally  made  to  jump 

[  56  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

out  of  bed  by  a  terrible  explosion  —  not  in 
the  direction  of  the  front.  I  went  into  the 
back  of  the  house  and  looked  out  towards 
Paris.  It  was  a  black  night,  —  no  moon,  no 
stars  —  and  deathly  still.  I  was  finally 
almost  convinced  that  it  was  a  terrible  and 
solitary  clap  of  thunder.  So  I  went  back  to 
bed. 

Half  an  hour  later  came  a  series  of  terrific 
explosions.  So  I  wrapped  up  and  went  out 
into  the  orchard. 

I  could  see  the  light  of  a  fire  in  the  east, 
but  not  in  the  direction  of  Paris,  and  much 
nearer.  By  this  time  I  heard  voices  every- 
where and  knew  that  other  people  were  up. 
There  was  no  doubt  what  it  was,  of  course 
—  ammunition  works.  The  morning  papers 
announce  the  hand-grenade  factory  at 
Claye  destroyed.  Pity!  We  need  all  our 
ammunition. 

Of  course  that  meant  no  sleep  for  me. 
Once  I  am  waked  up  well,  no  hope  of  sleep- 
ing again  these  days. 

I  am  amused  at  your  letter  about  Jeannette. 
Glad  you  enjoyed  her,  but  rather  sorry  you 
ask  for  news  of  her.  Alas !  her  news  is  not 
good.  But  here  it  is.  Jeannette  could  never 
be  cured  of  the  habits  of  her  youth,  —  for 
which  she  was  not  to  blame,  —  nor  be  recon- 
ciled to  lack  of  liberty.  As  long  as  she  re- 
mained, she  continued  to  b-l-lart  in  the  most 
heartrending  manner  if  she  was  left  alone. 

[  57  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

Amelie  had  something  to  do  besides  sitting 
with  her,  and  I  grew  weary,  if  ever  I  sent 
Amelie  on  an  errand  in  the  afternoon,  of 
either  listening  to  her  heartbreaking  calls,  or 
taking  a  book  and  a  camp  chair  and  bearing 
her  company.  When  we  did  not  go  to  her, 
she  cried  and  would  not  eat.  So  pretty  soon 
she  went  dry,  —  then  —  she  went  away,  too. 
I  hope  she  found  Pierre  and  Paul  in  the 
Happy  Hunting  Grounds. 

It  was  a  pretty  sore  subject  for  some  time. 
But  one  gets  used  to  everything,  and  the 
other  day  I  asked  Amelie  how  much  she  got 
for  Pierre  and  Paul.  "Eighteen  francs," 
she  replied.  Then  I  made  a  heartless  calcu- 
lation. "  We  paid  twelve  for  Jeannette.  We 
sold  the  whole  outfit  for  thirty-five.  We 
were  twenty-three  francs  to  the  good  plus 
experience,  a  few  quarts  of  milk,  and  some 
fun." 

I  should  not  have  diverted  you  with  de- 
tails like  that.  You  brought  it  on  yourself. 

These  bucolic  diversions  do  not  help  us  to 
forget  —  nothing  can  —  but  they  sometimes 
ease  the  strain  wonderfully. 

Incidentally,  —  I  saw  a  soldier  from  one 
of  the  ambulance  corps  the  other  day,  who 
was  at  Arras  when  the  battle  ended  after  a 
month  of  pretty  stiff  fighting.  He  tells  me 
it  is  a  dead  city.  It  was  bombarded  in  the 
early  days  of  1914.  It  was  bombarded  in 
July,  1915,  and  now,  through  the  month  of 

[  58  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

May,  the  battle  raged  round  it.  It  was  a 
beautiful  and  historic  city  —  full  of  wonder- 
ful old  buildings.  It  is  now  a  ruin.  But  as 
the  stretcher-bearer  said:  "Talk  about 
beauty!  I  stood  in  the  Petite  Place,  in  the 
moonlight,  one  night,  looking  toward  the 
once  majestic  Hotel  de  Ville  above  whose 
arch-supported  Gothic  fagade  soared,  in 
October,  1914,  that  lofty  belfry.  All  about 
me  was  ruin,  and  through  the  broken  facade 
and  falling  tower  the  white  moonlight 
streamed,  making  one  of  the  most  wonderful 
pictures  I  had  ever  seen.  It  was  the  very 
majesty  and  dignity  of  desolation.  No  cen- 
turies-old Greek  or  Egyptian  or  Roman  ruin 
ever  moved  me  more  deeply.  I  have  been 
often  in  the  moonlight  to  look  at  the  Coli- 
seum at  Rome,  and  I  could  not  help  wishing 
that  before  that  ruin  is  restored  all  the  world 
might  see  it  as  I  saw  it  that  night.  Its  dig- 
nity, its  desolation,  and  its  beauty  seemed  to 
me  so  symbolic  of  France  of  to-day." 


[  59  ] 


VII 

August  14,  /p/7 

SORRY  to  tell  you  that  the  weather  turned 
nasty  in  the  last  days  of  July.  The  leaves 
began  to  turn  brown,  to  dry,  and  to  fall. 
The  world  already  looks  like  autumn.  It 
fills  me  with  misgivings  for  the  winter.  I 
have  been  putting  in  wood,  in  the  hope  of 
having  something  I  can  call  a  fire.  I  have 
been  buying  wood  wherever  I  could  get  it. 
It  is  slow  work,  the  wood  is  queer  stuff, — 
what  the  trade  calls  "  benefice  des  boucher- 
ons"  —  that  is  to  say,  gnarled  pieces,  roots, 
big  chunks,  in  fact  all  the  wood  not  consid- 
ered good  enough  for  a  respectable  wood- 
pile, and  which  dealers  do  not  buy.  Need- 
less to  say  that  I  pay  just  as  much  for  it  as  if 
it  were  the  neat  three-feet-long  logs  my  fire- 
place demands. 

There  is  no  coal  in  sight. 

However,  it  is  not  yet  winter.  It  is  indeed 
two  months  before,  under  usual  climatic  con- 
ditions, I  should  think  of  needing  fires.  Yet, 
even  to-day  I  could  enjoy  a  brisk  fire  in  the 
evenings,  which  are  more  like  October  than 
August. 

Don't  imagine  that  I  am  depressed.    I  am 

[  60  j 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

not.  I  am  simply,  by  force  of  habit,  telling 
you  the  truth. 

I  wonder  if  a  full  realization  of  the  situa- 
tion over  here  will  ever  come  to  you  in  the 
States.  I  don't  yet  see  how  it  can.  The 
ocean  is  wide.  I  know  myself  how  difficult 
it  is  to  arrive  at  an  actual  conception  of  a 
far-off  disaster.  But  I  suppose  that,  next 
year,  when  every  day's  newspaper  will  carry 
its  list  of  casualties,  you  will  feel  quite  differ- 
ently from  what  you  do  now,  and  have  less 
taste  for  the  sight  of  marching  regiments  and 
bands  of  music. 

Just  imagine  what  France  is  like  to-day. 
The  north-east  is  a  devastated  battle-field. 
The  rest  of  the  country  is  spread  pretty  thick 
with  factories  making  war  materials.  The 
fields  on  which  we  are  depending  to  live  are 
being  cultivated,  short-handed,  as  best  they 
can  be,  by  women,  children,  old  men,  and  war 
prisoners.  The  south  and  west  are  over- 
crowded with  training  camps,  cantines,  hos- 
pitals and  refugees.  It  is  an  inconceivable 
situation.  One  has  to  see  it  to  realize  it. 
When  one  thinks  of  it  seriously,  isn't  it  re- 
markable to  see  how,  with  the  entire  able- 
bodied  male  population  in  the  war,  the  work 
of  the  nation  can  go  on  at  all?  It  is  not  as- 
tonishing that  we  lack  things.  It  is  miracu- 
lous that  we  get  on  at  all,  and  that,  once  the 
army  is  fed,  there  is  anything  left  for  us 
civilians. 

[  61   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

Of  course  we  are  not  just  now  seeing  any- 
thing of  the  war  except  in  our  little  ambu- 
lance—  where  to-day  they  are  mostly  sick 
and  convalescents  —  usually  boys  slowly 
coming  back  to  interest  in  life  from  having 
been  gassed.  Our  roads  are  quiet.  We 
rarely  hear  more  than  a  dull  far-off  booming 
of  guns.  It  often  sounds  about  as  much  like 
horses  kicking  in  their  stalls  as  anything  else. 

To  be  sure  we  only  have  to  cross  the 
Marne  into  Meaux  to  get  a  different  impres- 
sion. For  Meaux  is  a  military  centre,  and 
always  was.  Its  huge  barracks  near  the  ca- 
thedral gave  it,  even  in  peace  time,  a  military 
aspect.  There  is  to-day  a  big  military  hos- 
pital in  the  barracks,  which  are  built  quite 
round  the  great  sunlit  inner  court,  and  cover 
an  immense  tract  of  ground.  In  the  bar- 
racks there  is  to-day  one  of  the  hundreds  of 
English  cantines  that  the  British  are  running 
for  the  French  soldiers.  It  is  conducted  by 
a  group  of  British  ladies,  one  of  them  a 
cousin  of  Lord  French,  a  lady  older  than  I 
am,  who  works  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a 
girl,  and  with  the  tact  and  ability  that  girls 
lack. 

These  wonderful  British  women  are 
among  the  most  interesting  things  the  war 
has  brought  to  France.  The  leaders  are 
often  women  —  wives  and  widows  of  offi- 
cers—  who  have  seen  Indian  service.  You 

[  62  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

know  the  type  of  horseback-riding  women, 
used  to  adventure  and  danger,  with  pluck  as 
well  as  charm,  slender,  nervous,  and  untiring. 

Their  cantine  at  Meaux  is  a  model  one. 
It  serves  special  regimes  for  six  hundred  sol- 
diers, provides  reading  matter,  teaches  them 
sports,  takes  an  interest  in  them  when  they 
go  back  to  the  front,  and  keeps  them  fur- 
nished with  all  sorts  of  comforts. 

I  wish  that  you,  who  have  such  a  respect 
for  order  —  you  know  you  always  were  tire- 
somely  orderly  —  could  see  that  huge 
kitchen,  all  freshly  painted  pale  green,  with 
its  wide  doors  opening  into  the  big  sunlit 
court,  where  the  soldiers  sit  about,  the 
horses  are  exercised,  huge  army  camions  are 
lined  up,  and  at  the  far  end  of  which  are  the 
neat  freshly  built  sheds  for  the  German 
prisoners. 

There  is  a  great  range  across  the  back, 
and  near  the  open  door  there  is  a  reading- 
table  on  which  there  are  always  fresh  flowers, 
and  groups  of  rattan  chairs  stand  around  it. 
At  one  side  is  a  tiny  dining-room  where  the 
directress  of  the  cantine  and  her  aides  eat, 
and  behind  it  a  room  with  two  stoves  where 
they  make  gallons  and  gallons  of  tea  and 
coffee  in  the  biggest  urns  I  ever  saw. 

The  service  is  no  glorious  one,  I  can  tell 
you.  There  is  nothing  picturesque  about  it. 
It  is  sheer  hard  work  —  at  times  it  is  almost 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

menial.  I  am  telling  you  about  it,  because 
I  want  you  to  realize  what  war  is  demanding 
of  women  to-day. 

Every  day  one  of  these  women  gets  an 
order  from  the  head  nurse  for  a  certain 
number  of  soups,  a  certain  number  of  meat 
dishes,  so  many  dishes  of  specified  vege- 
tables, etc.  This  list  is  written  on  a  big 
blackboard  fixed  on  the  wall  beside  the  stove, 
and  at  a  certain  hour  the  men  who  distribute 
the  food  come  to  the  kitchen  to  carry  away 
the  trays.  Often  the  only  help  they  have  is 
from  the  convalescent  soldiers  and  German 
prisoners.  They  stand  over  the  hot  stoves 
themselves,  unmindful  of  complexion  or 
hands. 

Whenever  I  was  there  I  always  felt  a 
great  curiosity  regarding  the  mental  proc- 
esses of  the  Germans.  I  watched  their  quick 
way  of  working,  their  silence,  their  docility, 
and,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  perfect  politeness. 
I  got  the  idea  in  my  head  that,  no  matter 
what  they  might  say,  there  was  not  one  of 
them,  judging  by  their  looks,  who  did  not 
rejoice  that  for  him,  and  probably  through 
no  fault  of  his,  the  horrors  of  war  were  over. 
I  knew  that  one  at  least  of  the  English  ladies 
spoke  German.  So  I  asked  her  one  day 
about  them.  She  replied : 

"They  are  the  best,  the  most  civil,  the 
best  disciplined  help  we  have  ever  had. 
They  are  clean  about  their  work,  and  abso- 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

lately  obedient.  There  is  never  any  ques- 
tion about  an  order.  It  is  given.  It  is 
executed." 

That  did  not  surprise  me,  but  that  was  not 
what  I  wanted  to  know.  So  I  put  the  ques- 
tion flatly.  "  But  about  the  war?  Do  they 
still  believe  in  a  victory  for  Germany?" 

"Oh,  absolutely,"  she  replied.  "They 
have  no  doubt  about  that.  They  say  quite 
freely  that  they  can  easily  hold  out  three 
years  longer;  that  we  may  hold  them,  but 
we  cannot  beat  them.  There  are  no  two 
minds  amongst  them  on  that  subject.  They 
even  agree  so  well  in  their  manner  of  insist- 
ing that  it  almost  seems  as  if  they  were  speak- 
ing under  orders." 

I  give  you  this  for  what  it  is  worth,  only 
insisting,  since  you  so  often  write  as  if  you 
in  the  States  had  the  idea  that  we  were  soon 
to  see  Germany  break.  I  often  wonder 
where  you  get  the  idea.  Here  it  looks  to  us 
every  year  as  if  Germany  were  stronger,  in- 
stead of  weaker,  as  if  each  year,  with  her 
capacity  for  obedience  and  her  habits  of  or- 
ganization, she  was  learning  in  the  war  new 
ways  of  safeguarding  herself.  We  never 
can  get  away  from  that  forty  years  of  prepa- 
ration, for  while  we  are  working  so  hard  to 
recover  from  years  of  foolish  idleness,  Ger- 
many is  no  more  idle  than  we  are.  I  have 
said  this  to  you  before  more  than  once,  I  am 
afraid,  and  if  I  keep  insisting  it  is  only  be- 

[  65   ] 


>*         JL4 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

cause  it  seems  to  me  a  fatal  error  to  ignore 
that  fact. 

These  ladies  at  Meaux,  who  have  never 
before  known  long  hours  of  manual  labour, 
great  responsibility,  and  absolute  negation  of 
personal  tastes,  have  nevertheless  started  to 
arrange  a  night  cantine  at  Meaux. 

I  may  have  told  you  before  that  Meaux  is 
strangely  lacking  in  restaurants.  In  spite  of 
its  historical  interest,  it  is  not  as  much  visited 
as  many  other  towns  less  famous.  There  is 
no  restaurant  of  any  sort  in  the  station. 
There  is  a  common  tiuvette  at  one  end  where 
workmen  go  to  get  a  drink,  but  where  no 
other  class  would  dream  of  entering.  There 
is  a  terrace  outside  where  one  can  sit  down 
to  drink  a  lemonade.  It  is  just  the  most  or- 
dinary buvette  with  a  zinc  counter  in  front 
of  a  sink  for  washing  glasses,  and  there  is 
always  a  crowd  —  and  a  very  smelly  one  — 
in  front  of  it.  There  are  a  few  hotels,  only 
one  fairly  good,  but  they  are  in  the  town, 
at  some  distance  from  the  railway  station. 

Of  course  Meaux  is  a  great  military  centre 
now.  Through  its  big  station  pass  all  the 
trains  from  the  front  from  Verdun  to  the 
north  which  do  not  pass  over  the  northern 
road  to  Belgium.  Military  trains  are  slow. 
Hundreds  of  men  from  the  huge  camp  of 
permissionaires  at  Vaires  have  to  change 
cars,  both  coming  in  and  going  out,  at 
Meaux,  and  often  they  wait  hours  to  make 
[  66  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

their  connection.  This  wait  is  more  often 
than  not  in  the  night.  It  is  bitter  cold  on  the 
long,  covered  platform,  and  there  is  no 
chance  to  get  even  a  cup  of  coffee. 

So  these  English  ladies  are  setting  up  a 
night  cantine  there,  to  be  running  from  mid- 
night to  four  o'clock,  and  half  the  little 
group  is  to  be  on  duty  every  night,  ready  to 
serve  hot  tea,  coffee,  or  soup. 

I  often  laugh  when  I  see  them,  over  the 
fuss  that  has  been  made  in  my  time  over  the 
"  eight-hour  law  "  for  able-bodied  men.  Of 
course  I  know  that  you  are  going  to  fling 
back  at  me  that  women  are  tougher  than 
men,  even  harking  back  that  boy  babies 
are  harder  to  bring  through  childhood  than 
girls.  But  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
question.  The  real  thing  is,  that  if  only  the 
world  in  its  development  could  aid  people 
to  find  work  to  do  that  they  either  loved  or 
believed  in,  their  hours  of  labour  would  not 
be  the  hated  slavery  they  now  are  to  the 
mass. 

I  hope  you  won't  mind  my  talking  so 
much  about  the  women  in  this  war.  I  wish 
you  could  come  over  here  if  only  to  see 
them.  I  feel  that  there  has  been  nothing 
more  worth  while  done  in  the  war  than  the 
work  of  women  of  all  nations.  I  know  you 
women  in  the  States  are  all  working,  but  to 
realize  what  is  being  done,  one  has  to  see  it 
over  here. 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

I  imagine  we  have  buried  for  all  time 
what  has  for  so  many  years  been  known  as 
the  "woman  question."  It  has  been  a  long 
and  bitter  struggle,  and  so  often  conducted 
on  unwise  lines.  It  requires  a  fanatic  to 
lead  a  crusade,  and  the  woman  cause  has 
had  its  fanatics,  —  and  its  martyrs,  too. 
The  beauty  of  the  whole  matter  is  that 
woman  has  won  by  acts,  not  words.  She 
has  won  by  doing  a  woman's  work.  Best 
of  all  she  has,  for  all  time,  given  the  lie  to 
the  argument  that  she  had  no  right  to  the 
franchise  because  in  case  of  a  war  she  could 
not  protect  her  country.  It  has  taken  a  war 
to  prove  the  falseness  of  such  an  argument, 
and  to  demonstrate  that,  while  women  could 
not,  as  a  sex,  carry  a  gun  into  battle,  there 
was  work  just  as  important  —  real  war  work 
—  which  she  could  do,  and  she  has  done  it 
well,  in  a  manner  which  has  compelled  man 
to  bare  his  head  before  her,  and  bend  his 
knee  to  her  just  as  devoutly  as  he  ever  did 
in  the  days  of  chivalry,  even  while  he  recog- 
nized in  her  a  comrade  and  an  equal. 

Moreover,  when  she  was  needed  and  cap- 
able, she  has  actually  gone  into  the  firing 
line,  and  won  and  worn  her  decorations  for 
the  same  reasons  that  men  have  received 
them. 

In  every  branch  of  war  work  done  by  un- 
armed men,  women  have  appeared  and  shown 
the  same  courage  and  the  same  unfailing 
[  68  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

patriotism  as  men.  They  have  worked  for 
the  cause  and  died  for  it  without  in  any  way 
unsexing  themselves.  I  have  seen  thousands 
of  these  women,  and  I  give  you  my  word 
that  among  no  women  I  have  ever  met  in  my 
long  life  have  I  found  "  womanliness  "  finer 
than  among  the  women  near  the  front,  every 
one  of  whom  was  doing  work  that  but  for 
them  an  able-bodied  man  would  have  had  to 
stay  behind  the  fighting-line  to  do. 

I  hope  you  have  heard  about  the  English 
Women's  War  Auxiliary  Corps,  made  abso- 
lutely imperative  by  the  need  of  more  men 
before  the  States  came  in.  These  are  young 
women  of  all  classes,  enlisted  like  men  for 
the  duration  of  the  war,  dressed  in  khaki, 
living  in  camps  or  cantonnements  just  like 
the  men,  under  exactly  the  same  conditions 
as  the  Tommies,  and  facetiously  called  by 
their  friends  "  Miss  Thomasina  Atkins." 
The  big  force  of  thousands  is  officered  by 
women.  They  live  behind  the  lines  under 
the  same  conditions  as  the  men,  and  do  all 
sorts  of  clerical  work  —  post-office,  tele- 
graph, motor-cycle  —  in  fact  everything  a 
woman  can  do  to  liberate  a  man  to  carry  a 
gun. 

I  have  a  number  of  young  girl  friends  in 
the  corps,  dressed  in  uniform,  wearing  mili- 
tary boots,  living  a  soldier's  life  of  hardship 
and  discipline.  No  wonder  the  suffrage  ex- 
citement is  already  ancient  history.  If  war 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

does  nothing  but  this  for  Great  Britain,  it 
has  done  much.  Yet  we  who  are  looking  on 
know  already  that  this  is  only  one  of  the 
great  things  it  has  achieved. 

This  is  getting  to  be  a  long  letter.  Never 
mind.  When  things  are  slow,  as  they  are 
now,  and  I  am  so  shut  away  that  I  have  no 
one  to  whom  I  can  chatter,  no  one  to  theorize 
with,  I  have  to  clear  my  brain  now  and  then 
by  talking  at  a  sheet  of  paper  —  just  to  drive 
the  haze  and  confusion  out  of  my  mind. 

Useless  to  talk  to  you  across  the  ocean 
about  the  ever-changing  and  day  after  day 
more  threatening  Russian  situation.  I  am 
afraid  nothing  can  now  stop  the  fatal  trend 
of  events.  For  the  time  —  and  perhaps  for- 
ever—  we  are  evidently  going  to  lose  Russia. 
I  wonder  if  you  in  the  States  have  the  faint- 
est idea  what  this  means  ?  Why,  if  Germany 
succeeds  in  getting  Russia  disarmed  in  the 
next  few  months  —  well,  I  dare  not  even  say 
to  myself  all  that  it  seems  to  me  to  threaten. 
Poor  Russian  people  —  such  dreamers ! 
They  are  not  wicked.  I  do  not  believe  that 
they  have  the  faintest  conception  of  the  dis- 
aster they  are  preparing  for  France.  Of 
course  Germany  does  not  yet  believe  that  the 
States  can  put  any  important  fighting  force 
into  France  before  she  fetches  off  the  coup 
which  will  liberate  a  couple  of  millions  of 
soldiers  now  on  her  eastern  frontiers  to 
march  against  us.  It  is  a  formidable  idea  for 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

us  to  face.  Well,  England  put  a  fighting 
army  into  France  in  eight  months,  and  had 
to  bring  a  large  part  of  it  from  Canada  and 
Australia.  And,  alas!  in  addition  to  the 
hordes  that  may  come  to  fling  themselves 
en  masse  on  us  before  the  States  are  ready, 
you  must  not  forget  that  the  middle-Europe 
powers  can  put  nearly  a  million  fresh  troops 
into  the  field  automatically,  each  year,  from 
the  classes  which  reach  military  age  —  they 
are  prolific,  those  Boche  races. 

Then,  also,  no  means  are  too  low  for  them. 
When  a  country  is  without  honour  and  with- 
out shame,  its  means  of  increasing  savage 
purposes  is  tremendously  increased.  When 
the  true  history  of  the  Russian  debacle  is 
written,  it  will  add  another  startling  page  to 
the  deathless  dishonour  of  Prussianized  Ger- 
many. If  one  stops  at  nothing,  one  can, 
temporarily,  accomplish  many  things.  I  am 
sure  the  untiring  American  war  correspond- 
ent must  have  already  told  you  of  one  of  the 
methods  by  which  the  Germans  get  some  of 
the  Russians  to  lay  down  their  arms.  How, 
having,  for  days,  bombarded  a  discouraged 
army,  cut  them  off  from  their  reinforcements 
and  their  commissary  trains  by  a  heavy  artil- 
lery barrage,  reduced  by  hunger,  thirst  and 
panic,  they  sent  out  a  flag  of  truce  accom- 
panied by  wheelbarrows  full  of  a  special  kind 
of  bread  of  which  the  Russians  are  fond,  and 
vodka  of  which  they  have  been  deprived 

[  71  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

since  the  first  year  of  the  war.  They  fed 
and  inebriated  them  when  their  hope  and 
power  of  resistance  was  at  its  lowest  ebb. 
Of  course,  that  is  not  a  very  encouraging 
sign  for  the  Russian  race,  but  after  all,  as  a 
people  they  are  only  children;  not  warriors, 
but  mystics  and  dreamers,  and  know  nothing 
of  international  affairs.  They  have  never 
known  responsibility,  so  how  can  they  know 
honour? 

It  is  a  tragic  situation  for  us.  But  we 
must  be  patient  with  them,  even  in  our  dread 
of  the  consequences.  It  is  that,  or  throwing 
that  huge,  rich  undeveloped  country  — 
which  in  the  future  is  likely  to  be  the  El- 
dorado of  adventurers,  and  see  a  stampede 
which  will  surpass  California,  or  Kimberley, 
or  the  Klondike  —  into  the  greedy  hands  of 
Germany.  If  we  cannot  prevent  that  at  any 
sacrifice,  I  do  not  see  how  Europe  —  or  the 
rest  of  the  world  for  that  matter  —  is  going 
to  escape  from  the  domination  of  Germany 
except  after  centuries  of  war.  Germany 
seems  able  to  fight,  and  organize  and  com- 
mercially invade,  at  the  same  time. 

This  is  why  I  cannot  look  forward  without 
shuddering.  Germany  expects  to  settle  with 
Russia  in  the  next  six  months.  Can  the 
States  be  ready  then? 

Don't  imagine  I  am  downhearted.  I  am 
not.  But  I  tell  you  quite  frankly,  I  am  ter- 
ribly nervous,  and  the  calm  about  here  just 

[  72  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

now  docs  not  make  me  less  so.  I  am  sure 
that  there  is  not  an  intelligent  person  here 
who  does  not  know  what  the  result  of  this 
struggle  is  to  be,  but  it  is  the  realization  — 
ever)7  month  more  clear  —  of  all  it  is  going 
to  cost  which  keeps  our  nerves  a  bit  over- 
strung. 


[  73   ] 


VIII 

August  24.,  1917 

I  HAVE  had  quite  an  active  month,  for  me. 

I  have  been  visiting  and  I  have  had  com- 
pany twice.  Rather  exciting,  isn't  it? 
Otherwise  my  life  has  been  as  usual:  —  a 
little  work  in  the  garden,  a  weekly  visit  to 
the  ambulance,  and  now  and  then  a  call  from 
some  of  the  convalescent  soldiers. 

My  sweet  corn  came  up  wonderfully.  I 
have  been  eating  it  almost  every  day.  But 
you  should  see  my  French  neighbours'  sur- 
prise at  the  deed.  They  raise  fodder  corn 
for  their  cattle.  They  never  heard  of  such  a 
thing  as  eating  any  kind  of  corn.  Whenever 
they  pass  the  garden  while  I  am  gathering 
it,  they  always  stop  to  watch  me,  and  when 
I  come  down  the  bank  swinging  the  bunch 
of  ears  in  my  hand,  they  invariably  ask, 
"What  is  Madame  going  to  do  with  it?" 

"Eat  it,"  I  reply,  opening  the  husks  to 
show  the  golden  kernels. 

"Pas  possible!"  is  the  inevitable  exclama- 
tion. 

You  see,  if  there  is  one  thing  which  it  is 
impossible  to  do,  it  is  to  change  the  habits  of 
these  people.  I  have  cooked  the  corn,  and 

[  74  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

shown  them  how  to  eat  it.  Not  they !  They 
spit  it  out.  I  have  induced  them  to  eat  corn- 
bread,  but  only  when  it  is  made  with  eggs  and 
milk,  and  sweetened.  They  call  it  "  cake," 
and  eat  it  with  relish,  but  corn-meal  mush, 
hasty  pudding,  and  things  of  that  sort,  which 
would  relieve  the  bread  question,  I  have  thus 
far  found  impossible  for  them. 

Absolutely  nothing  happens  here.  After 
three  years  of  war  almost  every  day  has  be- 
come an  anniversary  day.  The  other  years 
it  was  not  so  marked  —  this  tendency  to  look 
back  —  but  since  we  entered  the  fourth  year, 
it  seems  as  though  every  one  had  the  same 
idea.  It  is  constantly,  "  three  years  ago  to- 
day "  such  and  such  a  thing  happened.  First 
it  was  Liege  which  was  on  every  one's  tongue. 
Then  it  was  Mons,  and  so  on  down  the 
memories  of  that  opening  month  of  war. 
We  are  already  prepared  to  celebrate,  at  the 
Cathedral  at  Meaux,  and  by  a  pious  pilgrim- 
age to  the  graves  on  the  plain,  the  third 
anniversary  of  the  victory  of  the  Marne,  a 
victory  which  seems  to  gain  in  importance 
each  year,  and  which  marked  the  end  of  the 
open  field  battles  and  inaugurated  the  try- 
ing trench  warfare.  Even  when  the  war  is 
over,  I  imagine  there  will  have  been  nothing 
to  dim  the  importance  of  this  battle. 

In  the  meantime  the  weather  is  annoying, 
id  we  have  to  support  it  with  what  patience 
can,  and  try  our  best  not  to  dread  the 

[  75   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

winter.  It  is  like  late  autumn  already.  I 
should  so  love  a  blazing  fire  in  the  evening. 
As  it  is  impossible,  I  go  into  my  cozy  bed 
early  and  read. 

We  watch,  as  well  as  the  reticence  of  our 
little  newspapers  will  let  us,  the  terribly  slow 
and  costly  gnawing  into  the  German  lines  — 
it  looks  about  an  inch  a  day  —  of  the  French 
north  of  Verdun,  and  the  English  east  of 
Ypres.  Now  and  then  we  get  a  thrilling 
story  from  some  point  on  the  line,  like  that 
of  the  taking  of  Cote  70  by  the  Canadians 
on  the  fifteenth,  which  nearly  accomplished 
the  encircling  of  Lens. 

Quiet  as  we  are  here,  we  live  under  the 
obsession  of  the  thing  going  on  "  out  there," 
knowing  that  every  hour  is  marked  by  its 
acts  of  personal  heroism  in  a  struggle  so 
gigantic  that  the  individual  no  longer  counts, 
and  acts  of  bravery  are  only  valuable  as  giv- 
ing tone  and  colour  to  the  entire  Allied  effort 
in  a  war  where  Man  has  simply  surpassed 
himself. 

I  do  hope  that  you  are  reading  John 
Buchan's  "History  of  the  War."  It  will 
help  you  to  understand  many  things  about 
which  I  have  not  been  able  to  write  you.  It 
is  not,  of  course,  the  final  word.  Where  so 
much  is  concealed,  the  final  word  cannot  be 
said  until  much  later.  But  it  is  a  sane  and  a 
calm  effort,  and  it  helps  one  wonderfully. 

I  refuse  the  bait  your  last  letter  holds  out. 

[  76  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

As  long  as  I  can  resist  it,  I  will  not  talk  about 
the  political  situation.  For  over  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years  we  have  made  a  sort  of  fetich 
of  what  we  call  "the  people."  Well,  the 
justice  of  that  idea  is  on  trial  now,  and  while 
I  consider  that  what  looks  disastrous  at  pres- 
ent is  really  in  the  logical  march  of  develop- 
ment, I  confess  that  the  situation  is  grave. 
Any  effort  to  curb  the  movement  now  would 
be  a  direct  attack  on  liberty  —  liberty  of 
speech,  liberty  of  opinion.  In  the  advance 
of  the  world  "  there  is  no  backward  step,  no 
returning,"  though  sometimes  ideas  that  have 
served  their  purpose  do  get  sloughed  off,  and 
progress  goes  on  without  them. 

The  pitiful  thing  about  this  war  is  —  I  sup- 
pose it  is  true  of  all  wars  for  an  idea  —  that 
the  bravest  and  worthiest  have  died  —  the 
cream  of  the  younger  cultured  class,  the  best 
of  the  youth  from  the  farming  districts  and 
fishing  stations  of  Brittany.  The  cultivator 
has  always  been  the  backbone  of  France. 
The  workingman  has  always  been  the  agi- 
tator. The  young  farmers  are  all  in  the 
fighting  regiments.  The  workmen  are  in  the 
factories  and  on  the  railroads,  and  it  is  the 
latter  class  which  predominates  in  the  social- 
ists, and  has  a  taste  for  being  "  agin  the 
government."  The  farmers  are  filling  sol- 
diers' graves,  along  with  the  students  and  the 
aristocracy.  The  workingman  is  filling  his 
pockets  and  talking.  It  is  a  new  proof- 

[   77   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

if  one  were  needed  —  of  the  vitality  of 
France,  the  home  of  real  liberty,  where  it  is 
difficult  to  muzzle  anyone,  that  things  are 
not  worse  than  you  choose  to  think  them. 
Let  that  satisfy  you.  It  has  to  satisfy  us. 
Besides  if  you  will  find  any  war,  in  any  coun- 
try, and  in  any  century,  in  which  some  one 
did  not  get  rich,  from  the  days  of  conquest, 
even  before  the  great  William  of  Normandy, 
down  to  wars  for  an  idea,  like  our  own  Civil 
War,  I  should  dearly  love  to  hear  about  it. 

Well,  my  one  English-speaking  friend, 
who  lives  over  the  hill  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Grande  Morin,  is  preparing  again  to  re- 
turn to  the  States.  You  may  remember  that 
she  left  here  before  the  battle  of  the  Marne, 
and  returned,  to  my  great  joy,  the  following 
summer.  She  has  a  little  daughter,  and  this 
is  no  place  for  a  child  who  can  be  taken  out 
of  such  an  atmosphere.  It  leaves  me  less 
isolated,  in  a  certain  sense,  than  I  was  in 
1914,  for,  in  three  years,  my  French  neigh- 
bours have  all  been  drawn  closer  around 
me  by  our  common  interests  and  common 
troubles.  Be  sure  that  I  am  not,  and  never 
have  been  at  all,  lonely,  even  though  I  am 
now  and  then  nervous,  as  who  is  not?  Your 
letters  do  not  give  the  impression  that  you 
are  absolutely  calm. 


IX 

September  4,  70/7 

SINCE  I  last  wrote,  I  have  been  travelling. 
I  have  been  to  Versailles  for  a  week-end.  I 
can  hear  you  laughing.  Well,  I  assure  you 
that  it  was  no  laughing  matter.  The  days 
have  gone  by  when  we  used  to  just  run  out  to 
Versailles  for  a  few  hours  in  the  afternoon. 
It  took  me  five  hours  and  a  half  from  my 
door  to  my  destination,  just  at  the  entrance 
of  the  park,  by  the  Grille  de  Neptune.  It 
was  a  real  voyage,  and  the  first  one  I  have 
made,  —  if  you  except  those  to  Paris, — 
since  the  war  broke  out. 

I  went  up  to  Paris  by  the  five  o'clock  train, 
to  escape  the  heat  of  mid-day.  That  train, 
which  is  the  only  one  we  have  in  these  days 
which  is  not  strictly  a  way-train,  only  makes 
two  stops  between  Esbly,  where  I  change  to 
the  main  line,  and  Paris,  instead  of  the  seven 
the  other  trains  make,  and  I  expected,  at  the 
latest,  to  be  in  Paris  by  half-past  six,  with 
just  time  to  get  a  bite,  and  take  the  twenty- 
five  minutes  past  seven  train  for  Versailles, 
and  get  there  by  half-past  eight,  before  dark. 
No  one  likes  to  travel  after  dark  if  it  can 

[  79  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

be  avoided  —  dark  trains,  dimly  lighted  sta- 
tions, no  porters,  and  few  cabs,  yftu  know. 

From  the  beginning  all  my  plans  miscar- 
ried. The  train  to  Paris  stopped  and  was 
side-tracked  three  times.  Once  we  waited 
fifteen  minutes,  so  that  it  was  half-past  seven 
when  I  arrived,  and  I  missed  my  train  for 
Versailles,  and  had  to  wait  until  nearly  nine 
o'clock.  There  were  not  half  a  dozen  pas- 
sengers in  the  train,  and  it  was  already  nearly 
dark  when  it  pulled  out.  The  familiar  little 
hour's  ride  was  as  strange  as  though  I  had 
never  made  it.  The  train  stopped  every- 
where. All  the  stations  were  dark  as  pos- 
sible, and  therefore  unrecognizable.  It  was 
a  queer  sensation  to  run  along  beside  a  plat- 
form in  the  still  early  darkness,  see  a  door 
open  from  the  ticket  office,  a  woman,  with  a 
mobilization  band  round  her  left  arm  and  a 
small  cap  on  her  head,  come  out  in  the  nar- 
row stream  of  light  from  the  half  opened 
door,  and  stand  ready,  while  perhaps  one 
person  got  out  and  no  one  got  in,  to  blow 
her  little  whistle  for  the  train  to  go  ahead, 
while  I  strained  my  eyes  to  catch  somewhere 
the  name  of  the  station,  and  never  once  did  it. 

If  anyone  had  told  me  that  anything  so 
familiar  could  be  so  unfamiliar  I  would  not 
have  believed  it. 

The  result  was  that  instead  of  getting  to 
Versailles  at  half-past  eight,  when  I  was 
expected,  I  got  there  at  ten.  There  was  no 
[  So  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

way  of  sending  word  —  no  telephonic  com- 
munication is  possible,  and  telegrams  take 
often  forty-eight  hours  for  the  shortest 
distances. 

At  Versailles  the  porter  was  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  finding  a  cab,  so  I  arrived  at  my 
destination;  a  strange  house,  whose  noble 
staircase  was  pitch-dark  —  and  I  had  no 
electric  lamp  in  my  pocket  —  the  concierge 
in  bed,  and  very  cross  at  being  wakened,  and 
I  groped  my  way  in  the  strange  house  up 
three  flights  of  stairs  to  find  my  hostess  lying 
awake  and  worrying.  You  see  there  is  one 
thing  to  be  said  for  these  war  times,  —  the 
very  smallest  effort  one  makes  becomes  an 
exciting  adventure  —  else  what  would  I  have 
to  write  you  about? 

I  never  saw  Versailles  more  beautiful. 

The  house  in  which  I  visited  had  a  balcony 
overlooking  the  bassin  de  Neptune.  The 
situation  was  ideal,  not  only  for  its  beautiful 
outlook  and  its  wonderful  afternoon  lights, 
but  because  of  the  ease  with  which  one  could, 
in  five  minutes,  walk  up  to  the  top  of  that 
glorious  terrace,  on  the  park  side  of  the 
palace,  and  look  down  that  superb  vista  over 
the  tapis  vert  to  the  glistening  canal  beyond, 
and  also  because  I  could  sit  on  a  balcony 
overlooking  the  street  and  that  part  of  the 
park,  and  enjoy  such  a  picturesque  and  chang- 
ing scene  as  the  Versailles  of  our  days  has 
never  known. 

[  81   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

The  town  was  full  of  training  camps, 
cantonnements,  and  cantines.  Soldiers  of 
all  nations,  all  colours,  all  divisions,  and  all 
grades  pass  in  and  out  the  Park  gates  all 
day.  The  tower  of  Babel  could  have  been 
nothing  to  what  the  Park  of  Versailles  was 
that  Sunday  that  I  was  there.  There  were 
Americans  and  British, — Canadians,  Austral- 
ians, Egyptians,  Indians, — there  were  French 
and  Senegalese,  and  Moroccans;  there  were 
Serbs  and  Italians;  there  were  Portuguese 
and  Belgians  and  Rastas,  and  alas!  there 
were  a  few  Russians,  for  there  are  millions 
of  them  just  as  ashamed  of  what  is  happen- 
ing out  in  the  east  as  we  are,  and  just  as  sad 
over  it.  There  were  blacks  and  whites,  yel- 
lows and  reds  and  browns.  There  were  chic 
officers,  some  of  them  on  leave,  still  sporting 
their  pantalons  rouges,  and  much  braided 
kepis.  There  were  slouching  poilus  in  their 
baggy  trousers  and  ill-fitting  coats,  and  smart 
English  Tommies,  and  broad-hatted  Yanks, 
looking  as  if  they  wished  they  could  go  coat- 
less  and  roll  up  their  sleeves  —  it  was  a  hot 
day  —  instantly  distinguishable  from  the 
wide-hatted  Australians  and  Canadians. 
Nothing  was  handsomer  than  the  Italians 
with  their  smart,  half-high  hats,  or  more 
amusing  than  the  Belgians'  little  tassels  of  all 
colours  jigging  from  the  front  of  their  head 
covering.  All  day  that  picturesque  crowd 
passed  in  and  out  of  the  park,  with  crowds 
[  82  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

of  women  and  children  and  all  sorts  of 
civilians. 

Just  opposite  the  balcony  where  we  sat 
was  a  shop  where  they  sold  all  sorts  of  sou- 
venirs of  the  town  —  and  post  cards.  From 
morning  till  night  the  crowd  stopped  there, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  that  pictures  of  Ver- 
sailles must  be  going  over  the  world,  and 
surely  to  many  places  that  had  never  heard 
of  it  before.  I  could  not  help  thinking  of 
the  beginnings  of  culture  that  all  these  people 
must  be  unconsciously  taking  in  at  the  pores, 
—  at  least  I  hoped  there  were.  Many  of  the 
boys  from  the  States,  who  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  normal  life  could  never  have  hoped 
to  see  the  place,  and  who  are  able  to  appre- 
ciate it  and  love  it,  will  at  least  have  that 
much  to  the  good  —  among  many  other 
things  —  when  they  go  home. 

Of  course  the  palace  is  hermetically  closed. 
It  has  to  be.  All  the  same,  I  did  wish  that 
some  of  the  American  boys,  who  had  never 
crossed  the  big  pond  before,  could  have  seen 
it.  However,  for  actual  eye  satisfaction  the 
outside  of  the  big  palace  and  its  parks  is 
more  important.  I  only  regretted  the  in- 
terior because  I  longed  for  them  to  have  it 
all. 

It  was  wonderful  how  gay  the  crowd  was, 
and  how  well  the  soldiers  behaved,  and  how 
interested  they  all  were  in  the  children.  The 
interest  seemed  mutual.  I  '11  warrant  there 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

is  not  a  child  in  Versailles  who  does  not  know 
every  uniform  on  sight,  or  who  does  not 
recognize  every  nationality  and  every  grade. 

I  only  saw  our  boys  at  a  distance  as  they 
came  and  went.  But  my  hostess,  who  is  liv- 
ing in  Versailles  for  the  summer  and  autumn, 
not  only  meets  and  talks  with  them  on  days 
when  the  park  is  not  so  thronged  as  it  is  on 
Sundays,  she  has  them  sitting  by  her  fireside 
to  drink  tea.  She  tells  me  that  some  of 
them  are  terribly  homesick.  They  miss  their 
women-folks,  and  their  young  girl  friends. 
That  is  perfectly  natural,  for  the  comrade- 
ship between  young  men  and  women  in  the 
States  is  a  sort  of  relation  which  no  other 
people  have  or  understand.  Even  homesick- 
ness which  will  be  forgotten  as  soon  as  they 
are  actively  "  in  it "  is,  I  am  told,  doing  them 
good.  It  may  console  all  of  you  on  the  other 
side  of  the  water  to  know  that  the  boys  speak 
of  "home"  as  probably  none  of  you  ever 
heard  them  speak,  and  say  "mother"  in  a 
tone  quite  new  to  them.  So  there  is  gain  in 
all  things. 

I  did  not  care  to  go  into  the  park  in  the 
crowd.  It  was  much  more  interesting  to 
watch  the  moving  throng  from  my  high  gal- 
lery seat,  and  to  wander  about  the  park  in 
the  early  morning,  when  it  was  practically 
empty.  That  is  a  chance  one  rarely  gets 
unless  one  is  staying  there.  You  have  no 
idea  how  lovely  it  looks  then,  and  one  can 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

wander  at  will,  and  every  turn  is  a  new  pic- 
ture, all  the  more  beautiful  for  lacking  fel- 
low creatures  in  modern  clothes.  I  never  see 
it,  as  I  saw  it  one  breezy  morning,  when 
there  seemed  to  be  only  us  two  about,  with- 
out feeling  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  Louis  XIV, 
great  builder  that  he  was.  It  is  a  debt  that 
accumulates.  Even  Republican  France  can 
afford  to  be  grateful  to  him,  and  forgive  his 
faults  for  the  sake  of  the  grandeur  he  con- 
ferred on  them,  and  which  no  republic  can 
ever  dare  to  imitate  out  of  the  country's 
purse. 

I  wish  you,  who  know  the  park  so  well, 
could  see  it  this  year.  There  are  no  flowers. 
Some  of  the  pines  and  cedars  on  the  terraces 
are  neglected  —  the  number  of  gardeners  is 
insufficient  for  all  the  work  —  and  in  some  of 
the  more  primitive  parts  of  the  park  the  trees 
need  trimming.  Instead  of  flowers  there  are 
vegetables  planted  everywhere.  All  the 
flower  beds  surrounding  the  grass  plots  are 
planted  with  potatoes  and  beans  and  simple 
garden  stuff.  As  the  French  gardener  is  in- 
capable of  doing  anything  ugly,  these  beds 
of  vegetables  are  laid  out  just  as  carefully  as 
if  the  choicest  flowers  from  the  serres  were 
there;  each  bed  has  its  label,  carefully 
placed,  to  indicate  the  variety,  bearing  the 

words,  "  Planted  for  Ambulance  No. ." 

Isn't  that  a  pretty  idea? 

Several  of  the  fountains  were  being  re- 

[  85  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

paired  the  morning  we  walked  there  alone, 
and  one  of  them  was  playing,  just  as  if  for 
us.  It  was  delightful  to  be  walking  along 
a  shady  alley,  with  the  thick  carpet  of  dry 
leaves  rustling  under  foot,  and  stirring  all 
one's  memories  of  the  historic  days  of  the 
ancient  regime,  and  to  see  suddenly  at  the 
end  of  the  vista  a  jet  of  water  rise  into  the 
air,  and  the  autumn  breeze  shake  it  into 
spray.  Ordinarily  on  days  when  such  a  sight 
is  possible,  a  great  crowd  prevents  one  from 
realizing  that  it  is  beautiful  as  well  as  spec- 
tacular, and  the  same  crowd  and  its  move- 
ment drives  away  the  spectres  of  the  past. 

It  was  lucky  I  made  this  brief  visit.  If  I 
had  not,  I  don't  know  what  I  could  have  writ- 
ten to  you  about.  It  is  the  same  old  story  of 
patient  waiting,  —  of  trying  realization  that 
we  are  all  used  to  of  the  slow  movement  and 
the  meagre  results.  The  Allies  are  holding 
the  beast  by  the  throat  out  there,  and  it 
begins  to  look  as  if  that  were  about  all  that 
could  be  done  until  the  boys  from  the  States 
are  ready  to  go  in  and  choke  him.  After  all, 
it  is  a  pretty  big  job  —  and  the  beast  dies 
hard.  I  am  afraid  he  does  not  yet  realize 
that  he  is  being  choked.  All  I  pray  is  that 
he  does  not  get  away,  and  make  another 
bound.  Not  that  it  will  matter  except  to 
make  us  all  mad. 


[  86  ] 


X 

October  4, 

SEPTEMBER  was  not  a  bad  month,  except 
that  it  led  us  nearer  to  the  winter,  which  I 
frankly  dread.  In  two  weeks  it  will  be  time 
to  light  up  the  fires,  not  for  the  cheer  to  my 
eyes,  but  from  actual  necessity,  —  and  I've 
no  fuel. 

Already  the  garden  is  faded.  The  only 
things  still  flowering  are  a  few  brave  roses, 
zinnias,  and  Indian  pinks.  Everything  else 
has  been  either  cut  back,  or  taken  up. 

I  have  done  nothing  this  month  —  except 
the  usual  thing,  studying  a  map  of  the  front, 
or  wondering  at  what  date  Germany  will 
choose  to  fling  the  concentrated  forces  the 
Russian  debacle  put  at  her  disposal  against 
us.  You  seem  to  have  not  the  smallest  idea 
of  this  possibility,  since  I  note  in  your  last 
letter  your  remark  "  that  Germany  is  in  a 
shocking  state,  and  must  break  soon."  I 
wonder  where  you  get  that  impression,  and 
wait  for  the  moment  sure  to  come,  when  your 
eyes  will  be  opened  to  the  truth,  —  that  time 
serves  Germany  as  well  as  it  serves  us;  that 
if  we  are  stronger  to-day  than  we  were  in 
1914,  so  is  she;  and  that  not  until  the  States 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

can  actually  put  fighting  men  into  the  line  is 
there  any  hope  of  our  doing  more  than  we 
have  done  so  far  —  hold  the  Boche. 

Please  God  the  time  does  not  come  when 
we  cannot. 

Since  I  last  wrote  you  I  have  made  two 
trips  across  the  Marne  to  Juilly,  to  visit  the 
American  hospital.  Many  of  the  nurses  over 
there  have  been  very  neighbourly  since,  nearly 
two  years  ago,  after  the  first  offensive  in 
Champagne,  two  of  them  led  Colonel  Pelle- 
tier  over  here  one  dreary  rainy  day  to  call. 
He  is  General  Pelletier  to-day.  He  gave  his 
right  arm  to  his  country  in  that  autumn  fight 
of  1915,  and  you  may  know  him  by  name  in 
the  States,  as  he  was  the  first  man  to  greet 
General  Pershing  when  he  landed  in  France. 
He  speaks  English  as  well  as  we  do,  —  the 
case  with  so  many  colonial  officers.  Ever 
since  that  afternoon  I  have  had  a  sort  of  sen- 
timent for  Juilly.  The  nurses  and  doctors 
have  been  rather  neighbourly,  but  I  have 
never  got  up  the  energy  to  return  their  nice 
visits.  I  liked  the  idea,  that,  not  far  away, 
men  and  women  of  my  race  were  working  for 
France,  at  a  place  that  I  could  almost  see 
from  my  lawn.  I  can  actually,  on  a  clear 
day,  see  Monge,  the  last  town  passed  on  the 
road  to  Juilly. 

It  was  not  until  I  had  two  reasons  to  push 
me  that  I  made  up  my  mind  to  go  to  Juilly. 

First,  Mademoiselle  Henriette,  whose 
[  88  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

service  in  our  ambulance  had  deprived  her 
of  all  recreation,  was  anxious  to  see  a  big 
modern  war  hospital,  and  I  had  it  in  my 
power  to  gratify  her. 

Second,  I  had  an  old  friend  —  a  priest  — 
who  is  a  professor  in  the  College  de  Juilly, 
part  of  which  has  been  given  up  to  the  hos- 
pital. This  Abbe,  not  unknown  in  Boston, 
—  he  once  taught  there,  —  had  marched 
away,  with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder,  in  the  days 
of  September,  1914,  but  later,  being  deli- 
cate, it  was  decided  that  he  was  more  useful 
as  a  teacher  than  as  a  poilu,  and  he  sadly 
took  off  his  tunic  and  resumed  his  soutane. 

The  first  visit  led  logically  to  the  second. 
Mademoiselle  Henriette  talked  so  much  in 
our  modest  little  ambulance  at  Quincy  of  all 
the  wonders  she  had  seen  at  Juilly,  that  our 
Medicin-Chef,  a  clever  Russian,  was  anxious 
to  see  it,  and  I  returned  to  introduce  him  and 
the  directress  of  the  ambulance,  who  is  the 
wife  of  our  Mayor.  I  made  both  visits  in- 
side of  ten  days. 

You  will  begin  to  think  that  I  am  always 
gadding.  Well,  it  has  been  rather  exciting 
for  the  old  lady  these  last  weeks.  I  am 
afraid  that  I  was  getting  garden-bound,  just 
as  the  army  is  getting  trench-bound,  and,  as 
ruling  passions  are  strong  in  death,  in  spite 
of  myself,  my  visits  to  Juilly  took  on  a  sort 
of  before-the-war  historical-research  spirit. 

The   College  de  Juilly,  which  has  given 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

up  its  dormitories  to  the  hospital,  is  an  his- 
torical university  founded  by  the  Orateriens, 
and  situated  in  one  of  the  most  extensive  and 
picturesque  parks  in  the  department  of  the 
Seine  and  Marne.  It  was  in  that  college  that 
Stuart  kings  of  England  educated  their  male 
offspring.  There  the  Duke  of  Monmouth, 
the  over-ambitious  and  popular,  beloved  son 
of  Charles  II,  who  made  an  almost  success- 
ful attempt  to  crowd  his  uncle  off  the  throne, 
was  brought  up,  and  there,  also,  the  most 
brilliant  son  of  James  II,  —  the  Duke  of  Ber- 
wick—  whose  mother,  Arabella  Churchill, 
was  a  sister  of  the  great  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough,  got  his  education,  to  which  he  did 
much  honour.  Perhaps  it  was  a  pity  that  he 
was  the  illegitimate  son.  English  literature 
would  have  lost  much  of  the  romance  that 
Charles  Edward  and  Bonnie  Prince  Charlie 
inspired,  but  then  also  there  would  have  been 
no  German  blood  in  the  English  reigning 
family.  But  perhapses  are  stupid. 

We  went  out  the  first  time  in  a  rickety 
taxi-auto,  furnished  by  the  woman  at  Meaux 
who  had  taken  me  out  on  the  battle-field  in 
December,  just  after  the  battle  of  the  Marne. 
We  went  by  way  of  Mareuil,  through 
Meaux,  to  take  a  Senegalese,  who  had  been 
nursed  in  our  hospital,  back  to  his  depot,  and 
from  there,  by  the  route  Senlis,  across  the 
battle-field,  towards  Supplets,  where  it  began 
on  September  fifth. 

[  90  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

It  was  a  lovely  day  —  sunny,  under  a  pale 
blue  sky,  silent,  with  just  a  puffy  little  breeze. 
The  roads  were  deserted,  as  we  ran  along 
through  the  wide  fields.  The  only  signs  of 
life  were  the  big  ploughs  turning  up  the 
ground  for  the  winter  wheat  planting, — 
huge  ploughs  drawn  by  four  and  sometimes 
six  great  white  oxen,  moving  slowly  in  the 
foreground,  in  the  middle  distance,  and  sil- 
houetted on  the  hilltops  against  the  sky-line, 
guided  by  tall,  sturdy,  blond  youths,  in  white 
blouses,  with  a  red  band  about  their  round 
caps  —  German  prisoners.  Their  air  was  as 
placid  as  that  of  the  big  oxen  they  were  driv- 
ing, and  the  glance  they  turned  on  us,  as  we 
joggled  by  in  our  shaky  taxi-cab,  was  as 
mildly  indifferent  as  that  of  their  beasts. 
There  was  no  one  in  sight  to  guard  them  — 
there  was  no  need.  I  am  told  that,  as  a  rule, 
they  have  no  desire  to  escape  —  that  is  to 
say,  the  common  soldiers  have  not.  With 
the  officers  it  is  different.  Many  of  them 
would  get  away  if  they  could  on  account  of 
their  careers.  But  the  common  soldiers  are 
good  workers.  They  are  treated  well.  The 
fields  of  France  are  better  than  the  trenches 
and  butchery. 

I  am  not  going  to  describe  the  hospital  for 
you.  Don't  think  it.  You,  with  your  fifty- 
page  Sunday  newspapers,  and  your  number- 
less magazines,  get  all  of  that  sort  of  thing 
which  is  good  for  you. 

[  91  i 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

I  am  afraid  that  Henriette  was  even  more 
impressed  by  the  nurses  and  the  orderlies 
and  the  stretcher-bearers  than  she  was  by 
the  wonders  of  the  hospital  equipment.  She 
thought  the  American  girls  "  so  handsome, 
and  so  smart,"  and  they  were,  —  but,  most 
of  all,  at  tea  in  the  huge  white  refectory,  she 
was  impressed  by  the  cameraderie  between 
the  men  and  women,  as  they  sat  together 
over  their  tea.  She  had  never  seen  anything 
like  that  before  in  all  her  life.  She  thought 
it  charmingi — wished  the  French  could  ar- 
rive at  it,  —  and  declared  the  American 
women  the  luckiest  in  the  world,  and  I  sup- 
pose that  she  is  not  far  wrong. 

Some  time  in  the  future  I  shall  take  you  to 
Juilly.  You  will  not  see  poilus  done  up  in 
bandages,  or  walking  on  crutches  in  the 
winding  streets  of  the  old  village,  or  lying  on 
their  mattresses  in  the  sun  in  the  gardens, 
or  sitting  about  in  the  park.  You  will  not  see 
the  pretty  picture  which  we  saw  from  the  win- 
dow of  the  Abbe's  study  —  a  white-robed, 
white-coifed  nurse,  sitting  on  the  pedestal 
of  the  tall  statue  of  Sainte  Genevieve,  with 
her  white-shod  feet  sticking  straight  out  in 
front  of  her,  and  her  young  head  bent  over 
a  writing-pad,  while  the  setting  sun  flecked 
the  white  figures  with  shadows  from  the 
moving  leaves  of  the  big  trees  about  her.  I 
felt  as  if  a  sculptor  ought  to  do  her  as  sym- 
bolic. Monsieur  I' Abbe  remarked,  "  She 

[  9*  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

ought  to  be  writing  verses,  but  I  presume  she 
is  only  writing  home."  I  felt  myself  that 
the  home  letter  was  more  appropriate,  and 
felt  it  a  pity  that  the  home  people  could  not 
have  seen  the  picture  —  the  tired  young 
nurse,  perhaps  just  escaped  from  the  operat- 
ing-room (into  which  I  had  been  allowed  to 
peep,  because  the  doctor  I  had  hoped  to  see, 
and  one  of  the  nurses  whose  visit  I  was  re- 
turning, were  there,  done  up  in  gauze,  and 
unrecognizable,  — ),  to  write  home  in  the 
beautiful,  stately,  historic  park,  at  the  feet 
of  the  patron  saint,  whose  faith  had  turned 
back  the  Hun  of  ancient  times,  and  whose 
Paris  the  poilus  of  to-day  defend.  But, 
though  you  will  not  see  that,  you  are  sure  to 
find  many  reminders  of  the  war  days,  in  ad- 
dition to  the  portrait  of  the  well-known 
American  woman  who  founded  and  sustains 
this  great  hospital,  and  which  will  for  all 
time  hang  there,  with  the  portraits  of  the 
great  men  whose  names  have  been  associated 
with  the  college  since  its  foundation.  The 
great  park,  the  wonderful  library,  the  fa- 
mous Salle  des  Bustes,  the  charming  dining- 
room  with  its  carved  wood  walls  and  heavily 
carved  doors,  and  the  terraced  park,  with  its 
noble  trees  and  historic  associations,  will  be 
all  the  more  attractive  because  it  has  been 
the  scene  of  a  fine  American  effort,  because 
American  doctors  and  American  nurses  have 
for  three  years  already  paced  its  hall,  keep- 

[  93   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

ing  vigil  by  night  and  day,  and  rested  their 
tired  nerves  in  the  peaceful  alleys  of  great 
trees,  adding  their  mite  —  and  one  of  the 
noblest  —  not  only  to  the  history  of  the  place, 
but  to  the  cementing  of  the  entente.  I  speak 
of  the  Americans,  but  the  nurses  are  not  all 
American.  There  are  British,  Canadians, 
and  Australians,  and  there  are  Belgians  and 
French,  and  I  don't  know  how  many  nations 
represented  in  the  personnel  of  the  hospital. 
And  as  they  have  served  the  civilian  popu- 
lation as  part  of  their  work,  Juilly  will  never 
again  be  just  the  sort  of  place  it  was  before 
the  war,  —  for  that  matter,  no  place  over 
here  will. 

We  made  our  return  by  a  shorter  route, 
through  Trilbardou,  and  across  the  Marne 
at  He  de  Villenoy,  into  Esbly.  The  bridge 
across  the  Marne  was  one  of  those  destroyed 
in  September,  1914.  The  old  bridge  was  of 
stone.  The  new  one  is  a  temporary  one  of 
wood  —  not  wide  enough  for  two  teams  to 
pass.  It  is  in  the  form  of  a  broken  letter  Z, 
so  that  when  entering  on  one  side  it  is  im- 
possible to  see  whether  or  not  the  bridge  is 
free.  There  should  be  a  guard  there.  Once 
there  was,  but  there  was  none  that  day.  It 
is  not  a  frequented  road.  So  as  we  made 
the  first  turn  on  the  bridge,  we  found  our- 
selves face  to  face  with  a  red  cart  drawn  by 
a  tiny  donkey.  The  donkey  could  not  be 
backed,  —  anyway,  he  was  further  across 

[  94  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

the  bridge  than  we  were,  —  so  we  had  to 
back  off,  and  let  him  pass.  It  was  rather  a 
ticklish  operation,  but  easier  with  an  auto 
than  it  would  have  been  with  a  horse. 

The  second  visit  was  rather  a  repetition 
of  the  first,  except  that  the  doctor  took  us 
over  in  his  car,  and  we  went  much  more 
quickly,  and  that  we  had  two  little  adven- 
tures en  route. 

The  first  was  laughable,  in  a  way.  You 
know  there  is  no  real  hunting  season  any 
more,  and  the  fields  are  full  of  game.  Part- 
ridges and  pheasants  run  about  fearlessly. 
They  have  forgotten  the  gun.  Perhaps  they 
know  that  Man  has  too  much  else  to  do  with 
guns  to  bother  them.  It  is  very  pretty  to  see 
the  partridges  running  in  the  fields,  and  not 
flying  often,  when  one  is  quite  on  them, — 
though  it  is  such  a  menace  to  the  crops.  But 
it  was  a  hare  that  we  started  just  out  of 
Meaux.  It  was  going  to  cross  the  road  when 
we  rounded  a  corner.  I  think  it  could  have 
made  the  other  side,  but  it  did  not  try.  In- 
stead, it  started  down  the  road  ahead  of  us 
to  race  the  car.  We  were  going  about  thirty 
miles  an  hour,  and  the  hare  beat  us  for  ten 
minutes  —  gaining  all  the  time  —  until  he 
got  courage  to  side  jump,  and  disappear  in 
the  field.  I  never  would  have  believed  a 
hare  could  make  that  pace,  if  I  had  not  seen 
him  do  it. 

The  second  adventure  was  tragic. 

[  95   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

Just  as  we  came  in  sight  of  Monge  we  saw 
a  smashed  aeroplane  lying  in  the  field  to  the 
south,  not  far  from  the  road.  We  slowed 
down  long  enough  to  make  sure  that  it  was 
deserted.  We  knew  it  was  a  recent  accident, 
as  there  was  no  one  near.  It  was  a  French 
plane,  for  one  broken  wing  displayed  the  tri- 
coloured  rosette.  There  was  no  one  in  sight 
when  we  reached  it  but  a  white-bloused  Ger- 
man prisoner  driving  an  ox-team  in  the  field 
on  the  other  side  of  the  road;  but  as  we  put 
on  speed  again,  we  saw,  coming  towards  us 
in  a  cloud  of  dust,  a  French  military  car, 
and  as  it  approached  we  saw  French  officers 
standing,  looking  off,  ready  to  spring,  and 
knew  that  they  were  seeking  for  the  machine. 
We  hurried  away,  to  learn  on  arriving  at 
Juilly,  ten  minutes  later,  that  the  accident 
had  been  seen  from  the  upper  ward  windows, 
and  that  the  ambulance  had  been  out,  and 
brought  back  the  two  men  —  both  dead. 

Things  like  that  do  not  upset  one  to-day 
as  they  once  did.  But  all  the  time  I  was 
walking  through  the  hospital,  talking  to  the 
pojlus,  I  had  the  dead  aviators  on  my  mind. 
It  did  seem  so  pitiful  to  have  fallen  to  death 
over  the  peaceful  sunny  fields  of  their  be- 
loved France,  under  the  bovine  eyes  of  a 
German  prisoner.  To  die  in  an  air  battle  is 
a  different  thing  from  dying  like  that,  and 
I  could  not  but  pity  them,  little  as  death 
seems  pitiful  to  me  to-day. 

[  96  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

While  I  write  all  this  —  I  think  of  the 
battle  in  Flanders,  and  of  all  that  France  is 
enduring  and  must  endure  in  the  reforming 
of  her  republicanism.  Be  sure  she  can  do  it. 
All  the  pacifist  disturbances  have  only  shown 
her  the  necessity,  and  meanwhile  the  world 
at  large  is  learning  how  to  judge  a  nation  by 
the  results  of  its  efforts  and  not  by  the  acts 
of  its  individuals.  I  suppose  those  who  be- 
lieve that  the  beauty  of  life  lies  in  the  strug- 
gle are  right,  but  the  trying  part  for  me  is 
that  it  looks  so  much  finer  in  history  than  it 
does  in  the  doing.  That  is  probably  because 
I  have  not  a  great  and  calm  mind. 


[  97   ] 


XI 

October  10,  70/7 

I  HAVE  just  come  back  from  Paris.  I 
went  up  to  see  what  could  be  done  to  amelio- 
rate the  situation  for  the  winter.  We  are  to 
have  almost  no  fuel.  If  I  can  keep  a  fire 
going  in  the  kitchen  and  manage  a  wood  fire 
for  evenings  in  the  salon,  it  will  be  about  all 
I  can  do.  But  I  have  laid  in,  by  luck,  some 
petrole  —  taken  over  from  a  friend  who  is 
going  to  return  to  the  States,  —  so  I  have  put 
in  two  petrole  stoves — one  to  heat  the  break- 
fast-table, and  one  upstairs,  beside  my  type- 
writer, so  that  I  can  write  in  moderate  com- 
fort. It  is  not  a  healthy  heat  —  but  it  is  all 
I  can  do. 

Everything  is  calm  here,  in  spite  of  the 
battle  going  on  in  the  north,  and  all  the  polit- 
ical excitement  in  Paris. 

I  am  sure  that  the  American  papers  are 
giving  you  all  the  details  of  the  excitement 
stirred  up  by  Leon  Daudet.  I  can  only  hope 
he  has  not  gone  off  half-cocked.  The  papers 
give  us  no  clue  to  the  facts  of  the  case.  Un- 
luckily, in  all  three  of  the  principal  books 
which  Daudet  has  published  since  the  war 
broke  out,  —  all  rich  reading,  —  he  has  been 

c  98  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

so  unbridled  in  his  attacks  on  so  many  promi- 
nent people,  —  literary,  mondial,  and  politi- 
cal, —  that  I  can't  help  trembling.  The  sort 
of  attack  he  has  often  made  on  people  about 
whom  I  know  something  does  not  inspire  me 
with  unquestioning  confidence,  although  I 
know  that  almost  anyone  put  under  the 
microscope  might  give  some  such  record  as 
Daudet  gets  with  his  humorous,  often  ugly, 
southern  temperament.  No  one  questions 
Daudet's  patriotism,  although  he  is  an  un- 
qualified royalist,  —  but  then,  every  one  has 
always  known  that.  It  is  the  policy  of  his 
paper.  However,  if  the  hearings  —  now 
secret  —  are  over  and  the  most  dangerous, 
as  well  as  one  of  the  most  brilliant,  un- 
scrupulous and  wicked  men  in  Paris,  —  is 
caught  in  the  net,  I  shall  feel  that  the  ex- 
citement, unfortunate  and  untimely  as  it  is, 
has  been  worth  while.  I  cannot  help  feeling 
that,  in  a  sense,  this  is  only  the  third  act  of 
the  Calmette-Caillaux  affair  which  preceded 
the  war,  in  which  Calmette  was  killed  —  the 
first  of  his  party  "  mort  pour  la  Patrie"  as 
much  as  if  he  had  been  killed  on  the  battle- 
field. I  suppose  there  is  no  such  audacious 
man  in  France  as  Joseph  Caillaux.  But 
whether  he  is  innocent  enough  to  escape 
always  is  the  question. 

It  is  rather  a  pity  that  France  should  have 
to  operate  upon  this  ulcer  in  war-time.  But 
the  sore  has  been  gathering  for  a  good  while, 

[  99  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

and  I  suppose  the  sooner  it  is  attended  to 
in  a  public  clinic  the  better  for  the  country, 
—  army,  government,  public  service  and  all. 
It  will  probably  empty  out  a  lot  of  people 
whom  public  life  —  or  life  at  all  —  will  not 
know  any  longer.  You  can't  deny  that  it 
takes  a  plucky  nation  to  gather  round  an 
operating-table  at  such  a  time  —  if  they  do, 
and  I  believe  they  will. 

The  streets  of  Paris  are  full  of  American 
boys  in  khaki,  sombreros,  and  new  tan  gai- 
ters, and  all  behaving  as  if  they  were  here 
for  a  sort  of  glorification.  In  a  sense  it  is  a 
big  adventure  for  them,  and  for  some  it  will 
be  "  the  big  adventure  "  —  to  come  over  the 
sea,  all  dressed  up  in  new  uniforms,  to  walk 
about  the  streets  of  Paris,  before  going  on 
"  out  there."  No  one  blames  them  for  en- 
joying it,  any  more  than  any  one  blames 
them  for  looking  rather  like  the  supers  in 
a  Charlie  Frohman  border  drama.  In  fact 
every  one  likes  them,  just  as  they  are,  and 
the  French  are  quite  daft  about  them.  It  is 
a  case  of  "  love  at  first  sight,"  only  I  am  told 
that  boys  arriving  after  this  are  not  likely  to 
see  Paris  until  they  come  back  from  uout 
there." 

On  my  return  trip  from  Paris  I  met  a 
young  officer  from  the  Pacific  coast,  who,  in 
the  course  of  conversation,  said  to  me :  "  It 
is  odd.  These  people  do  not  look  a  bit  like 
us.  They  don't  speak  our  language.  I  speak 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

very  little  of  theirs.  But  somehow  they  are 
like  us.  I  felt  at  home  with  them  at  once, 
and  every  day  I  feel  more  at  home.  I  don't 
know  why  it  is  —  can't  explain  it." 

So  you  see  not  all  the  boys  are  homesick, 
as  I  feared  they  were. 

Speaking  of  them  —  the  other  day  a  young 
French  officer,  who  is  in  the  aviation  corps 
in  a  camp  near  St.  Nazaire,  and  who  belongs 
to  the  fleet  which  goes  out  to  meet  the  Ameri- 
can transports  coming  into  a  French  port, 
told  me  that  his  first  westward  flight  to  pro- 
tect the  incoming  American  troops  was  one 
of  the  most  thrilling  days  of  his  life.  I  got 
quite  excited  myself  listening  to  his  descrip- 
tion of  the  flight  over  the  submarine  zone  to 
meet  the  fleet,  flying  so  low  that  he  could  see 
the  khaki-clad  lads,  in  their  life  belts,  packed 
on  the  decks,  waving  their  caps  in  the  air, 
and  imagined  he  could  hear  their  shouts  of 
"Five  la  France/" 

I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  write  about  any- 
thing to-day  but  "  our  boys." 

As  for  that,  every  one  talks  about  them, 
and  when  any  of  the  people  here  see  them 
passing  on  the  grande  route,  you  would 
surely  think,  to  hear  the  jabbering  about  it, 
that  they  had  brought  the  "  Glory  of  the 
Lord"  with  them.  I  hope  they  have. 

Some  of  their  experiences  in  getting  our 
men  acclimated  are  funny  enough.  For  ex- 
ample, the  friend  with  whom  I  make  my 

t     101     ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

home  in  Paris  is  an  unofficial  u  aunt"  to  any 
number  of  American  lads,  the  sons  of  her  old 
friends  and  otherwise.  The  other  day  she 
had  as  an  unexpected  guest  to  dinner  a 
youngster  from  the  flying  corps.  I  went  out 
to  buy  a  few  things  to  supplement  a  war  re- 
past up  to  the  appetite  of  a  healthy  boy,  and 
he  went  along  with  me  to  carry  the  bundles. 
We  ended  in  a  cake-shop  —  they  are  not 
shut  yet  —  one  of  the  prettiest  in  a  smart 
quarter,  and  I  made  a  collection  of  things 
which  I  thought  a  boy  with  a  sweet  tooth 
would  like,  and  could  not  get  in  camp. 
When  I  went  to  the  desk  to  pay,  the  cashier 
mentioned  the  sum,  but  she  added :  "  Mon- 
sieur has  been  eating  cakes?" 

Instinctively  I  said  "  No,"  to  look  round 
and  find  him  with  his  mouth  full,  and  another 
dainty  poised  at  his  lips. 

"  How  many?  "  I  asked  with  a  laugh. 

"How  many  what?" 

"  How  many  cakes  have  you  eaten?" 

"These  little  things  with  petticoats?  I 
don't  know.  Three  or  four."  I  nodded  to 
the  cashier.  She  mentioned  the  price,  and, 
as  I  paid  it,  he  simply  shouted:  "What? 
You  are  not  going  to  pay  for  those  piffling 
little  things?  Why  at  home  we  always 
sample  these  things  in  a  shop." 

"  But  you  are  not  at  home,"  I  replied. 
"  We  '11  discuss  it  outside,"  and  in  the  street 
I  explained  the  French  cake-shop  system  to 
[  102  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

him,  to  his  deep  amusement.  He  had  only 
been  in  Paris  twenty-four  hours,  —  it  was  his 
first  visit,  and  this  was  his  first  appearance  in 
a  cake-shop.  He  could  not  get  over  the  "  ab- 
surdity," as  he  called  it. 

Many  of  the  boys  down  in  the  camps  near 
Chalons  have  had  the  same  difficulty  in  mas- 
tering French  ideas  and  traditions  regarding 
fruit  hanging  on  trees. 

You  know  the  American  boy's  point  of 
view  regarding  fruit  in  our  land,  where  or- 
chards are  big.  It  is  half  the  fun  of  being  a 
boy.  If  the  farmer  catches  the  young  ma- 
rauders at  work  he  chases  them  with  whip 
and  bad  words,  or  exercises  his  skill  in  throw- 
ing stones.  Boys  put  their  thumbs  to  their 
noses,  give  the  traditional  waggle  with  their 
fingers,  and  cut  for  it. 

Here  in  France  it  is  a  crime  to  steal  fruit, 
a  crime  for  which  one  can  be  arrested,  im- 
prisoned, or  fined  —  and  the  law  is  enforced. 
Until  the  harvest  is  over  one  cannot  even 
pick  up  an  apple  from  the  ground  to  which 
it  has  fallen  from  a  tree  overhanging  the 
road,  without  risk  of  being  punished.  At 
a  certain  date,  fixed  by  the  commune,  the 
town-crier  beats  his  drum  and  announces  the 
harvest  over,  and  after  that  date,  fruit  not 
harvested  can  be  picked  up. 

Of  course  the  American  boys  had  never 
heard  of  this  when  they  came.  They  know 
all  about  it  now.  Some  of  them  have  had 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

the  fact  very  forcibly  impressed  on  their 
minds,  to  their  deep  disgust. 

"What,"  exclaimed  one  youngster,  "we 
have  come  over  to  fight  for  these  people, 
and  they  won't  let  us  pick  up  an  apple? 
What  rot!  "  And  it  was  just  there  that  one 
young  American  had  it  emphatically  brought 
home  to  him  that  he  had  not  come  over  here 
to  "  fight  for  these  people,"  but  to  fight  for 
his  own  liberty,  and  that  "  these  people  "  had 
really  been  fighting  for  him  for  three  years, 
and  he  must  hurry  up  and  get  ready  to  "  go 
in  it"  before  "these  people"  were  too  ex- 
hausted. I  suppose  it  is  absurd  to  put  it  that 
way,  because  they  are  far  from  done  up  yet, 
although  if  there  were  not  something  almost 
superhuman  in  them,  they  would  be. 

Here  we  have  been  occupied,  all  of  us,  in 
seeing  what  could  be  done  to  dress  the  chil- 
dren for  school  this  winter. 

It  is  going  to  be  a  hard  winter. 

Many  of  these  serious,  thrifty  women  have 
larger  families  than  you  think.  We  have 
over  sixty  families  in  the  commune  who  have 
more  than  three  children.  There  is  one  at 
Joncheroy  of  eight,  the  oldest  only  twelve  — 
and  three  pairs  of  twins.  They  run  together 
in  summer,  a  dirty,  gay,  barelegged,  bare- 
footed troop,  each  in  one  ragged  garment, 
doing  their  little  chores,  picking  up  brush- 
wood and  dragging  it  home,  with  the  tiniest 
tot  trotting  after  them.  But  when  school  be- 

[    104  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

gins,  according  to  the  French  school  regula- 
tions, they  must  be  cleaned  and  combed,  and 
shod,  and  I  assure  you  they  always  are.  But 
it  is  hard  work.  Of  course  the  French  tra- 
dition that  puts  all  public  school  children 
into  the  uniform  black  aprons  is  a  great  help. 

In  the  three  years  since  the  war  broke  out 
many  of  these  women  have  had  to  spend 
their  savings.  Many  of  them,  with  that 
French  love  of  owning  land  of  which  I  have 
written  you,  have  invested  their  savings  in 
that  way.  A  great  many  of  them  own  an 
extra  house  which  they  rent  for  150  fr.  to 
250  fr.  a  year.  But  no  rents  have  been  paid 
since  the  war  began,  and  they  can't  eat  their 
houses,  and  would  die  before  they  would 
sell.  These  are  things  that  don't  show  on 
the  surface,  and  no  one  complains.  How 
can  they  when  the  refugees  we  always  have 
with  us  emphasize  the  fact  that  we  who  have 
not  lost  our  homes  are  lucky.  So  it  was  only 
when  it  was  time  for  the  school  to  open  that 
it  was  discovered  how  many  children  had  no 
shoes,  and  the  communal  caisse  de  bienfai- 
sance  nearly  empty.  However,  the  Ameri- 
cans came  to  our  assistance,  and  the  children 
went  to  school. 

Our  food  problem  is  going  to  be  a  hard 
one.  So  far  as  I  am  personally  concerned  it 
is  better  than  it  was  last  year,  for  I  have  a 
greater  variety  of  vegetables  and  plenty  of 
apples,  and  there  again  the  women  of  the 

[  105  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

States  have  generously  helped  with  con- 
densed milk  for  the  children  and  old  people 
and  with  large  quantities  of  rice  and  prunes 
and  sugar  and  such  things.  So  you  see  that 
far  away  as  I  am  from  you  in  this  quiet  place 
where  we  are  always  looking  at  the  war,  I 
can  still  bear  witness  that  the  loving  hearts 
in  the  States  are  ever  on  the  watch  for  our 
needs.  If  it  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to 
receive  —  and  I  know  it  is  —  there  must  be 
many  in  the  States  who  are  happy  in  these 
days  of  giving  with  both  hands  and  full 
hearts. 

Tell  me,  —  over  there,  are  you  all  for- 
getting, as  we  are,  how  it  used  to  be  before 
this  war  came?  One  thing  I  know,  people 
who  expect  when  this  is  over  to  come  back  to 
the  France  of  before  the  war  are  going  to  be 
mightily  disillusioned.  The  France  of  the 
old  days  is  gone  forever.  I  believe  that  all 
over  the  world  it  will  be  the  same.  We  none 
of  us  shall  get  back  to  that,  but  I  have  faith 
to  believe  that  we  are  turning  our  faces 
towards  something  much  better.  If  we  are 
not,  then  all  the  great  sacrifice  has  been  in 
vain. 

It  is  getting  cold  and  late,  so  this  must 
answer  for  to-day. 

I  hope  this  time  I  have  talked  about  our 
boys  enough  to  suit  you,  though  I  am  sure 
you  will  always  be  calling  for  "  more." 

[   106  ] 


XII 

November  I,  1917 

IT  would  be  laughable,  if  it  were  not 
tragic,  for  me  to  recall  how  many  times  in 
the  last  thirty-nine  months  I  have  said  "  these 
are  the  worst  days  of  the  war."  Well,  each 
month  takes  a  step  forward  in  endurance, 
and  each  step  forward  bears  witness  to  what 
we  can  endure,  if  we  must.  Possibly  the 
future  holds  worse,  but  we  don't  know  it. 

The  desertion  of  Russia  tries  our  patience 
even  here  in  this  quiet  place.  What  must  it 
be  like  "  out  there"?  Of  course  the  Allies 
have  got  to  show  great  indulgence  to  Russia 
—  it  is  that,  or  flinging  the  nation  —  with  its 
great  territory,  undeveloped  resources  and 
future  wealth  —  into  the  hands  of  Germany. 
As  it  is,  we  can't  do  much  except  be  patient 
with  them  —  and  arrange  the  matter  after 
we  get  through  licking  Germany. 

Though  I  know,  as  I  have  known  from 
the  first,  that  we  were  going  to  do  it,  I  don't 
deny  that  I  study  the  map  to-day  with  a  nerv- 
ous dread  of  what  is  before  us  on  the  road. 
It  becomes  us  to  do  that.  I  own  to  trembling. 
Why  not?  We've  got  the  first  results  of 
the  Russian  downfall  —  the  terrific  drive  on 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

Italy,  and  the  loss  of  all  they  won  in  the 
spring  —  just  so  much  work  to  do  over 
again. 

Don't  imagine  for  one  moment  that  I  think 
that  these  things  are  disastrous.  I  don't. 
But  there  is  no  use  denying  that  they  are  — 
unfortunate,  and  that  the  loss  of  so  many 
men,  so  much  material,  and  worst  of  all,  the 
methods  by  which  it  is  done,  are  mightily 
upsetting.  It  stirs  still  deeper  the  pacifist 
sets  and  the  cowards  —  and  cowardice  has 
no  race.  It  sets  the  socialists  running  amuck. 
It  disturbs  the  army,  of  course,  and  that's 
the  worst  of  it.  But  can  you  wonder?  I 
repeat  what  I  wrote  you  in  a  recent  letter, 
which  you  evidently  had  not  received  when 
you  wrote  the  one  now  before  me  —  received 
yesterday,  and  dated  October  5th,  —  about 
the  time  I  must  have  been  writing  to  you  of 
my  visit  to  Juilly,  —  that  the  political  up- 
heaval is  not  so  important  as  you  seem  to 
fear. 

Anyway,  it  has  comic  opera  episodes. 
Here  is  one. 

Leon  Daudet,  who,  if  he  did  not  open  the 
ball,  led  the  most  important  figure  in  the 
dance,  having  dealt  out  domiciliary  visits  to 
a  number  of  prominent  politicians,  in  true 
revolutionary  spirit,  got  the  same  thing 
wished  on  him.  In  a  counter  attack  he  was 
accused  of  preparing  a  royalist  plot  to  over- 
throw the  republic.  Of  course,  it  never  has 
[  '08  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

been  any  secret  that  he  would,  if  he  could. 
He  does  not  love  the  present  republic.  Lots 
of  honest  French  people  don't.  Amelie 
does  n't.  She  is  more  royalist  than  the  king. 
But  though  Leon  Daudet  is  no  respecter  of 
accepted  reputations,  and  has  no  bump  of 
reverence,  he  is  no  fool,  and  he  is  a  far  too 
loyal  Frenchman,  and  too  ardently  anxious 
for  an  Allied  victory,  to  undertake  any  such 
stupid  and  impossible  thing  as  a  "  restora- 
tion," in  these  days  of  desperate  fighting. 
The  accusation  against  him  took  the  form 
of  the  statement  that  a  depot  of  arms  des- 
tined to  put  a  royalist  party  in  fighting  trim 
was  found  in  his  office.  The  depot  of  arms 
was  proved  to  be  one  of  those  ornamental 
panoplies  in  which  men  delight  as  a  decora- 
tion. This  contained  —  among  other  things 
—  five  revolvers  of  various  patterns,  a  dag- 
ger in  a  sheath,  two  harmless  weapons 
marked  as  souvenirs  of  a  royalist  plot  of 
other  days  —  perhaps  that  of  Deroulede  in 
the  time  of  Felix  Faure's  death  —  two  coup 
de  poing  Americain,  and  half  a  dozen  old 
pistolets  of  ancient  history  —  a  pretty  arma- 
ment to  equip  royalist  conspirators  in  these 
days  of  the  soixante-qulnze  and  the  hand- 
grenade.  Writers  of  comic  opera  ought  to 
take  notice.  Paris  laughed,  and  so  would 
an  audience.  One  thing  is  sure.  Daudet  has 
scored  the  first  laugh.  It  looks  as  if  he 
would  score  something  more  serious.  We 

[    109   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

may  see  a  procession  of  men  whose  faces 
have  been  more  or  less  familiar  to  the  pub- 
lic, and  whose  names  are  not  unknown  in 
New  York,  up  against  a  wall  at  Vincennes, 
with  a  firing  squad  in  front  of  them.  I  for 
one  hope  so,  for  the  good  of  the  future. 


XIII 

November  26,  1917 

HERE  we  are,  almost  into  December;  one 
could  have  no  doubt  of  it,  it  has  been  so 
cold,  and  I  have  absolutely  no  real  fuel.  We 
have  actually  done  what  little  cooking  there 
is  over  a  fire  of  chips.  Did  you  ever  try  to 
do  that?  I  suppose  you  have  when  you 
camped  out.  That  is  a  different  thing.  I  'd 
adore  to  have  you  see  Amelie.  She  arrives 
with  her  felt  shoes  —  high  ones  —  in  her 
sabots.  She  has  a  knitted  bolero  over  her 
wrapper,  a  long  knitted  sweater  over  that, 
and  a  big  ulster  to  top  her  off,  and  a  knitted 
cap  on  her  head.  She  does  the  cooking  — 
such  as  it  is  —  in  that  attire.  Of  course  this 
means  a  fire  for  a  couple  of  hours  in  the 
morning  —  the  rest  of  the  day  no  fire  at  all, 
—  and  cold  suppers.  It  means  going  to  bed 
with  the  dark,  and  putting  on  mittens  to 
read  in  bed.  In  this  inventive  age,  I  do  wish 
some  ingenious  person  would  devise  an  auto- 
matic book-holder,  which  would  not  only 
hold  the  book  at  any  angle,  according  to  the 
light  needed,  but  turn  the  pages. 

I  'd  love  to  give  you  an  atmospheric  pic- 
ture of  what  my  little  cold  house  looks  like, 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

when  I  come  downstairs  in  the  morning.    But 
piercing  chill  —  though  it  is  actually  visible  - 
cannot  be  pictured. 

Of  course  I  don't  expect  this  condition  to 
last.  I  've  cords  and  cords  of  wood  ordered. 
Some  of  it  will  come,  I  suppose,  some  day. 

In  all  ways  that  I  could  I  provided  for 
this.  I  am  done  up  in  flannel.  I  wear  noth- 
ing but  velveteens,  and  am  never  without  a 
fur.  I  run  about  out  of  doors  all  I  can  — 
only  it  is  so  muddy.  I  have  tried  every  year 
to  put  sand  on  the  garden  paths,  but  have 
never  been  able  to  get  it  hauled  from  the 
He  de  Villenoy.  If  I  only  had  had  that,  I 
could  follow  what  sun  there  is  about  the 
house. 

To  sadden  us  all  a  little,  our  ambulance 
has  been  closed,  as  are  all  the  formations  of 
less  than  fifty  beds,  —  question  of  heat  and 
light.  The  tiny  hospital  has  been  a  source 
of  great  interest  and  diversion  to  all  of  us. 
Ever  since  people  knew  it  was  here,  every 
one  of  the  American  organizations  and  a 
great  number  of  private  people  in  the  States 
have  taken  a  kindly  interest  in  it  —  the  Red 
Cross,  the  Comite  pour  les  Blesses  Francais, 
and  so  many  others,  like  Mrs.  Griggs  of  New 
York,  whose  name  became  very  familiar  to 
nurses  and  poilus,  especially  after  she  visited 
them.  In  fact,  the  little  Quincy  hospital, 
which  always  flew  the  Stars  and  Stripes  on 
all  American  fete  days,  was  by  its  American 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

friends  beautifully  equipped  and  never 
lacked  for  anything. 

The  boys  were  very  happy  there.  I  can't 
tell  you  how  they  love  being  nursed  in  a  small 
ambulance.  There  is  something  so  much 
more  intime,  especially  when  they  are  con- 
valescent, and  can  not  only  sit  out  in  the 
garden,  but  go  to  their  meals  in  the  huge 
light  refectory  of  the  patronage  of  the  town 
—  a  clean,  square  room,  with  well-scrubbed 
deal  tables  about  three  sides,  and  the  won- 
derful cook  —  herself  a  war  widow  —  pre- 
siding over  the  big  stove  at  the  other  end, 
and  all  the  white-clad  nurses,  including  the 
directress  herself,  distinguished  by  her  blue 
veil,  presiding  over  the  service.  Needless 
to  say,  the  sort  of  cooking  they  got  was  quite 
different  from  that  possible  in  the  huge  hos- 
pitals, and  they  appreciated  it. 

Well,  it  is  closed,  alas!  and  its  history 
entered  in  the  record  of  the  commune.  We 
shall  all  miss  it. 

As  its  end  was  not  foreseen,  there  was  con- 
siderable material  left  over  —  canned  food, 
condensed  milk,  as  well  as  all  the  sheets  and 
clothing.  So,  three  days  after  the  closing  — 
the  commune  having  politely  asked  my  con- 
sent—  the  town-crier  beat  his  drum  at  the 
cross-roads,  and  informed  the  people  of  the 
two  communes  that  the  wives  of  men  at  the 
front,  war  widows,  and  the  refugees  were 
invited  to  present  themselves  at  the  Maine 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

next  day,  when  the  Maire  would  distribute 
"  les  restes  des  dons  Americains  "  remaining 
at  the  ambulance.  So  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
were  hung  over  the  door  of  the  Mairie,  and 
the  distribution  was  made. 

No  one  is  going  to  feel  the  vide  this  will 
make  in  our  daily  lives  as  much  as  Made- 
moiselle Henriette,  who,  after  three  years  of 
arduous  daily  service,  finds  herself  idle,  and, 
what  she  minds  more,  dressed  as  a  civilian. 

I  imagine  that  we  shall  not  keep  her  here 
long.  She  has  always  consoled  herself  for 
her  humble  position,  while  longing  for  a 
front  line  hospital,  with  the  fact  that  her 
work  was  hard.  So  there  is  small  prob- 
ability of  her  reconciling  herself  to  idleness. 

This  morning  I  had  a  splendid  bonfire  — 
burned  up  all  the  asparagus  bushes  in  Pere's 
garden.  It  was  smoky  work,  but  I  got  warm. 
Now  I  am  going  to  plant  tulips,  and  pot 
geraniums.  This  last  is  a  joke.  I  do  it  every 
year,  but  I  rarely  save  any.  I  have  no 
proper  place  to  put  them  away.  I  have  tried 
every  place  in  the  house  and  out,  so  you  can 
guess  at  the  kind  of  cold  we  have  here.  This 
year  I  have  less  space  than  usual,  as  the 
arrangements  for  the  winter  cantonnements 
are  more  extensive  than  they  used  to  be.  I 
have  had  to  clear  out  the  cellar  on  the  north 
side,  where  I  have  always  kept  coal  and 
wood,  to  make  a  place  there  for  twenty  sol- 
diers. So,  if  I  get  fuel,  it  will  have  to  go 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

into  the  one  on  the  west  side,  where  I  keep 
my  garden  stuff. 

We  have  had  no  cantonnement  yet,  though 
there  is  a  big  one  down  the  hill  at  Couilly 
and  St.  Germain. 

Yesterday  I  saw  these  men  for  the  first 
time.  I  went  over  to  Voulangis  by  train,  and 
Amelie  drove  me  to  the  station.  On  the 
route  nationale  I  met  several  soldiers  stroll- 
ing up  the  hill  in  a  uniform  that  I  did  not 
know,  —  far  the  smartest  French  soldiers  I 
had  ever  seen,  —  dark  blue  (almost  black) 
snug-fitting  knee-breeches,  tight  tunics,  brown 
leggings  and  belts  and  black  berets.  Just 
before  we  got  to  the  foot  of  the  hill  I  heard 
music,  and  as  we  turned  into  Couilly  we 
found  the  street  crowded,  and  saw,  advanc- 
ing from  St.  Germain  toward  the  bridge  over 
the  Morin,  which  separates  the  two  villages, 
a  big  military  band  filling  the  street  from 
sidewalk  to  sidewalk,  the  sun  shining  on  their 
brass  instruments  as  the  trumpeters  whirled 
them  in  the  air. 

It  was  a  new  experience  for  Ninette.  I 
don't  believe  she  had  ever  seen  anything  like 
it  in  all  her  long  life.  As  it  was  impossible 
to  pass,  I  got  out  and  went  across  the  bridge 
on  foot.  I  had  to  thread  my  way  through 
the  crowd,  among  whom  were  a  great  num- 
ber of  poilus  in  the  same  uniform,  so  I  took 
the  first  opportunity  to  ask  what  regiment  it 
was,  to  be  told  —  the  Chasseurs  Alpins.  So 

[  us  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

I  have  seen  them  at  last,  and  a  regiment 
wearing  a  fouragere. 

When  I  reached  home  that  night  —  I 
drove  from  Voulangis  —  I  found  Amelie  just 
putting  Ninette  up.  I  had  left  her  at  two 
o'clock.  I  returned  at  seven.  When  I 
asked  where  she  had  been,  she  told  me  that 
she  had  put  Ninette  in  the  shed  at  the  coal 
man's,  and  followed  the  band  to  the  square  to 
hear  the  music,  —  the  square  is  just  across 
the  road,  —  and  that  Ninette  had  enjoyed 
the  music,  in  fact  she  had  danced  all  the  time, 
and  was  so  tired  that  it  had  taken  her  nearly 
an  hour  and  a  half  to  climb  the  hill.  I  sus- 
pect that  Amelie,  who  adores  dancing, 
judged  Ninette  by  herself. 

The  atmosphere  is  rather  vibrating  here. 
All  this  defeatist  propaganda  is  trying  to  our 
nerves  and  our  tempers.  It  is  logical  enough, 
but  it  is  ringing  the  death  knell  of  socialism 
among  the  farmers.  The  real  truth  of  the 
tension,  is,  of  course,  the  Russian  situation. 
There  has  been  so  much  sentimentality  about 
Russia,  and  so  much  ignorance,  and  every 
day  seems  to  bring  its  own  special  disillusion. 
At  the  time  of  the  abdication  of  the  Czar, 
the  event  was  given  considerable  dignity 
here.  Later,  when  the  menace  of  the  sepa- 
rate peace  began  to  loom  up,  with  its  libera- 
tion not  only  of  the  soldiers  on  the  Russian 
frontier,  but  of  the  supposed-to-be  millions 
of  German  prisoners,  optimists  argued  that 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

the  Germans  who  were  in  Russia  at  the  time 
of  the  revolution  would  be  more  likely  to 
sow  revolution  in  Germany  than  docilely  re- 
enter  the  shambles.  Error  again. 

My  own  head  gets  confused  at  times. 
Can  you  wonder  that  these  people  about  me 
cannot  see  straight?  We  have  all  blundered 
so.  I  cannot  help  asking  myself  if  we  shall 
blunder  on  to  the  end.  I  really  get  weary 
of  hearing  the  peace  terms  of  the  Allies  dis- 
cussed. I  know  that  it  has  to  be,  that  it  is 
absolutely  necessary,  since  the  days  of  secret 
diplomacy  are  over,  that  the  truth  of  what 
the  Allied  nations  are  struggling  for  —  and 
must  have  —  should  be  kept  eternally  before 
the  eyes  of  the  world  —  lest  they  forget. 
But  I  long  so  to  think  of  nothing  but  licking 
the  Germans,  and  talking  after  that  is  done. 
There  are  moments  when  I  feel  that  every 
one  of  us  —  women  and  children  as  well  as 
men  —  ought  to  be  marching  out  towards 
that  battle-line  —  if  only  to  die  there.  I  am 
laughing  while  I  write  that  sentence,  for  I 
have  a  vision  of  myself  limping  along,  carry- 
ing a  gun  in  both  hands  —  I  could  not  lift 
it  with  one  —  and  falling  down,  and  having 
to  be  carefully  stood  up  again.  We  mere 
lookers-on  encumber  the  earth  at  this  epoch 
—  the  epoch  of  the  young  and  the  active. 

There  was  a  time  when  we  used  to  talk 
of  such  things  as  nobility  and  chivalry.  Both 
are  with  us  still.  Poets  and  painters,  ro- 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

mance  writers  and  dramatists  have  glorified 
both  in  the  wars  of  the  past,  and  shrined 
them  under  a  halo  of  immortality.  The 
future  will  do  that  for  this  war. 

I  am  getting  terribly  impatient  of  words 
—  of  everything,  in  fact,  but  deeds.  I  am 
beginning  to  feel  as  Amelie  does.  The  other 
day  there  was  a  criticism  of  a  military  opera- 
tion in  the  English  parliament,  and  she  said, 
impatiently:  "Well,  if  I  were  Haig  I  would 
simply  reply,  '  If  you  don't  like  the  way  I  am 
doing  this  thing,  just  get  down  off  your  cush- 
ioned seats,  and  come  out  and  face  the  guns 
yourselves.' ' 

She  does  not  know  whether  the  benches 
in  the  House  of  Commons  are  cushioned  or 
not.  For  that  matter,  neither  do  I.  It  is  a 
short-sighted  point  of  view,  but  I  often  feel 
the  same  way  myself. 


XIV 

December  20,  191 J 

NEARLY  a  month  since  I  last  wrote.  So  I 
suppose  all  through  January  I  shall  be  getting 
letters  of  reproach  from  you.  I  can't  help 
it,  and  I  Ve  not  an  excuse  to  throw  at  you,  — 
simply  had  nothing  to  write  about.  Things 
are  happening  every  day,  everywhere,  but 
I  am  not  writing  a  history  of  the  war,  and 
nothing  happens  here.  We  are  simply  hold- 
ing on  and  smiling,  and  I  suppose  we  shall 
continue  to  do  that  until  the  boys  from  the 
States  are  in  real  fighting  trim. 

The  only  piece  of  news  at  my  house  is  that 
my  little  kitty,  Didine,  is  dead,  and  buried  on 
the  top  of  a  hill  in  Pere's  garden  under  a 
white  lilac  bush.  It  is  absurd  to  grieve  in 
these  days  for  a  cat,  but  he  was  the  only 
affectionate  cat  I  ever  knew.  I  miss  him  ter- 
ribly, especially  in  the  evenings,  when  he 
always  sat  on  my  knee  while  I  read. 

My  English  friends  at  the  cantine  of 
Meaux  have  moved  on  toward  the  front  to 
a  place  called  Serche,  near  Baisne,  in  the 
Aisne,  in  the  part  of  the  territory  liberated 
last  March.  There  they  have  a  wonderful 
foyer  for  two  thousand  soldiers,  a  cantonne- 


royer  re 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

ment  —  library,  concert  hall,  tennis  courts, 
tea  rooms  —  in  fact  everything  which  can 
help  the  soldiers  to  feel  at  home  and  cared 
for. 

I  had  a  letter  from  them  yesterday,  telling 
me  that  they  had  arrived  safely  with  their 
saddle-horse  and  their  dog,  and  that  they 
had  a  royal  reception,  that  they  had  found 
their  little  house  all  ready,  —  a  pretty  de- 
mountable structure  —  for  everything  there 
had  been  destroyed,  —  painted  green,  and 
most  attractively  placed.  The  letter  added, 
'*  There  were  flowers  everywhere  —  even 
bouquets  in  each  of  our  bedrooms  —  but, 
alas !  there  were  no  wash  hand-bowls." 

I  loved  that.    It  is  so  adorably  French. 

I  am  sure  that  you  are  just  as  much  im- 
pressed as  we  are  with  the  idea  that  the  Eng- 
lish have  taken  Jerusalem.  Shades  of  Rich- 
ard Coeur  de  Lion !  Just  think  of  General 
Allenby  marching  his  army  piously  into  the 
Holy  City,  and  writing  his  name  in  history 
along  with  St.  Louis  and  all  the  bands  of 
Crusaders.  Yet  we  are  all  too  occupied  with 
nearer  things  to  do  more  than  turn  our  eyes 
in  that  direction,  give  a  thought  to  the  stir- 
ring visions  it  calls  up,  and  then  mentally  re- 
turn to  the  nearer  battle-field. 

I  am  going  up  to  Paris  for  Christmas.  I 
am  urged,  and  there  seems  to  be  no  reason 
why  I  should  not,  or  for  that  matter,  why 
I  should.  I  will  write  as  soon  as  I  return, 

[     120    ] 


XV 

January  1 

AGAIN  it  is  more  than  three  weeks  since 
I  wrote,  but  this  time  I  really  am  not  to 
blame. 

I  wrote  you  that  I  was  going  up  to  Paris 
to  spend  Christmas.  I  fully  intended  to  be 
back  here  before  New  Year's  Day,  which  is 
the  great  French  fete  day.  It  was  very  cold 
when  I  left  here,  and  every  day  the  mercury 
dropped  a  little  lower,  until  it  began  to  snow, 
with  the  result  that  I  was  not  able  to  leave 
Paris  until  January  5th. 

I  had  telegraphed  Amelie  that  I  would  be 
back  on  Thursday,  the  27th,  but  the  weather 
was  so  bad  that  it  was  impossible,  and  I  sent 
word  that  I  would  let  her  know  when  to 
expect  me  —  as  soon  as  the  snow  stopped. 
Several  days  went  by  before  it  seemed  wise 
to  start,  and  then  when  I  telegraphed, 
Amelie  replied  that  I  was  to  stay  where  I 
was  until  our  roads  were  in  better  condition, 
that  the  hill  was  a  sheer  sheet  of  ice,  and  that 
neither  the  horse  nor  the  donkey  could  pos- 
sibly climb  it. 

So  there  I  was  stranded  in  Paris.  By  the 
Friday  after  New  Year's,  I  began  to  feel 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

pretty  desperate,  when  suddenly  there  came 
a  call  on  the  telephone,  and  there  was  Made- 
moiselle Henriette  in  Paris.  She  said  she 
had  just  arrived,  and  that  she  was  going  back 
in  the  morning;  that  the  21 5th  infantry  had 
arrived  and  was  cantonned  in  the  commune, 
that  the  Captain  was  going  to  send  a  military 
wagon  to  the  station  in  the  morning  to  fetch 
her,  and  that  she  had  told  Amelie  that  she 
should  bring  me  back,  if  I  wanted  to  come, 
and  of  course  I  did. 

So  Saturday  at  noon  I  was  in  the  train, 
where  I  discovered  that  the  wagon  was  to 
meet  us  at  Esbly,  not  Couilly.  Mademoi- 
selle Henriette  was  a  little  upset  when  she 
saw  my  surprise.  You  see  she  is  young  and 
vigorous,  and  in  good  weather  she  never 
thought  of  taking  the  train  at  Couilly.  She 
gaily  footed  it  to  Esbly,  five  miles  away.  She 
had  not  even  thought  how  much  easier  it 
would  have  been  for  the  horses  to  take  us 
from  Couilly  —  two  miles  of  hill  instead  of 
five. 

At  Esbly  we  found  the  wagon  awaiting  us. 
You  ought  to  have  seen  me  boosted  into  it. 
I  sat  on  a  box  in  the  back,  so  that  the  adju- 
tant who  drove  and  Mademoiselle  Henriette 
could  shelter  me  a  bit,  —  we  had  no  covers. 
My,  it  was  cold!  The  wind  blew  a  gale 
from  the  north.  The  road  was  a  sheet  of 
ice,  and  the  poor  horse  pulled  and  tugged 
and  slipped.  The  steepest  part  of  it  was 
[  122  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

through  the  town  of  Conde,  and  I  never  real- 
ized how  steep  that  road  was  until  I  saw  the 
horse  being  led  and  pushed  up  it  that  terribly 
cold  day. 

I  reached  home  about  frozen,  to  find  the 
house  looking  gay,  and  a  huge  fire  in  the 
salon,  —  but  no  Amelie.  They  told  me  she 
had  supposed  we  were  coming  by  Couilly  and 
had  gone  on  foot  to  meet  us,  with  rugs  and 
foot-warmer.  She  got  back  about  ten  min- 
utes after  we  did  —  in  such  a  state  of  perspi- 
ration, lugging  the  big  foot-warmer,  full  of 
hot  charcoal,  wrapped  in  a  big  carriage-rug. 
I  expected  her  to  fuss,  after  making  a  trip  of 
nearly  four  miles  on  foot,  carrying  such  a 
bundle.  But  she  did  not.  I  sat  behind  a 
screen  by  the  fire  and  thawed  out.  In  spite 
of  the  fire  the  house  was  a  refrigerator. 
Amelie  told  me  there  had  been  hot-water 
bottles  in  my  bed  all  day,  as  the  sheets  were 
so  cold  she  was  afraid  I  would  get  a  conges- 
tion; I  did  not.  But  I  slept  with  a  hot-water 
bottle  in  my  arms  and  a  hot  brick  in  each  of 
the  bottom  corners  of  my  bed. 

The  presence  of  the  21 5th  makes  the  place 
very  gay  again.  It  is  a  crack  regiment  from 
the  north.  Most  of  the  men  and  fully  half 
of  the  officers  are  from  Lille  —  men  who 
have  practically  had  no  news  from  their 
families  since  August,  1914. 

I  had  a  war  tea  the  Sunday  after  I  got 
home  —  six  officers  and  Mademoiselle  Hen- 

[  123  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

riette  sitting  round  the  table  —  and  we 
talked  morals  and  history,  philosophy  and 
literature  —  no  war. 

There  are  some  charming  men  in  the  regi- 
ment—  men  who  in  civil  life  are  bankers, 
lawyers  and  manufacturers  —  almost  no  pro- 
fessional soldiers.  In  the  ranks  are  some  of 
the  most  amusing  poilus  I  have  yet  encoun- 
tered. For  instance,  there  is  a  bombardier, 
with  a  gold  bomb  on  his  sleeve,  though  I 
neglected  to  ask  what  it  meant.  He  speaks 
English,  and  when  he  heard  that  there  was 
an  English-speaking  woman  in  the  commune 
he  felt  that  he  ought  to  come  and  present  his 
respects.  He  came,  and  gave  me  a  few  as 
hearty  laughs  as  I  have  had  since  the  war 
began. 

He  was  a  queer  type.  He  was  pure 
French  —  born  in  Lille  of  French  parents, 
but  taken  to  England  when  he  was  very 
young  by  a  widowed  mother,  sent  to  school 
there,  and  his  home  is  still  at  St.  Helier, 
where  he  left  a  wife  and  baby. 

I  wish  you  could  have  heard  him,  in  the 
broadest  cockney  English,  tell  the  tale  of  his 
difficulties  in  getting  himself  enrolled  in  the 
French  army. 

Born  in  France,  brought  up  in  England, 
never  knowing  a  word  of  French  until  he  was 
out  of  school,  he  had  never  taken  out  English 
naturalization  papers,  and  never  intended  to. 

A  few  years  before  the  war  broke  out — 

[     124    ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

at  the  age  of  eighteen,  he  left  Jersey,  and 
came  to  France  to  offer  to  do  his  military 
service.  He  spoke  almost  no  French,  and 
fell  in  with  an  officer  who  did  not  care  to 
bother  with  him,  as  he  did  not  seem  to  be 
very  well  able  to  explain  what  he  wanted. 
He  did  not  have  the  proper  papers.  He  did 
not  know  what  he  needed,  or  how  to  get 
them.  He  only  knew  that  he  had  arrived  at 
the  age  when  a  Frenchman  ought  to  be  in  a 
caserne.  No  one  else  seemed  to  care  a  rap 
whether  he  was  or  not,  so  he  went  back  to 
Jersey,  with  his  feelings  very  much  hurt.  He 
had  wanted  to  do  his  duty.  No  one  cared. 
So  he  went  back  to  his  farm,  took  off  his  store 
clothes,  put  on  his  blouse,  and  practically 
felt,  "  Devil  take  my  native  land." 

Well,  not  long  after  that  it  looked  as 
though  the  devil  was  going  to  obey  him. 
Once  more  he  went  to  Lille.  Again  he  pre- 
sented himself.  This  time  war  had  begun, 
and  he  was  looked  upon  as  "  suspect."  How 
dare  a  man  speaking  English  and  French 
equally  atrociously,  and  with  no  proper 
papers,  claim  to  be  a  Frenchman?  This 
time  he  was  madder  still.  The  military  au- 
thorities did  not  know  anything  about  him. 
Apparently  they  did  want  him.  A  sympa- 
thetic drill  sergeant  suggested  that  if  he  were 
anxious  to  fight  there  was  always  the  Foreign 
Legion,  and  no  questions  asked. 

"  Np,  I  '11  be  hanged  if  I  do,"  he  said  to 

[   125   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

himself.  "  I  '11  enlist  in  the  English  army." 
So  off  he  went  to  London.  But  in  London 
it  was  necessary  to  lie.  If  he  told  the  re- 
cruiting officer  there  that  he  was  born  a 
Frenchman,  of  course  he  could  not  take  him. 
He  began  by  saying  he  was  English,  born  at 
St.  Helier,  but  he  was  not  a  neat  liar,  and  he 
soon  got  so  twisted  up  that  he  was  frightened, 
broke  down,  and  told  the  truth;  explained 
that  he  had  twice  been  to  France,  but  as  he 
had  no  birth  certificate,  was  not  even  sure 
of  the  date,  etc.,  had  never  lived  in  France 
since  he  was  a  baby,  had  no  idea  how  to 
go  to  work  to  put  himself  en  regie,  so,  as  he 
wanted  to  fight,  he  had  thought  that  England 
might  take  him. 

The  recruiting  officer  in  London  was  sym- 
pathetic. He  took  down  the  facts,  and  told 
the  lad  to  go  home  and  wait  until  the  matter 
could  be  straightened  out.  But  the  war  was 
a  year  old  before  he  was  finally  called,  and 
entered  as  the  rawest  kind  of  a  raw  recruit. 

The  story  itself  is  amusing,  but  you  should 
have  heard  him  tell  it  —  half  in  cockney  Eng- 
lish, and  half  in  barrack-room  French.  It 
was  killing.  I  heard  more  words  that  were 
new  to  me  than  I  have  heard  in  an  age.  I 
wanted  to  stop  him  every  two  minutes,  and 
either  get  a  slang  dictionary  or  call  for  a 
word-of-mouth  translation.  But  he  talked  so 
fast,  and  gesticulated  so  that  I  managed  to 
get  it.  I  nearly  upset  myself  trying  not  to 

[  126  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

laugh  while  he  described  his  early  days  of 
hurried  training.  He  visualized  himself 
standing  the  first  day  with  the  contents  of  his 
sac  about  his  feet,  trying  in  vain  to  remem- 
ber the  names  of  all  the  articles,  and  to  get 
them  back  compactly  into  the  sac,  from 
which  the  drill  corporal  had  tumbled  them. 
He  was  even  funnier  when  he  told  about  his 
efforts  to  conquer  military  etiquette,  —  to 
salute  the  proper  person  and  recognize  his 
rank  at  sight,  never  to  salute  when  he  had 
on  no  head  covering,  for  every  one  to  him 
was  "  mister  "  and  he  had  never  even  heard 
of  the  shades  in  salutation. 

But  if  he  was  awkward  in  many  ways  com- 
pared to  some  of  his  comrades,  the  moment 
he  got  a  bomb  or  a  grenade  into  his  hand  it 
was  another  matter.  There  he  had  the  ad- 
vantage of  having  played  English  sports  all 
his  life.  I  never  realized  that  he  was  a  fine 
type  until  I  saw  him  giving  a  lesson  in  bomb- 
throwing  out  in  the  fields.  When  he  straight- 
ened up  and  swung  his  arm  into  the  air,  I 
appreciated  that  he  was  a  fine  type  and 
graceful. 

The  intense  cold  shows  signs  of  moderat- 
ing. My  tulips  are  beginning  to  come  up. 

At  last  Caillaux  is  in  the  Sante,  waiting  to 
be  tried  for  high  treason.  Well,  it  is  a  com- 
fort. He  ought  to  be  left  there  in  silence, 
isolated  and  forgotten,  until  the  war  is  over. 
But,  alas !  although  this  is  really  no  time  for 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

an  operation  on  the  great  scandal  and  clear- 
ing up  the  terrible  plotting  of  which  he  is 
possibly  the  centre,  it  has  to  be  done.  We 
have  been  bringing  into  force  all  kinds  of 
laws  to  prevent  holding  him  in  silence. 
Merely  the  habeas  corpus  is  enough.  Some 
of  our  most  prized  reforms  are  inconvenient 
at  times,  aren't  they? 


[  1*8 


XVI 

February  I, 

THIS  morning  it  looks  to  me  as  if  all  we 
have  been  dreading  since  the  Russians  de- 
serted us  is  likely  to  come  true.  One  thing 
is  certain.  The  German  offensive  is  not 
going  to  be  long  retarded,  and  what  is  surer 
still  is  that  it  is  going  to  be  preluded  by  a  des- 
perate German  effort  to  terrorize  the  civil- 
ians, and  break  the  morale  en  arriere.  Of 
course  that  is  another  bit  of  false  psychol- 
ogy. There  is  nothing  which  pulls  the 
French  together  like  a  blow. 

Of  course  you  know  that  Paris  has  enjoyed 
a  strange  immunity  from  air  raids.  While 
England  has  been  attacked  night  after  night, 
Paris  has  been  spared.  I  'd  hate  to  tell  you 
of  all  the  theories  I  have  heard  exploited  in 
explanation.  I  Ve  had  some  theories  myself. 
There  were  people  who  believed  that  the 
defences  of  Paris  could  not  be  passed  by  the 
German  air  fleet.  I  had  for  a  time  the  illu- 
sion that  perhaps  this  was  true,  until  I  was 
told  one  day  by  an  aviator  that  the  German 
fleet  in  the  air  could  attack  Paris  whenever  it 
was  ready,  and,  that  while  aerial  methods 
of  attack  had  made  great  progress  in  the 

[  129  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

past  three  years,  no  method  of  defence  was 
by  any  means  a  sure  protection. 

On  dit  that  the  reason  for  the  persistent 
action  against  England  is  explained  by  the 
hesitation  of  the  French  to  follow  England's 
example  and  give  the  Germans  tit  for  tat  by 
attacking  the  Rhine  towns.  As  the  German 
civilians  are  much  more  nervous  than  either 
the  French  or  English  it  was  necessary  to 
terrorize  the  latter  if  possible,  —  and  it  has 
not  worked.  Also,  in  spite  of  the  reluctance 
of  the  French,  they  have  lately  been  follow- 
ing England's  sturdy  lead.  It  has  got  to  be 
done.  The  curse  will  fall  on  the  nation 
which  began  it  —  Germany. 

I  imagine  that,  when  the  cable  carried  the 
news  to  you  yesterday  that,  after  a  long 
freedom  from  air  raids,  Paris  had  been  seri- 
ously attacked  Wednesday  night,  and  that 
the  raid  had  lasted  well  into  Thursday  morn- 
ing, you  little  dreamed  that  I  had  stood  in 
my  garden,  and  saw  —  or  rather  heard, — 
it  all.  But  I  did,  and  I  can  assure  you  that 
it  was  an  experience  that  I  never  expected  to 
have. 

On  Wednesday  night  I  went  to  bed  early. 
I  must  have  got  to  sleep  about  eleven.  If 
I  do  not  sleep  before  midnight  there  is  a 
strong  possibility  of  my  not  sleeping  at  all, 
—  one  of  my  old-age  habits.  My  first  sleep 
is  very  sound. 

I  wakened  suddenly  with  the  impression 

[   130  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

that  I  heard  some  one  running  along  the  ter- 
race under  my  window.  I  sat  up  and  listened, 
half  believing  that  I  had  been  dreaming, 
when  I  saw  a  ray  of  light  in  the  staircase  — 
my  door  was  open. 

I  called  out,  "Quiestla?" 

Amelie's  trembling  voice  replied,  "  C'est 
moi,  madame,"  and  I  had  the  sudden  wide 
vision  of  possibilities,  which  I  am  told  is  like 
that  of  a  drowning  man,  for  I  realized  that 
she  was  not  coming  to  me  in  the  middle  of 
the  night  for  nothing,  when  she  appeared  in 
the  doorway,  all  dressed,  even  to  her  hood, 
and  with  a  lighted  candle  in  her  hand. 

"Oh,  Madame,"  she  exclaimed,  "you 
were  sleeping?  You  heard  nothing?"  And 
at  that  moment  I  heard  the  cannon.  "  Oh, 
mon  Dieu,  Madame,  what  is  happening  out 
at  the  front?  It  is  something  terrible,  and 
you  slept! " 

I  listened. 

"That  is  not  at  the  front,  Amelie,"  I  ex- 
claimed. "  It  is  much  nearer,  in  the  direction 
of  Paris.  It's  the  guns  of  the  forts."  At 
that  moment  a  bomb  exploded,  and  I  knew 
at  once.  "It's  the  Gothas,  Amelie.  Give 
me  something  to  put  on.  What  time  is  it?" 

"  Nearly  midnight,"  she  answered. 

It  took  me  less  than  ten  minutes  to  dress 
-it  was  bitterly  cold  —  and  I  wrapped  my- 
self in  my  big  military  cloak,  put  a  cap  over 
my  tumbled  hair,  and  a  big  fur  round  my 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

neck,  grabbed  my  field  glasses,  and  went  out 
into  the  orchard,  which  looks  directly  across 
the  fort  at  Chelles  in  the  direction  of  Paris. 

It  was  a  beautiful  night,  cold  and  still, 
white  with  moonlight,  and  the  sky  spangled 
with  stars.  For  three  hours  we  stood  there, 
—  Pere  and  Amelie  and  I,  —  listening  to  that 
bombardment,  seeing  nothing  —  ignorant  of 
what  was  going  on.  The  banging  of  the 
guns,  the  whirring  of  the  moteurs,  the  ex- 
ploding of  shells  seemed  over  us  and  around 
us  —  yet  we  could  see  nothing.  It  only  took 
us  a  little  while  to  distinguish  between  the 
booming  of  the  guns  at  Chelles  and  Vau- 
clure,  endeavouring  to  prevent  the  Gothas 
from  passing,  by  putting  up  barrage  firing, 
and  the  more  distant  bombs  dropped  by  the 
flyers  that  had  arrived  near  or  over  the  city. 

It  was  all  the  more  impressive  because  it 
was  so  mysterious.  At  times  it  seemed  as  if 
one  of  three  things  must  have  been  happen- 
ing—  either  that  we  were  destroying  the 
fleet  in  the  air,  or  they  were  destroying  us, 
or  that  Paris  was  being  wiped  out.  It  did 
not,  during  those  hours  that  I  stood  there, 
seem  possible  that  such  a  cannonading  could 
be  kept  up  without  one  of  these  results.  It 
was  our  first  experience,  and  I  assure  you 
that  it  was  weird.  The  beauty  of  the  night, 
the  invisibility  of  the  machines,  our  absolute 
ignorance  of  what  was  going  on,  the  hum- 
ming of  the  moteurs  overhead,  the  infernal 

[  132  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

persistent  firing  of  the  cannon  and  the  terrific 
explosion  of  the  bombs,  followed,  now  and 
then,  by  a  dull  glow  in  the  west,  was  all  so 
mysterious.  As  the  long  minutes  crept  by, 
we  began  to  notice  details,  —  for  instance, 
that  the  air  battle  moved  in  waves,  and  we 
easily  understood  that  meant  several  squad- 
rons of  German  machines,  and  we  could 
finally,  though  we  could  see  nothing  dis- 
tinctly, realize  by  the  firing  that  they  ap- 
proached, met  the  guns  of  the  forts  —  passed 
over  or  through  the  barrage  curtain,  or  re- 
tired, and  tried  again,  then,  having  dropped 
their  bombs,  swept  more  to  the  west,  and 
gave  place  to  another  attacking  squadron. 
They  seemed  finally  to  retire  in  the  direction 
of  Compiegne  and  Soissons,  pursued  by  gun 
fire  from  the  forts. 

It  was  four  o'clock  when  we  finally  went 
into  the  house,  leaving  silence  under  the  stars 
and  the  moonlit  night.  Amelie  stirred  up 
the  embers,  threw  on  a  little  wood,  put  the 
screen  around  me,  made  me  a  hot  drink  and 
I  sat  there  to  wait  for  daybreak.  It  seemed 
strange  to  go  out  of  doors  in  the  morning, 
and  see  nothing  changed,  after  such  a  night. 

We  waited  impatiently  for  the  morning 
papers.  They  contained  nothing  but  the 
mere  fact  that  Paris  had  been  bombarded  by 
Gothas.  There  had  been  victims  and  dam- 
age, but  in  comparison  with  the  effort,  the 
result  had  been  unimportant.  Out  of  the 

[  133  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

twenty-eight  German  machines  which  had 
.taken  part  in  the  attack,  only  one  had  been 
brought  down  —  that  fell  near  Vaires,  not 
far  from  Chelles. 

This  was  our  first  experience  of  the  sort, 
and  I  could  not  help  feeling  puzzled  that  so 
much  heavy  firing  could  go  on,  and  out  of 
twenty-eight  machines  only  one  be  touched. 
But  that  was  only  my  first  impression.  I 
knew  when  I  came  to  think  it  over  that  it  was 
not  easy  in  the  night  to  do  more  than  try  to 
keep  the  enemy  off.  The  more  I  thought  it 
over  the  more  I  became  convinced  that  up  to 
now  there  is  no  very  effective  way  of  prevent- 
ing night  air  raids. 

My  letters  which  came  this  morning  gave 
me  some  details  of  the  raid,  saying  enough  to 
let  me  guess  what  parts  of  the  city  were 
reached.  They  penetrated  as  far  as  the 
Avenue  de  la  Grande  Armee,  and  dropped 
bombs  also  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Halles,  and 
the  Gare  de  Lyons.  Every  one  writes  that 
Paris  is  perfectly  calm,  although  it  is  evident 
that  the  government  —  judging  by  the  rapid- 
ity with  which  it  is  preparing  systematic  pro- 
tection for  its  population,  —  believes  this  to 
be  but  the  beginning  of  another  desperate 
attempt  to  break  the  morale  of  the  country. 

There  are  people  at  Voisins  who  claim  to 
have  seen  the  Gotha  that  fell  at  Vaires.  Per- 
haps they  did.  I  did  not. 

To-day  has  been  a  chilling  day.     This 

[  134  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

morning  we  went  on  bread  rations  —  one 
pound  a  day.     It  is  enough  for  me. 

I  have  planted  my  climbing  sweet  peas.  I 
ought  to  have  done  it  in  October.  I  don't 
know  why  I  didn't,  any  more  than  I  really 
know  why  I  bothered  to-day.  One  must  not 
let  one's  self  grow  idle.  I  know  that.  But 
I  hate  having  life  become  mechanical.  The 
strain  is  beginning  to  tell,  and  I  hate  to  feel 
that. 


[   135   ] 


XVII 

February  20, 

THREE  weeks  again.    Sorry. 

Mademoiselle  Henriette  is  getting  ready 
to  go  to  Salonique,  where  nurses  are  needed. 
Ever  since  our  ambulance  closed  she  has  been 
very  restless,  and  it  grows  on  her.  She  had 
been  so  accustomed  to  wearing  a  uniform, 
with  three  years'  service  brisques,  on  her  left 
arm,  and  to  feeling  herself  a  part  of  the 
great  army  of  defence,  that  to  walk  about  in 
civilian  clothes  seems  to  her  stupid,  and  I 
don't  wonder. 

Her  discontent  culminated  the  other  day, 
when  we  had  a  very  interesting  cantonne- 
ment.  The  regiment  arrived  at  nine  o'clock 
one  evening,  and  there  was  a  military  mass 
at  the  little  church  at  Quincy  at  nine  the  next 
morning.  One  of  the  captains,  a  priest,  and 
among  the  bravest  men  in  a  brave  regiment, 
preached  a  remarkable  sermon.  Every  one 
went,  and  of  course  the  little  church  was  not 
a  quarter  big  enough.  The  soldiers  knelt  on 
the  green  in  front  of  both  doors,  and  even  in 
the  road  for  the  elevation.  It  was  a  very 
touching  sight.  The  regiment  had  just  come 
out  of  the  firing  line. 

[  136  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

Poor  Henriette,  in  her  tailored  dress  and 
hat,  felt  terribly  out  of  it,  —  she  who,  a  few 
months  ago,  would  have  been  kneeling 
among  the  soldiers  in  her  white  coiffe,  with 
the  red  cross  on  her  forehead.  She  was  near 
to  tears  when  she  remarked  that  no  one  in 
the  regiment  knew  that  she,  too,  had  given 
three  years  of  her  life  to  the  cause.  So  she 
must  get  back  into  the  ranks,  and  it  looks  like 
Salonique,  —  a  hard  post,  but  it  means  sac- 
rifice, and  that  is  what  she  wants. 

Thus  far  this  month  the  weather  has  been 
delightful,  and,  though  mornings  and  eve- 
nings have  been  chilly,  there  have  been  many 
days  when  I  have  not  needed  a  fire,  and  be 
sure  I  am  grateful  for  that. 

On  St.  Valentine's  Day  I  went  up  to  Paris 
—  just  to  change  my  ideas.  I  had  not  been 
up  since  that  terribly  cold  spell  which  ended 
early  in  January.  So  I  had  not  seen  the  city 
since  the  big  air  raid.  Every  one  had  writ- 
ten me  details  about  the  changed  appearance 
of  the  city  —  details  as  often  comic  as  other- 
wise. I  was  curious  to  see  for  myself.  Curi- 
osity killed  a  cat,  you  know. 

Well,  there  are  changes,  of  course,  but  one 
has  rather  to  hunt  for  them.  Everywhere  — 
if  one  looks  for  them  —  large  white  cards 
are  hung  on  doorways.  On  them  are  printed 
in  large  black  letters  the  words  "  ABRIS  — 
60  personnes"  or  whatever  number  the 
cellars  will  accommodate,  and  several  of  the 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

underground  stations  bear  the  same  sort  of 
sign.  These  are  refuges  designated  by  the 
police,  into  which  the  people  near  them  are 
expected  to  descend  at  the  first  sound  of 
the  sirenes  announcing  the  approach  of  the 
enemy's  air  fleet. 

More  striking  than  these  signs  are  the 
rapid  efforts  being  made  to  protect  some  of 
the  more  important  of  the  city's  monuments. 
They  are  being  boarded  in,  and  concealed 
behind  bags  of  sand.  You  'd  love  to  see  it. 
Perhaps  you  have,  already,  for  I  am  sure 
that  some  enterprising  photographer  is 
busy  preserving  the  record.  Sandbags  are 
dumped  everywhere,  and  workmen  are  fever- 
ishly hurrying  to  cover  in  the  treasures,  and 
avoid  making  them  look  too  hideous.  They 
would  not  be  French  if  they  did  not  try,  here 
and  there,  to  preserve  a  fine  line. 

The  most  important  group  on  the  facade 
of  the  Opera  is  thus  concealed.  You  remem- 
ber it,  —  on  the  north-east  corner — Car- 
peaux's  "  La  Danse."  Of  course  you  do, 
because  don't  you  remember  we  went  and 
looked  at  it  together  at  the  time  Helene  de 
Racowitza's  suicide  recalled  the  woman  who 
posed  for  the  figure  of  Apollon  in  the  group 
—  she  who  caused  the  duel  in  which  Ferdi- 
nand Lasalle  was  killed,  and  whose  affair 
with  him  inspired  George  Meredith's 
'Tragic  Comedians."  Poor  Helene,  I  im- 
agine she  was  a  much  more  feeble  character 

[  138  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

than  Meredith  drew  her,  but  she  was  a 
beauty  of  the  Third  Empire  sort,  and  the 
shadow  of  great  men  fell  over  her,  and  made 
her  immortal  as  an  idea,  although  she  out- 
lived husbands,  and  lover,  youth,  beauty,  and 
prestige.  Still,  one  cannot  pity  too  much  the 
woman  over  whom  a  famous  author  threw 
a  mantle  of  greatness  during  her  lifetime. 
It  was  unfortunate  that  she  could  not  have 
lived  up  to  it.  She  tried  hard  at  the  time 
that  she  wrote  "  Princesse  et  Comedienne," 
but  the  difficulty  was  that  in  her  memoirs  she 
got  herself  terribly  mixed  up  with  the  liter- 
ary portrait  Meredith  drew  of  her. 

The  Rude  group  on  the  Arc  de  Triomphe, 
the  only  real  work  of  art  in  its  ornamenta- 
tion, has  also  gone  into  retirement,  and  so 
have  the  doors  on  the  west  front  of  Notre 
Dame,  and  famous  equestrian  Louis  XIV 
groups  from  Marly-le-Roi,  which  adorn  the 
entrance  to  the  Champs-Elysees,  and  the  en- 
trance to  the  Tuileries  garden  opposite.  The 
latter  have  funny  little  chalets  built  over 
them. 

You  might  think  that  rough  work  of  this 
sort  would  disfigure  the  city  we  love.  But 
on  my  word,  it  does  not.  I  really  believe  I 
love  it  all  the  better,  —  dear,  menaced  Paris. 
Perhaps  it  is  because  it  has  been  and  still  is, 
in  danger,  that  we  realize  anew  the  immortal 
charm.  I  cannot  put  into  words  just  how  I 
feel  about  it,  but  I  imagine  you  will  under- 

[  139 1 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

stand.  Every  one  of  those  hoardings  and 
all  these  sacks  of  sand  seem  like  italics  to 
draw  my  attention  to  how  dear  it  all  is  to 
me.  We  are  so  prone  to  take  the  beauty  we 
find  in  life  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Possibly  you,  who  have  not  seen  Paris  for 
four  years,  might  find  more  changes  than  I 
do,  who  have  watched  it  all  the  time. 

I  often  wonder  how  it  would  look  to  you, 
who  only  knew  it  in  its  better  days.  I  have 
no  way  to  establish  a  standard.  I  have  seen 
the  change,  of  course  —  but  only  little  by 
little,  and  never  losing  any  of  the  charm.  If 
it  is  really  much  altered  I  don't  know  it. 
Just  as  one  has  to  shake  one's  self  hard  to 
realize  the  slow  changes  which  time  brings  to 
the  faces  of  those  whom  we  love,  so  am  I 
unconscious  of  the  changes  the  war  has 
brought  on  Paris.  I  know  that  in  some  parts 
of  the  city  there  are  fewer  people  in  the 
streets.  I  know  that  in  the  centre  of  the  city 
one  finds  still  much  movement,  though  it  has 
changed  its  character.  The  soldiers  of  all 
nations  have  done  that.  To  me  it  has  never 
looked  more  beautiful  than  it  does  in  these 
days.  Its  loveliness  simply  strikes  terror  to 
my  heart  for  fear  of  what  might  be,  now 
that  the  Germans  are  so  desperate. 

My  visit  was  not  altogether  a  peaceful 
one. 

Perhaps  I  never  told  you  that  one  of  my 
Paris  friends,  whenever  she  thinks  I  am  stay- 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

ing  away  from  town  too  long,  has  a  habit 
of  writing  to  me,  and  promising  that  if  I 
will  come  up  to  town  they  will  try  and  ar- 
range an  air  raid  for  me.  I  never  had  hap- 
pened to  be  there  during  one.  She  used  to 
say,  "  You  really  have  seen  so  much,  that  it 
would  be  a  pity  not  to  be  in  one  of  these 
raids  before  the  war  ends."  Of  course,  that 
was  before  the  attack  of  January.  Since 
then,  there  has  been  no  need  to  arrange  such 
a  thing  merely  as  experience.  I  have  had  it. 

All  the  same;  they  brought  it  off  on  Sun- 
day night  —  the  lyth.  Thank  you,  I  did  not 
enjoy  it  at  all.  It  was  an  absolutely  in- 
effective raid,  as  far  as  doing  any  damage 
went.  But  we  did  not  know  that  while  it 
was  going  on.  I  would  not  have  believed 
that  so  much  noise  could  do  so  little  harm. 

Of  course  the  papers  tell  you  how  calm 
Paris  is.  It  is.  But  don't  let  that  lead  you 
to  suppose  that  an  air  raid  is  anything  but  a 
very  nasty  experience.  I  imagine  that  very 
few  people  are  afraid  of  death  to-day.  Few 
as  the  air  raids  have  been,  Parisians  have 
already  learned  that  the  guns  for  the  defence 
make  most  of  the  noise.  The  explosion  of 
the  bombs,  if  rarer,  is  a  more  terrible  sound. 
But  what  is  hard  to  bear,  is  the  certainty 
that,  although  you  are  safe,  some  one  else 
is  not. 

I  suppose  that  if  I  don't  tell  you  what  we 
did  and  how  we  passed  the  night,  you  '11  ask 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

me  later,  and  then  I  may  have  forgotten, 
or  had  first  impressions  overlaid  by  other 
events. 

Well,  Sunday  evening  we  had  just  gone  to 
bed.  It  was  about  ten  o'clock.  I  was  read- 
ing quietly  when  I  heard  a  far-off  wailing 
sound.  I  knew  at  once  what  it  was.  My 
hostess  and  I  tumbled  out  of  our  beds,  un- 
latched the  windows  so  that  no  shock  of  air 
expansion  might  break  them,  switched  off  all 
the  lights  and  went  on  the  balcony  just  in 
time  to  see  the  firemen  on  their  auto  as  they 
passed  the  end  of  the  street,  sounding  the 
"  Gare  a  vous"  on  their  sirenes,  —  the  most 
awful,  hair-raising  wail  I  have  ever  heard 
—  like  a  host  of  lost  souls.  Ulysses  need 
not  have  been  tied  to  the  mast  to  prevent  his 
following  the  song  of  this  siren! 

We  were  hardly  on  the  balcony,  when,  in 
an  instant,  all  the  lights  of  the  city  went  out, 
and  a  strange  blackness  settled  down  and 
hugged  the  housetops  and  the  very  sidewalk. 
At  the  same  instant  the  guns  of  the  outer 
barrage  began  to  fire,  and  as  the  night  was 
cold,  we  went  inside  to  listen,  and  to  talk. 

I  wonder  if  I  can  tell  you  —  who  are  never 
likely  to  have  such  an  experience  —  how  it 
feels  to  sit  inside  four  walls,  in  absolute  dark- 
ness, listening  to  the  booming  of  the  defence, 
and  the  falling  of  bombs  on  an  otherwi&e 
silent  city,  wakened  out  of  its  sleep. 

It  is  a  sensation  to  which  I  doubt  if  any 

[  142  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

of  us  get  really  accustomed  —  this  sitting 
quietly  while  the  cannon  boom,  and  now  and 
then  an  avion  whirs  overhead,  or  a  venture- 
some auto  toots  its  horn  as  it  dashes  to  a 
shelter,  or  the  occasional  voice  of  a  gen- 
darme yells  angrily  at  some  unextinguished 
light,  or  a  hurried  footstep  on  the  pavement 
tells  of  a  passer  in  the  deserted  street,  brav- 
ing all  risks  to  reach  home. 

I  assure  you  that  the  hands  on  the  clock- 
face  simply  crawl.  An  hour  is  very  long. 
This  raid  of  the  iyth  lasted  only  three  quar- 
ters of  an  hour.  It  was  barely  half-past 
eleven  when  the  berloque  sounded  from  the 
hurrying  firemen's  auto  —  the  B-flat  bugle 
singing  the  "all  clear,"  —  and,  in  an  instant, 
the  city  was  alive  again,  —  noisily  alive. 
Even  before  the  berloque  was  really  audible 
in  the  room  where  we  sat,  I  heard  the  people 
hurrying  back  from  the  abris,  —  doors 
opened  and  banged,  windows  and  shutters 
were  flung  wide,  and  the  rush  of  air  in  the 
gas  pipes  told  that  the  city  lights  were  on 
again. 

I  don't  find  that  the  people  are  at  all  panic- 
stricken.  Every  one  hates  it.  But  every 
one  knows  that  the  chances  are  about  one 
in  some  thousands,  —  and  takes  the  chance. 
I  know  of  late  sitters-up,  who  cannot  change 
their  habits,  and  who  keep  right  on  playing 
bridge  during  a  raid.  How  good  a  game  it 
is  I  don't  know.  Well,  one  kind  of  bravado 

r  H3  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

is  as  good  as  another.  Among  many  people 
the  chief  sensation  is  one  of  boredom  —  it  is 
a  nuisance  to  be  wakened  out  of  one's  first 
sleep;  it  is  a  worse  nuisance  to  have  proper 
saut  de  lit  clothes  ready;  and  it  is  the  worst 
nuisance  of  all  to  go  down  into  a  damp  cellar 
and  possibly  have  to  listen  to  talk.  But,  oh 
my!  what  a  field  for  the  farce-comedy  writer 
of  the  days  after  the  war.  It  takes  but  little 
imagination  to  conjure  up  the  absurdities  of 
such  a  situation  that  the  play-maker  can  com- 
bine in  the  days  when  these  times  can  be 
looked  at  from  a  comic  point  of  view. 

I  came  back  from  town  on  the  i8th.  I 
found  everything  quiet  here.  The  only  news 
is  that  my  hens  are  beginning  to  lay  —  but 
so  are  every  one's.  While  my  hens  did  not 
lay,  eggs  went  up  to  fifteen  cents  a  piece. 
To-day,  when  I  get  three  dozen  a  week,  I 
can  buy  them,  two  for  five  cents.  The  eco- 
nomics of  farming  get  me.  There  must  be 
a  way  of  making  hens  lay  all  the  year  round. 
It  is  to  be  one  of  my  jobs  next  year  to  learn 
the  trick. 


XVIII 

March  g,  1 918 

WELL,  we  have  been  having  some  very 
droll  weather,  and  the  weather  is  a  safe 
topic,  especially  when  you  seem  to  read  be- 
tween the  lines  of  my  letters  that  I  am  get- 
ting demoralized,  and  at  what  you  choose  to 
call  an  unnecessary  moment,  with  so  many  of 
"our  boys"  landing  every  week.  That's 
all  right,  but  though  they  are  here,  they  are 
not  ready,  and  there  you  are. 

But  weather? 

I  told  you  that  February  was  a  very  pretty 
month.  It  often  is  in  France.  We  had  some 
lovely  nights,  when  I  used  to  go  out  in  the 
moonlight,  and  look  up  in  the  starry  dome 
and  pick  out  the  constellations  I  knew.  But 
I  seemed  the  only  one  here  who  enjoyed 
them.  Every  clear  night  seemed  to  offer  an 
open  road  to  the  Gothas.  It  is  a  pity  to  live 
in  a  time  when  a  lovely  night  simply  stands 
for  a  menace.  As  long  as  the  February 
moon  lasted  Amelie  went  home  in  a  nervous 
tremble  every  evening.  She  simply  hates  the 
night  attacks,  although  there  is  not  the  least 
real  danger  here. 

The  thing  that  torments  me  is  the  feeling 

[   145  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

that  this  aerial  activity  presages  the  German 
offensive.  We  all  know  it  is  coming  —  our 
aeroplanes  have  announced  that  the  Germans 
are  concentrating  their  forces  on  our  front 
—  but  when  —  where  —  on  that  long  line? 
If  any  of  them  knows  at  headquarters,  they 
are  not,  naturally,  telling. 

I  am  afraid  that  no  one  was  sorry  when, 
on  the  first,  the  snow  began  to  fall.  It  lasted, 
off  and  on,  five  days.  Every  night  Amelie 
said,  as  she  closed  the  shutters,  "Well,  let 
us  get  a  good  night's  rest.  The  Gothas  can- 
not go  to  Paris  to-night."  When  it  ceased 
snowing,  early  Wednesday  morning,  there 
was  a  foot  on  the  ground.  But  the  sun  came 
out,  and  by  evening  there  was  no  snow  at 
all,  and  Amelie  was  sad  again. 

On  Thursday  —  that  was  the  yth, —  I 
worked  all  day  in  the  garden,  setting  out 
rose  bushes,  and  though  it  was  a  beautiful 
night,  everything  was  calm.  But  last  night 
was  a  trying  one.  It  began  earlier  than  the 
one  in  January,  and  it  did  not  last  as  long, 
but  it  was  worse  while  it  lasted.  It  was  only 
a  little  after  nine  o'clock,  and  I  was  on  the 
terrace,  and  the  house  was  not  shut  up,  when 
the  first  gun  of  warning  from  the  forts  was 
fired.  Some  one  up  the  hill  called,  "What's 
that?"  and  another  voice  replied,  "Paris." 

I  hurriedly  closed  my  shutters,  and  put 
out  the  lamp  I  had  just  lighted,  and  went 
into  the  garden  to  watch  and  wait. 

[  H6 1 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

The  battle  of  last  night  was  quite  different 
from  the  previous  ones.  This  time,  there 
were  no  aeroplanes  in  the  air,  except  the 
Bodies'.  The  forts  in  front  of  us  —  Chelles 
and  Vaujours  —  not  only  used  their  artillery 
to  put  up  a  barrage,  they  had  their  search- 
lights on  most  of  the  time,  and  sent  up  at 
intervals  a  series  of  fusees  eclair  antes  —  so 
pretty  as  they  followed  one  another  in  a 
line  —  they  were  usually  four  in  a  series  — 
and  now  and  then  a  rocket.  It  might  have 
been  fireworks  —  only  the  Gothas  went  right 
over  our  heads  in  three  distinct  waves,  flying 
so  low  in  an  early  evening,  not  at  all  dark, 
that  we  frequently  saw  them,  when  caught 
by  the  rockets  or  searchlights.  We  could 
not  be  sure  when  they  succeeded  in  passing, 
but  the  explosion  of  bombs  in  Paris  told  that 
soon  enough,  while  the  noise  of  the  machines 
over  our  heads  told  when  they  were  actually 
turned  back. 

I  must  tell  you  an  amusing  thing.  Amelie 
has  always  insisted  that  she  could  tell  a 
Boche  machine  by  the  sound  of  its  motejtr. 
Perhaps  she  can.  She  says  always,  "Listen, 
now!  Can't  you  hear  that  Boche?  His 
mote'tfr  grunts  just  like  a  pig"  (of  course 
this  is  funnier  and  more  significant  in  French 

—  comme  un  cochon),  "but  ours  make  music 

—  they    sing!"      Pretty    idea?      Well,    the 
beauty  of  it  is,  I  repeated  it  to  an  aviator  the 
other  day  as  a  joke.     He  looked  at  me  seri- 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

ously  and  replied,  <:  But  it  is  absolutely  true." 
Evidently  I  am  sometimes  stone  deaf. 

It  was  midnight  when  I  came  in,  and  that 
is  how  it  happens  that  I  am  writing  to  you 
very  early  in  the  morning  —  just  daybreak, 
because,  I  suddenly  decided,  in  a  sleepless 
night,  that  I  needed  a  change  of  scene.  The 
only  one  available  is  to  go  to  Paris,  and  talk 
it  over  in  English  instead  of  French.  So  I 
am  sending  these  few  words  for  fear  that  if 
I  am  detained  longer  than  I  plan  —  and  in 
these  days  one  never  knows  what  may  hap- 
pen—  there  will  not  be  again  too  long  a 
lapse  in  my  letters. 

Oh,  I  really  must  mention  the  British  going 
to  Jericho,  or  you  will  think  that  I  have  my 
eyes  so  fixed  on  local  things  that  even  my 
mental  vision  cannot  look  over  the  horizon 
line.  Nice  idea,  isn't  it  —  the  Australian 
cavalry  riding  into  Jericho  ?  We  Ve  wished 
Jericho  on  so  many  people  in  our  time  that 
it  is  comforting  to  think  that,  finally,  some 
one  has  really  gone  there  —  and  history  has 
recorded  it. 


XIX 

March  17,  1918 

YOUR  letter  just  received  remarks  that  I 
seem  to  do  a  deal  of  "gadding"  in  these 
days.  Well,  I  told  you  in  my  last  that  I  was 
going  again,  and  I  did.  I  went  the  day  I 
wrote  to  you,  —  that  was  the  9th,  and  came 
back  day  before  yesterday.  Apparently  I 
must  have  forgotten  to  tell  you  that,  after 
all  these  months,  the  Commander  of  the 
Fifth  Army  Corps  had  decided  to  give  me  a 
permis  de  circuler  good  for  three  months. 
That  is  how  it  happens  that  I  can  "  gad,"  as 
you  call  it.  I  am  afraid  that  you  cannot 
realize  just  what  it  means  after  years  of  such 
restrictions  as  I  had  to  support,  to  be  free 
to  move  without  explaining  each  time,  fixing 
the  date  a  fortnight  in  advance,  and  then 
waiting  in  uncertainty  as  to  whether  the 
simple  request  would  be  granted  or  not.  It 
inspires  one  to  move  on  a  bit,  when  it  is  not 
absolutely  necessary,  just  for  the  joy  of  feel- 
ing free. 

On  the  way  down  the  hill  to  Couilly  on 
Saturday,  the  day  I  left,  we  met  the  89th 
Infantry  marching  in  from  Lagny,  where 
they  had  been  resting  for  some  weeks,  to 

[    149  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

canton  on  our  hill,  and  I  was  half  sorry  that 
I  was  leaving,  especially  as  air  raids  are  of 
almost  nightly  recurrence,  and  Amelie,  who 
hates  them,  worries  when  I  am  away.  It  is 
useless  for  me  to  explain  to  her  that  in  town 
I  stay  in  a  part  of  the  city  which  is  practically 
safe  —  well  to  the  south-west,  in  an  apart- 
ment on  the  second  floor  of  a  six-story  build- 
ing. Bombs  which  fall  on  a  house  rarely  go 
through  more  than  three  stories,  and  those 
that  burst  in  the  street  seldom  damage  above 
the  first  floor.  Amelie  is  always,  in  these 
days,  looking  for  the  surprising  and  the  un- 
expected. I  fancy  she  would  feel  happier 
if  she  could  be  assured  that  at  the  first  sound 
of  the  alerte  I  would  make  for  an  abri  with 
an  electric  lamp  in  my  pocket,  a  camp-stool 
in  one  hand,  a  shovel  in  the  other,  and  a 
pickaxe  over  my  shoulder.  Then  there 
should  be  a  maid  behind,  with  a  bucket  of 
water,  a  boule  chande,  a  flask  of  cognac,  a 
cushion  for  my  back,  and  a  rug  for  my  knees 
—  in  fact,  "  all  the  comforts  of  home."  But 
she  knows  that  I  would  much  prefer  to  be 
killed  outright  than  suffocated  in  a  cave. 

As  I  had  anything  but  a  comfortable  time 
at  home  the  night  before  I  left,  I  really 
could  not  see  what  difference  it  made  where 
I  was.  One  side  of  the  tlr  de  barrage  seemed 
to  me  as  good  as  the  other,  though  I  will  con- 
fess that  I  prefer  to  listen  out  of  doors,  in 

[  150 1 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

the  air,  than  shut  up  in  a  room,  even  when 
honours  are  easy  as  to  danger. 

The  last  words  Amelie  said  to  me  were 
"  I  do  hope  the  Gothas  won't  go  to  Paris 
with  you  this  time."  But  they  did. 

However  I  had  a  good  night  Saturday, 
and  passed  a  quiet  Sunday,  resting  in  a  cosy 
room,  free  from  any  responsibility,  and  talk- 
ing about  anything  that  was  not  war,  and  I 
enjoyed  it.  But  I  paid  up  for  it  that  night, 
when,  just  as  I  was  getting  into  bed,  that 
abominable  sirene  went  wailing  through  the 
street,  and  almost  at  the  same  moment  the 
bombs  began  to  fall.  This  was  even  before 
we  heard  the  barrage,  and  then,  for  three 
long  hours  and  more,  the  cannon  boomed, 
the  machine  guns  spat,  and  the  bombs  ex- 
ploded. It  was  a  simply  infernal  racket. 

If  you  want  an  example  of  how  some  of 
the  simple  people  take  it,  here  is  one.  The 
bonne  in  the  house  where  I  visit  is  a  girl 
from  Nimes,  who  used  to  live  in  a  convent. 
Needless  to  say  that  she  is  very  religious. 
She  has  no  sense  of  fear.  Perhaps  she  does 
not  know  enough  to  be  afraid,  —  maybe  I 
wrong  her.  She  sleeps  in  the  top  of  the 
house.  The  only  thing  she,  who  loves  her 
bed,  hates,  is  being  waked  up.  Her  orders 
are  to  come  downstairs,  when  the  alerte  be- 
gins. But  she  rarely  does.  On  that  night, 
for  some  reason,  possibly  because  there  was 
a  bad  fire,  she  came  down.  The  house  was 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

chilly,  so  she  was  told  to  lie  on  the  sofa  in 
the  dining-room.  She  obeyed,  and  fell  asleep 
at  once,  and  peacefully  slept  right  through 
it  all. 

When  it  was  over  I  went  to  the  door  and 
called  her,  told  her  that  it  was  over,  and  that 
she  could  go  up  to  bed. 

She  rose,  sleepily,  looking  a  bit  dazed,  and 
then  said:  "Is  it  over,  Madame?"  Then 
she  piously  blessed  herself,  and  in  a  hurried 
voice,  just  as  you  have  heard  people  mur- 
mur their  prayers  sotto  voce,  she  added, 
"  God  pity  those  less  lucky  than  we  have 
been,"  and  went  back  to  bed.  I  am  positive 
that  she  was  asleep  in  five  minutes,  and  as  I 
already  know  those  who  claim  to  have  slept 
through  raids  it  may  be  possible  that  I  am 
wrong  about  people  not  becoming  accus- 
tomed to  them,  and  that,  if  they  go  on  fre- 
quently, we  may  all  sleep  right  through. 

I  suppose  that  you  know  that  the  govern- 
ment conceals,  as  far  as  possible,  all  the  dam- 
age done  by  these  air  raids.  The  newspapers 
give  no  details.  The  part  of  the  city  dam- 
aged is  never  mentioned.  The  official  an- 
nouncement contains  merely  the  fact  that  the 
raid  began  at  a  certain  hour,  that  there  was 
or  was  not  material  damage  done,  when  it 
ended,  and  whether  or  not  there  were  vic- 
tims. Of  course  the  people  in  the  vicinity 
hit  by  the  bombs  know,  and  the  muzzled 
newspapers  know,  but  you  would  be  sur- 

[  152  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

prised  at  the  small  excitement  there  is.  The 
object  of  the  silence  is,  of  course,  to  conceal 
from  Germany  the  result  of  these  raids. 
I  Ve  my  doubts  if  that  is  possible.  It  seems 
to  me  that  nothing  can  be  concealed  from 
them.  I  'm  not  sure  that,  in  some  diabolical 
way,  they  don't  know  what  I  am  writing  to 
you  this  very  minute.  But  if  the  reticence 
does  not  achieve  that  object,  it  proves  very 
effective  in  circumscribing  excitement,  which, 
under  the  old  reporting  methods,  would  have 
been  inevitable,  and  the  effects  of  the  raid  do 
not  become  the  one  topic  of  the  day's  con- 
versation in  the  streets.  This  raid  was  an 
especially  disastrous  one,  as  there  was  a  fire 
in  an  important  part  of  the  city.  Yet  it  was 
only  by  the  merest  accident  that,  forty-eight 
hours  later,  I  passed  through  the  famous 
quarter  which  was  most  damaged,  and  al- 
though it  was  wonderfully  cleaned  up,  —  the 
fire  department  goes  to  work  at  once,  —  and 
even  daylight  which  follows  the  raid  finds 
many  traces  removed  —  it  seemed  to  me  that 
for  half  a  mile  on  both  sides  of  the  Boule- 
vard St.  Germain,  where  it  runs  between 
the  government  buildings,  there  was  not  a 
whole  pane  of  glass  —  yet  there  was  no  ir- 
reparable harm  done,  and  the  loss  of  life 
was  not  heavy. 

Amelie  met  me  at  the  station  when  I  came 
home,  in  a  very  nervous  frame  of  mind.  She 
literally  yanked  me  out  of  the  train,  and 

[  153  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

said  emphatically:  "Well,  thank  God,  here 
you  are.  You  are  not  going  to  Paris  again 
until  these  raids  are  over.  It  makes  us  all 
too  nervous.  You  are  better  off  at  home." 

When  I  got  up  the  hill  and  saw  what  had 
happened  here  I  did  not  blame  her  for  being 
nervous,  although  I  confess  that  I  could  not 
see  that  one  place  was  any  improvement  on 
the  other.  Thirty  bombs  and  a  torpedo  or 
two  had  been  sprinkled  along  the  valley  from 
Vaires  to  Crecy-en-Brie.  A  big  bomb  fell 
in  the  field  on  the  other  side  of  the  route 
nationale,  and  made  a  hole  fifteen  yards 
square  and  nine  yards  deep.  Five  bombs 
fell  on  Bouleurs,  and  a  torpedo,  which  did 
not  explode,  fell  the  other  side  of  Quincy  in 
what  is  called  the  "  terre  noire."  The  bomb 
which  fell  near  the  chateau  shook  the  whole 
hill,  and  it  was  quite  evident  that  it  had 
shaken  Amelie's  nerves,  and  that  she  had 
not  recovered. 

The  result  is  that  there  is  a  general  fit  of 
trembling  everywhere,  and  it  is  the  fashion 
here  to  sleep  in  the  caves.  There  is  a  ma- 
chine gun  set  up  at  the  Demi-Lune,  the  water- 
mains  on  the  top  of  the  hill  —  the  Paris 
water  from  the  Ourcq  passes  there  —  have 
been  examined,  as  have  our  local  mains, — 
Couilly  has  running  water  —  and  hose  at- 
tached. The  firemen,  of  whom  I  have  never 
heard  before,  have  materialized.  All  this 
active  preparation  for  a  local  defence  ought 

[  154  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

to  calm  the  people,  but,  of  course,  it  does 
not.  It  only  emphasizes  the  fact  that  it  is 
necessary,  and  to  them,  waiting  so  long  in 
suspense  for  the  beginning  of  a  spring  ac- 
tion, seems  to  presage  hard  days. 

There  have  always  been  rigid  rules  about 
lights  here  from  the  first  air  raids,  so  long 
ago.  They  have  been  forgotten,  with  the 
result  that  thirty  people  were  fined  to-day 
for  uncovered  lights,  and  the  rules  are  made 
more  rigid  than  ever.  I  have  been  notified 
that  my  shutters  are  not  sufficient,  and  have 
to  hustle  to  get  some  sort  of  heavy  inside 
curtains  for  a  house  which  at  this  moment 
seems  all  doors  and  windows.  The  truth 
is,  the  part  of  my  house  where  the  lights 
show  is  the  guest  chamber,  never  used  except 
when  the  soldiers  are  here,  as  they  are  now. 

All  circulation  in  the  roads  after  dark  is 
forbidden.  Wagons  cannot  carry  lights,  nor 
foot-passenger  lanterns.  It  has  been  the 
habit  for  people  from  Couilly  to  come  run- 
ning up  the  hill,  lantern  in  hand,  to  watch 
the  raids  on  Paris  from  here,  and  there  is  a 
theory  that  it  was  these  lanterns  on  the  road 
which  drew  the  bombs  on  the  hill  Sunday. 
It  may  be,  but  as  there  was  a  big  cantonne- 
ment  of  troops  here  that  seems  a  better  ex- 
planation, while  it  is  not  unlikely  that  some 
of  the  Gothas  which  failed  to  get  through 
the  barrage,  not  wishing  to  return  to  their 
base,  carrying  their  bombs  with  them,  may 

[  155  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

simply  have   dropped  them   any  old  place. 
All  these  things  are  guesses,  of  course. 

The  weather  is  lovely.  I  am  getting  a  lot 
of  work  done  in  my  garden  —  among  other 
things,  sand  laid  in  all  the  paths,  —  after 
trying  for  four  years.  The  poilus  did  it  for 
me.  It  will  make  life  much  easier,  as  I  can 
walk  in  the  garden  in  winter.  It  will  also 
be  a  comfort  to  Amelie,  as  I  shall  not  track 
in  the  mud,  and  neither  will  Khaki  and  Dick. 


[  156  ] 


XX 

March  28,  1918 

CAN  it  be  less  than  a  fortnight  ago  that  I 
wrote  to  you?  My  letter-book  says  so,  but 
it  is  hard  to  believe.  I  seem  to  have  lived  a 
century  since. 

The  cables  have  told  you  the  mere  facts, 
of  course.  You  know  that  the  long-expected 
offensive  presaged  by  the  concentration  of 
the  German  hordes  from  the  Russian  fron- 
tier began  on  the  2ist,  when  they  were  flung 
against  our  lines,  from  Cherizy  in  the  north 
to  Panisiaux  Bois  in  the  south,  and  that,  in 
six  days,  the  Allies  have  lost  all  their  hard- 
earned  advances  of  three  years.  In  six  days 
all  the  sacrifices  of  three  years  have  been 
rendered  vain,  and  last  night  our  line  was 
sixty  miles,  in  some  places,  west  of  where  it 
had  been  on  the  morning  of  March  2ist.  In 
the  lost  land  are  the  scenes  of  so  much  hard 
fighting,  land  over  which  the  Allies  had  crept 
inch  by  inch  —  all  lost  in  six  days,  —  Peronne, 
Bapaume,  Ham,  Roye,  Noyon  and  oh!  how 
many  tragic  hilltops,  and  how  many  spots 
where  our  beloved  dead  lie  buried! 

But  even  though  you  read  these  things, 
you  have  no  idea  of  what  the  week  has 

[  157  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

meant  to  us  living  so  near  it,  to  us,  who,  day 
after  day,  have  followed  the  brave  boys  in 
the  advance,  and  felt,  as  they  felt,  that  no 
inch  of  ground  gained  could  be  lost  again. 

The  hours  of  those  first  days  will  always 
be  unforgettable  hours  of  tragedy.  I  have 
many  times  written  of  the  dread  we  have 
felt  of  some  such  thing  ever  since  the  Ger- 
mans were  in  a  position  to  remove  their  de- 
fensive army  from  the  east.  But  never,  in 
my  greatest  anxiety,  did  I  dream  of  this. 

March  2ist  was  a  beautiful  Thursday. 

Louise  and  I  were  working  in  the  garden. 
I  was  setting  out  pansies  in  the  bed  under  the 
elderberry  bushes,  on  the  side  of  the  hill. 

It  was  during  the  morning  that  I  began 
to  hear  far-off  guns,  but  I  took  little  notice, 
until  after  noon,  when  the  booming  became 
so  heavy  that  the  very  ground  in  which  I  had 
my  hands  seemed  to  tremble  under  me  —  or 
was  it  my  hands  that  were  trembling?  I 
don't  know. 

It  lasted  all  day,  and  the  guns  were  still 
thundering  when  I  went  out  on  the  lawn 
before  going  up  to  bed,  —  to  look  off  to  the 
north. 

At  intervals  I  heard  it  all  night,  and  once, 
in  the  night,  I  went  out  to  look,  and  could  sec 
the  lights  in  the  sky,  and  now  and  then  a 
rocket.  I  heard  the  voices  of  Pere  and 
Amelie,  and  knew  that  they  were  hanging 
out  of  their  window,  watching  the  north  also. 

[  158  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

I  cannot  tell  you  what  the  sleepless  sus- 
pense, and  the  waiting  for  the  morning  was 
like.  I  was  still  in  bed,  waiting  for  Amelie 
to  arrive  on  the  morning  of  the  22nd,  when 
I  heard  some  one  running  along  the  terrace, 
and  a  voice  called:  "Fous  etes  eveillee, 
Madame?" 

I  went  to  the  window. 

There  stood  my  next-door  neighbour, 
white  as  a  sheet. 

"  Oh,  Madame,"  she  cried,  "  the  Germans 
have  attacked  our  line  on  a  front  of  ninety 
kilometres.  We  are  retreating  on  the  whole 
line.  My  God,  my  God!"  And  she  went 
on  down  the  hill  to  carry  the  news  to  Voisins. 

Even  while  I  was  standing,  stupefied,  I 
heard  the  drums  beating  the  assemblage  gen- 
erale  in  Voisins,  for  the  89th  Infantry  are 
still  with  us. 

By  the  time  I  was  dressed  the  boys  were 
coming  in  relays  to  say  "  good-bye,"  and  to 
announce  that  the  camions  were  coming  at 
eleven. 

The  morning  was  a  repetition  of  that  of 
last  spring,  when  the  n8th  advanced  to 
Soissons. 

It  was  impossible  to  work.  No  one  could. 
It  was  just  after  noon  that  the  camions 
began  to  arrive. 

As  the  trees  are  not  yet  leaved  out,  I  could 
see,  from  the  lawn,  the  long  line  of  grey 
camions  drawn  up  at  equal  spaces  from  each 

[  159  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

other  all  along  the  route  to  Meaux,  and,  at 
intervals,  the  soldiers,  sac  an  dos,  standing 
in  groups  ready  to  mount  to  their  places. 

It  was  two  o'clock  when  they  began  to 
move,  and  from  that  time,  night  and  day, 
until  Sunday  morning  of  the  24th,  the  line  of 
advancing  troops,  cannon,  artillery,  field- 
kitchens, —  was  absolutely  unbroken.  They 
occupied  all  the  roads  about  us,  even  that  on 
the  canal.  Along  the  route  nationale  and  the 
route  du  canal  of  Meaux  they  moved,  rum- 
bling at  top  speed,  about  ten  yards  apart, 
and  along  the  route  towards  Esbly,  through 
Conde,  wound  all  the  horse-drawn  vehicles 
and  the  cavalry.  Overhead  hummed  the 
aeroplanes,  keeping  watch. 

Every  day  the  news  that  came  was  bad. 
Every  day  the  Allies  were  being  driven  back, 
and  last  night  they  were  within  twelve  miles 
of  Amiens,  already  evacuated. 

To  make  the  whole  situation  sadder,  by 
Sunday  night,  the  refugees,  driven  for  the 
second  time  from  their  homes,  began  to  pass 
through  over  all  our  routes.  That  is  what 
brings  panic.  It  would  carry  it  as  far  as 
Paris,  if  Paris  had  to  see  it,  but  in  the  city 
the  movement  is  concentrated  about  the  Gare 
du  Nord,  and  the  Gare  de  1'Est,  and  there 
the  organization  is  wonderful.  In  the  entire 
evacuation  I  am  told  that  the  American  boys 
are  doing  heroic  work. 

All  the  week  I  have  fought  against  panic 

1 60 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

here.  Faith,  you  understand,  I  am  sure,  had 
received  a  hard  blow.  Fear  seemed  sud- 
denly to  have  taken  root  everywhere,  a  thing 
I  have  never  seen  here  before,  —  fear  that 
the  Germans  were  too  strong  in  numbers 
still,  and  the  Americans  not  only  unprepared, 
but  not  yet  numerous  enough  to  turn  the  bal- 
ance, for  in  the  first  few  days  before  Amiens 
the  Allies  fought,  at  times,  one  to  six,  and 
some  say,  at  an  even  greater  disadvantage. 

To  make  the  situation  all  the  harder  for 
the  civilians  —  for  they  had  to  get  hold  of 
their  nerves,  and  they  did  it,  —  the  Germans 
threw  all  their  resources  against  us  at  once, 
not  only  at  the  front  against  the  armies,  but 
against  the  civilians  in  the  rear;  it  was  the 
very  exaggeration  of  their  warfare  of  terror. 

On  Saturday  morning,  the  third  day  of  the 
battle,  —  at  about  half-past  seven  —  as  I  was 
sitting  in  the  garden  listening  to  the  guns, 
I  heard  an  explosion  in  the  direction  of 
Paris,  and,  while  I  was  wondering  what  it 
could  mean,  the  church  bells  all  along  the 
valley  began  to  ring  out  an  alerte.  I  had 
not  heard  a  sound  even  resembling  a  moteur 
in  the  air  and  the  sound  from  Paris  was  not 
in  the  least  like  that  made  familiar  by  the 
air  raids.  Besides,  the  Germans  have  never 
attempted  an  air  raid  by  daylight,  although 
the  English  have.  It  could  not  have  been 
more  than  a  half  hour  later  that  there  was 
another  sound  exactly  like  the  first  in  the 

[   161   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

same  direction.  But  this  time  there  was  no 
alerte,  and  there  was  no  noise  of  the  guns  for 
the  defence  of  the  city  against  avions.  At 
regular  intervals  all  day,  while  we  read  the 
trying  news  from  the  front,  —  eighty  divi- 
sions of  German  soldiers  thrown  against  the 
British  —  we  heard  that  sound  from  Paris 
repeated. 

About  half-past  four  in  the  afternoon 
Amelie's  nephew,  a  lad  of  sixteen,  who 
works  in  an  ammunition  place,  arrived  from 
Paris  —  his  train  over  an  hour  and  a  half 
late  —  with  the  news  that  Paris  was  being 
bombarded  from  the  air  —  that  the  attack 
began  a  little  after  seven  —  that  there  had 
been  no  alerte  until  after  the  bombardment 
began,  and,  that  up  to  the  time  he  left,  no 
German  avions  had  been  heard  by  the  listen- 
ing posts  anywhere,  and  yet  once  in  about 
fifteen  minutes  a  bomb  fell. 

That  was  all  very  mysterious. 

I  asked  him  if  much  damage  had  been 
done,  and  if  there  was  any  panic. 

He  said  he  had  heard  that  several  people 
had  been  killed,  but  there  was  no  panic. 
When  the  sirenes  went  through  the  streets 
after  the  first  bomb,  people  ran,  as  usual,  for 
the  abris,  but  as  silence  followed  they  gradu- 
ally came  out  into  the  streets,  and  stood 
about,  gazing  up  into  the  air.  No  sign  of 
any  air  machine  —  any  Boche  —  had  been 
seen.  When  the  lad  left  Paris  there  was  a 

162 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

spirit  of  curiosity  rather  than  alarm,  and  the 
only  harm  he  had  actually  seen  was  a  news- 
paper kiosk,  near  the  railway  station,  de- 
stroyed, and  a  hole  in  the  ground.  That 
looked  serious  enough,  considering  the  situa- 
tion. But  "  a  miss  is  as  good  as  a  mile." 

The  next  day,  Sunday  —  a  day  too  beauti- 
ful to  look  on  such  horrid  deeds  —  we  got 
the  explanation.  It  seemed  inconceivable, 
but  it  is  evidently  true.  The  latest  war  ex- 
ploit of  the  Huns  is  a  gun  set  up — -so  the 
aviators  say  —  somewhere  near  La  Fere, 
where  the  Yorkshire  boys  fought  their  last 
battle  before  retreating  here  in  September, 
1914,  —  a  gun  which  is  bombarding  Paris 
at  a  distance  variously  stated  at  from  sixty- 
five  to  eighty  miles,  —  either  distance  seems 
equally  incredible,  but  it  is  evidently  true. 
The  military  authorities  are  said  to  have  it 
placed.  The  question  is  to  destroy  it.  But 
you  probably  heard  all  about  this  by  cable. 

The  son  of  one  of  my  neighbours  who  is 
at  home  on  leave  —  he  is  an  aviator  to-day; 
he  was  a  farmer  in  1914,  —  said,  as  we  were 
listening  to  this  gun  yesterday,  for  it  is  still 
at  work : 

"  Madame,  this  is  war.  If  we  want  to 
win,  we  have  got  to  get  rid  of  all  our  civilian 
ideas.  If  nations  do  not  want  to  put  up  with 
things  of  this  sort,  why  they  must  find  an- 
other way  than  war  to  settle  their  disputes. 
No  one  would  be  in  the  least  sentimental 

[  163  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

about  killing  a  tiger  and  its  whelps.  Why 
pretend  to  a  finer  feeling  about  an  enemy 
more  dangerous  than  a  tiger  —  an  enemy  so 
dangerous  that  even  when  we  get  him  down 
—  and  we  shall  —  I  don't  see  how  the  world 
can  go  on  unless  we  exterminate  him,  even  if 
it  takes  this  generation.  If  we,  stupidly,  do 
not,  then  we  must  suffer  for  it  later.  Be  sure 
of  one  thing,  if  the  Boches  get  us  down, 
they  '11  wipe  us  out.  The  whole  earth  is  not 
big  enough  for  both  of  us." 

Anyway,  there  is  a  point  of  view  for  you. 

On  the  fourth  day  of  the  bombardment  of 
Paris,  while  every  one  was  divided  between 
anxiety  about  the  battle  in  the  north  and 
pride  at  the  superb  spirit  of  desperate  resist- 
ance of  our  armies,  I  got  a  letter  from  Paris 
which  gave  us  all  a  good  laugh  —  for  I  trans- 
lated for  Amelie,  knowing  that  she  would 
tell  it  everywhere  —  and  better  it  in  the  tell- 
ing. It  spoke  of  the  splendid  spirit  of  the 
bombarded  capital,  which  had  already  re- 
turned to  normal  life  —  tramways  running, 
street-life  calm,  school-children  in  the  radius 
of  the  bombardment  being  taken  out  of  dan- 
ger; and  it  told  of  the  first  effort  to  announce 
the  beginning  of  the  daily  bombardment  by 
an  alerte  to  be  given  by  the  city  police,  who 
were  ordered  to  beat  a  drum  in  the  streets 
—  a  sort  of  city  revival  of  our  country  town 
crier.  The  Sergent  de  Ville,  who  has  his 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

amour  propre,  protested.  He  did  not  know 
how  to  drum,  —  drumming  is  a  metier  like 
any  other.  The  city  replied,  "Never  mind 
that.  Put  the  drum  on.  Take  these  two 
sticks,  and  go  along  pounding.  We've  no 
time  to  give  you  lessons.  Every  one  will 
know  what  it  means." 

They  were  properly  humiliated,  but  they 
had  to  obey.  Away  they  had  to  go,  beating 
their  drums,  and  beside  them  marched  the 
gamins  of  Paris,  pounding  on  tin  cans,  and 
whatever  would  make  a  noise.  Of  course 
all  Paris  roared  with  laughter.  The  blush- 
ing Sergents  de  Ville  returned  to  their  posts, 
and  they  never  went  out  any  more  as  drum- 
mers. Isn't  that  deliciously  Paris?  Too 
bad  Mr.  Hohenzollern  could  not  have  seen  it. 

But  though  this  made  a  short  diversion 
here  we  did  not  laugh  long.  Yesterday  it 
looked  dangerously  like  a  panic  again.  For 
a  few  hours  it  seemed  as  if  all  our  efforts 
could  not  prevent  people  here  from  evacuat- 
ing the  place,  —  without  orders.  If  the  news 
had  not  been  better  this  morning  I  hate  to 
think  what  might  have  happened. 

Last  night  we  heard  no  guns.  This  morn- 
ing's communique  announced  that  the  Ger- 
man advance  has  been  practically  stopped  — 
at  all  events  the  Allies  are  holding  them  — 
the  breaches  in  the  line  have  been  filled  —  it 
is  unbroken  —  but  after  a  retreat  of  nearly 

[  165  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

sixty  miles,  and  all  they  have  worked  for  and 
won  inch  by  inch,  lost  from  Noyon  north, 
except  a  bit  of  Flanders. 

It  is  a  sin  to  look  back,  I  know.  Our  road 
lies  in  the  future.  I  hope  no  one  over  there 
whom  I  love  will  ever  have  to  fight  depres- 
sion as  I  have  fought  it  since  a  week  ago 
to-day.  I  suppose  the  turn  of  you  across  the 
water  is  coming.  Still,  you  will  never  have 
to  see  poor  women  and  little  children  flying 
from  their  homes,  as  we  see  them  every  day. 
They  never  complain.  They  are  grateful 
for  the  slightest  sympathy.  They  invariably 
tell  you  of  cases  they  know  of  people  so  much 
worse  off  than  they  are. 

I  hope  you  are  not  worrying  about  me.  I 
could  not  write  you  all  these  details  if  I  did 
not  know  —  was  not  sure  —  that  long  be- 
fore you  read  it,  the  situation  will  be  changed 
for  the  better,  that  the  cable  will  have  reas- 
sured you,  so  that  all  this  will  only  be  inter- 
esting to  you,  who  want  to  know  always  the 
truth  about  my  life. 

They  tell  us  at  the  Maine  that,  while  the 
Boches  may  advance  a  little  at  one  point  or 
another  in  the  line,  the  push  is  absolutely 
over,  and  that  it  has  been  out  of  all  propor- 
tion costly  for  the  Germans.  With  that  we 
have  to  be  content.  We  must  wait  for  his- 
tory to  tell  us  of  the  glorious  episodes  of  the 
desperate  battles,  of  the  achievements  of  the 
cavalry  which  closed  the  breaches  in  the  line, 
[  1 66  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

ind  how  the  French  5th  Army  Corps  —  our 

irave  boys  of  the  Seine  and  Marne  —  held 

the  road  down  the  valley  of  the  Oise  to  the 

beating  heart  of  France  —  Paris  —  for  the 

second  time.     How  long? 


XXI 

April  IS,  1918 

WE  are  droll,  we  humans. 

Although  the  battle  is  still  going  on  out 
there  every  one  here  seems  to  have  forgotten 
those  panicky  hours  of  the  last  week  in 
March.  It  was  that  first  quick  retreat  in  the 
north  which  upset  them  all  with  the  unspeak- 
able dread  that  perhaps  we  could  not  hold 
them.  The  moment  when  it  became  evident 
that,  though  the  Allies  had  to  retreat,  the 
line  was  not  smashed,  every  one  bucked  up 
—  and  life  became  just  what  it  had  been  all 
these  forty-two  and  a  half  months  before. 
People  seem  even  to  have  forgotten  the 
dread  of  those  days. 

The  second  phase  of  the  battle  was  over 
a  week  ago,  and,  though  we  have  lost  some 
ground,  the  line  is  still  an  unbroken  wall,  and 
Germany's  situation  unchanged  —  except 
that  she  is  a  little  nearer  Paris. 

We've  had  some  queer  weather  —  most 
uncertain.  It  has  rained,  sunshined,  snowed, 
sunshined  and  frozen.  I  am  afraid  that 
means  another  year  without  fruit,  which  is  a 
disappointment,  as  the  fruit  trees  flowered 
superbly. 

[   168   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

The  long-distance  cannon  continues  to  fire 
on  Paris  —  the  grosse  Bertha,  they  call  it. 
We  hear  every  shot  from  here.  The  cannon 
at  the  front  still  pounds  away,  and  during  the 
nights  the  battle-front  is  often  strangely 
illuminated,  a  dull  glow,  like  that  which  I  am 
sure  you  have  often  seen  in  the  sky  over  a 
foundry,  and  not  unlike  that  which,  at  times, 
hangs  over  Vesuvius.  Now  and  then  we  see 
star  rockets  and  different  kinds  of  fusees. 
But  I  no  longer  go  out  at  night  to  watch, 
though  I  cannot  induce  Pere  and  Amelie  to 
sleep.  The  truth  is  that  I  have  got  so  that 
the  cannon  do  not  keep  me  awake.  Amelie 
insists  that  she  cannot  sleep,  but  as  her  room 
is  on  the  south  side  of  the  house,  I  believe 
that  is  only  because  she  persists  in  getting  up 
and  hanging  out  of  the  north  window  to  see 
what  is  going  on,  thus  deliberately  prevent- 
ing herself  from  sleeping. 

I  keep  myself  very  busy.  It  is  the  only 
way.  I  go  up  to  Paris  whenever  there  is  any 
need,  much  to  Amelie's  disgust.  She  never 
draws  a  long  breath,  she  says,  until  I  get 
back,  on  the  theory  that  a  bomb  from  that 
long-range  gun  will  fall  on  the  train  one  day, 
or  on  me  in  the  street.  But  as  the  chances 
are  about  one  in  a  million  I  '11  take  that 
chance.  I  was  in  Paris  three  times  last  week 
—  going  up  twice  by  the  seven  o'clock  train, 
and  coming  back  at  night.  Of  course,  only 
important  business  would  have  induced  me 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

to  make  that  effort,  as  it  meant  taking  my 
coffee  at  half-past  five,  and  I  don't  like  that 
any  better  than  I  ever  did. 

In  spite  of  everything  I  had  heard,  I  found 
Paris  normal.  It  is  a  very  great  pity  that 
the  Germans,  who  are  told  that  Paris  is  being 
bombarded  every  day,  and  probably  suppose 
it  is  being  gradually  destroyed,  cannot  see 
the  effects  of  the  bombardment.  I  was  on 
the  boulevards  the  first  day  I  went  up,  when 
a  bomb  fell  and  exploded,  making  so  heavy 
a  detonation  that  it  seemed  very  near.  It 
really  was  across  the  Seine.  No  one  stopped 
walking,  though  every  one  did  exactly  what 
I  did  —  pulled  out  a  watch  to  see  the  hour. 
That  was  all,  though  it  was  only  a  short  time 
after  the  Good  Friday  feat  of  the  grosse 
Bertha,  when  a  bomb  fell  on  the  church  you 
and  I  know  so  well,  and  where  we  used  to 
go  in  the  old  days,  and  sitting  near  the  tomb 
of  Madame  de  Maintenon's  ribald  first  hus- 
band—  chair-bound  old  Scarron  —  listen  to 
the  very  service  that  was  going  on  when  the 
bomb  fell.  What  with  the  bomb,  and  the 
panic  that  followed,  there  was  heavy  loss  of 
life,  and  because  of  the  number  of  victims, 
and  the  fact  that  many  were  well-known 
people,  —  for  the  Good  Friday  office  of  the 
Tenebrae  is  a  smart  religious  function,  —  the 
accident  made  a  good  deal  of  noise  in  the 
world,  and  it  was  impossible  to  conceal  it. 
But  it  is  ridiculous  to  emphasize  the  fact  that 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

the  dirty  Germans  deliberately  fired  on  a 
church  on  a  Holy  Day  during  an  office,  as 
the  reaching  of  such  a  target  was  pure  acci- 
dent. The  emplacement  of  the  big  gun  is 
fixed.  It  reaches  a  certain  distance  into  the 
city.  It  can  evidently  be  turned  east  and 
west,  so  that  the  menaced  points  seem  to  lie 
in  an  arc,  reaching  roughly  from  Montrouge 
to  near  the  Gare  de  1'Est,  and  passing  by  a 
line  just  behind  where  I  used  to  live  — 
through  the  "  Garden  of  Lies,"  I  imagine, — 
and  across  the  Seine  near  the  Louvre. 

Twice  while  I  was  in  Paris  I  had  to  pass 
through  this  line,  while  the  gun  was  firing, 
to  go  out  through  the  fortifications.  I  was 
on  my  way  to  a  suburban  hospital,  and  had  a 
sick  woman  in  the  motor-car.  The  big  gun 
fired  a  corking  shot  while  we  were  crossing 
the  Seine  to  run  up  by  the  Luxembourg  Gar- 
dens. I  looked  at  my  watch  and  calculated 
the  distance  to  the  Porte,  but  I  had  not  the 
smallest  sensation  of  the  suspense  I  expected 
to  have.  Three  hours  later  I  came  back  by 
the  same  route,  only  making  a  slight  detour 
to  avoid  a  tree  that  a  shot  fired  since  I  passed 
out  of  the  gate  had  broken  off. 

The  only  marked  difference  that  I  saw  in 
the  quarter  was  the  silence  in  the  Luxem- 
bourg Gardens,  where  the  children  were  no 
longer  playing.  Apropos  of  the  children, 
you  might  suppose  that  living  in  a  bom- 
barded city,  being  in  so  many  cases  taken  out 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

of  bed  and  carried  to  abns  in  the  night,  might 
at  least  create  a  panic  among  them.  It  does 
not  seem  to.  On  the  contrary  many  of  them 
appear  to  think  it  all  a  lark. 

In  the  danger  zone,  of  course,  Paris,  which 
takes  great  care  of  her  children  —  for  no- 
where are  children  more  loved  or  happier 
than  they  are  in  France  —  has  sent  the 
school-children,  with  their  teachers,  into  the 
country.  But  there  are  still  plenty  of  chil- 
dren in  the  city. 

One  day  when  I  was  in  town  I  saw  a  group 
of  youngsters  playing  and  making  so  much 
noise  that  I  had  to  stop  and  watch  them. 
It  was  in  a  garden  in  a  safe  part  of  the  city, 
and  it  took  two  minutes  to  see  what  they 
were  playing.  They  were  playing  "  Les 
Gothas."  One  boy  was  a  watcher  at  a  "  lis- 
tening post,"  who  gave  the  alarm,  "They 
come ! "  Another  was  the  fireman  in  his 
auto,  rushing  along,  and  sounding  his  sirene. 
One  was  the  gunner  at  his  post  of  D.  C.  A. 
putting  up  a  barrage,  "  bang,  bang,  bang." 
A  group  were  Boche  avions  making  a  ter- 
rible series  of  explosions  in  all  parts  of  the 
garden.  When  it  was  over,  the  bogus  dead 
and  wounded  were  lying  all  over  the  place, 
and  a  tiny  little  fellow  rushed  about,  sounding 
the  "All  clear,"  on  a  tin  trumpet.  Even 
then  it  was  not  over,  for  along  came  the 
clanging  bells  of  the  ambulances  and  the  vic- 
tims were  picked  up.  They  did  the  thing 
[  172  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

with  great  spirit,  imitating  all  the  noises 
admirably,  with  children's  apt  talent  at 
mimicry. 

I  never  go  to  Paris  but  I  wish  that  you 
were  with  me.  Each  trip  into  the  city  has 
its  new  experience. 

The  railway  station  is  one  of  the  most  in- 
teresting places  in  the  world  to-day.  Our 
line  carries  most  of  the  soldiers  going  to  and 
from  the  front. 

At  Vaires,  just  outside  of  the  outer  line  of 
forts,  is  the  immense  Camp  des  Permission- 
cures.  All  the  men  coming  in  from  the 
front  on  their  regular  eight  days'  home-leave 
once  in  four  months,  must  stop  at  Vaires  to 
have  their  papers  examined,  and  from  there 
go  on  to  their  destinations,  and  many  of 
them  stay  there  during  their  leave,  for  obvi- 
ous reasons.  At  the  expiration  of  their 
leave,  they  report  there  to  be  sent  back  to 
their  posts.  The  camp  is  immense.  Line 
after  line  of  tracks  has  been  laid,  extending 
almost  as  far  as  one  can  see,  for  the  big  mili- 
tary trains  run  right  into  the  camp  from  the 
main  line.  Miles  and  miles  of  barracks,  and 
offices  for  re-equipping  soldiers,  stretch  off 
into  the  distance,  and  there  is  never  an  hour 
of  the  day  or  night,  when  a  train-load  of 
poilus  is  not  coming  in  or  going  out. 

As  this  is  only  a  short  distance  down  the 
line  between  here  and  Paris  it  is  one  of  the 
most  interesting  points  on  my  trips  to  town. 

[  173 1 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

The  big  station  in  Paris,  with  its  various 
Red  Cross  works,  —  the  Americans  have  a 
very  well-organized  one  there  —  and  moving 
throngs,  is  even  more  interesting.  It  is  alive 
with  movement  —  with  tragedy  and  comedy 
—  and  to-day  it  is  a  tower  of  Babel,  with  the 
American  militairy  policeman  in  his  red 
bands  and  his  conspicuous  U.  S.  A.  always  in 
evidence. 

I  never  can  resist  lingering  a  minute  to  see 
the  soldiers  leaving  the  station.  There  are 
always  crowds  of  women  and  children  wait- 
ing at  the  barriers  —  for  the  poilus  have 
their  especial  entrance  and  exit  —  and  a 
throng  always  presses  round  the  gate  through 
which  they  must  pass,  not  only  those  who 
have  come  expecting  —  usually  in  vain  —  to 
meet  their  own,  —  but  the  curious  who  have 
just  come  to  see  the  boys  from  the  front. 
The  looker  after  material  —  artistic,  realis- 
tic, or  otherwise,  —  lovers  of  the  grotesque, 
hunters  after  the  picturesque,  lovers  of  laugh- 
ter, morbid  seekers  after  tragedy,  will  find  it 
all  there,  as  well  as,  now  and  then,  something 
of  the  beautiful,  and  occasionally  a  bit  of  the 
heroic.  But  the  seeker  after  what  is  ordi- 
narily known  as  "scenes"  will  lose  his  time. 
France  may  have  once  been  what  we  used 
to  call  her,  "  hysterical."  She  is  certainly 
not  even  emotional  to-day,  so  far  as  I  can 
see. 

Sometimes  I  think  that  the  big  station  is 

[  174  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

even  more  picturesque  on  the  side  where  the 
poilus  are  waiting  to  go  back.  At  those 
times  the  big  courtyard  in  front  is  packed 
with  them.  When  they  are  coming  in  from 
the  front,  they  simply  seem  to  rush  through, 
taking  little  notice  of  the  crowd  so  interested 
in  them  and  providing  the  atmosphere  invol- 
untarily. But  when  they  are  going  back  to 
the  front  it  is  a  different  matter. 

Do  you  find  that  puzzling?  Well,  the 
poilus  arriving  on  home-leave  are  tired,  often 
disgusted,  or  indifferent.  "  Home-leave  " 
looks  like  Heaven  to  them.  But  they  go 
back  gaily.  The  truth  is,  as  a  rule,  they  are 
glad  to  go  back.  It  is  not  that  they  are  not 
tired  of  the  war.  They  are.  Every  one  is, 
—  except  our  boys,  who  are  nearly  four  years 
behind  the  game.  It  has  lasted  too  long  for 
the  poilu  to  have  anything  but  dogged  toler- 
ance for  it.  When  the  regular  time  arrives 
for  him  to  "come  out"  he  welcomes  it,  but 
in  the  three  and  more  years  that  he  has  been 
cut  off  from  normal  life  he  has  become  the 
inhabitant  of  another  world.  He  speaks  an- 
other language  —  a  specialized  tongue, — 
and,  in  spite  of  everything,  he  almost  invari- 
ably gets  homesick  on  leave. 

I  suspected  this,  little  by  little,  as  I  watched 
the  men  coming  in  from  the  front  —  they  are 
no  longer  boisterous,  —  and  then  watched 
them  go  singing  back.  So  one  day  I  said  to 
Petit  Louis,  a  boy  in  our  commune,  a  gunner, 

[  175  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

who  always  comes  to  pay  his  respects  to  me 
when  he  arrives  on  leave,  and  to  say  u  good- 
bye "  when  "  going  in  "  again. 

"Well,    Louis,    how    is    your    soixante- 


"  Fine,  the  darling,"  he  laughed. 

Then  I  said  that  I  supposed  he  was  glad 
to  be  at  home. 

He  puckered  up  his  brows,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  made  one  of  his  queer  little  ges- 
tures with  his  hands,  and  said  : 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  Sure,  I  am  glad  to 
see  the  woman  and  the  kids,  and  to  sleep  one 
night  or  so  in  a  bed,  —  but  —  I  don't  know 
why  it  is,  I  get  bored  with  it  in  a  day  or  two. 
I  am  used  to  a  different  kind  of  life.  I  miss 
my  chums.  I  miss  knowing  exactly  what  to  do 
—  what  I  Ve  got  to  do  whether  I  want  to  or 
not.  So  you  see,  after  two  days  of  walking 
about,  talking  with  people  who  seem  to  un- 
derstand just  nothing  at  all  about  what  is 
going  on  out  there,  I  am  bored.  I  miss  being 
dead  tired  at  night.  I  miss  the  noise.  After 
two  or  three  days  I  count  the  hours  until  I 
can  get  back." 

I  can  understand  that.  It  made  me  think 
of  what  a  man  said  to  me  in  Paris  in  the  early 
days  of  the  war. 

u  My  father  used  to  go,  once  a  year,  to  sit 
over  a  dinner  with  his  comrades  of  the  regi- 
ment in  '70.  My  sons  will  cherish  their  com- 
rades and  live  over  with  them  this  great  war. 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

Men  of  my  generation  —  we  have  nothing 
to  talk  about." 

It  was  not  worth  while  to  remind  him  that 
after  this  is  over  the  men  who  will  be  heard 
talking  loudest  will  be  those  who  have  never 
seen  a  trench  or  fired  a  gun.  Here  in  our 
little  commune  the  people  who  can  tell  you 
the  wildest  tales  of  the  days  of  the  invasion 
are  those  who  ran  away.  If  anyone  were  to 
come  here  to-day,  in  a  spirit  of  research,  it 
would  not  be  the  half  dozen  of  us  who  actu- 
ally stayed  here  in  September,  1914,  who 
would  tell  hair-raising  tales.  It  would  be  the 
others.  The  stories  have  rolled  up  like  the 
famous  snowball.  It  has  opened  my  eyes  in 
a  sense  about  the  difficulties  of  writing 
history. 

One  of  the  striking  features  about  this 
war  is  that  the  active  soldiers  almost  never 
talk  with  the  civilians  about  the  war.  In  a 
sense,  it  is  forbidden,  but  the  reason  goes 
deeper  than  that.  The  soldier  and  the  civil- 
ian seem  to-day  to  speak  a  different  lan- 
guage. It  almost  seems  as  if  a  dark  curtain 
hung  between  the  realities  of  life  "out 
there,"  and  the  life  into  which  the  soldier 
enters  en  repos. 

Whenever  they  are  talkative,  it  is  of  some- 
thing rather  spiritual  than  material.  The 
last  time  I  went  up  to  Paris  I  had  an  experi- 
ence of  that  sort.  I  was  settled  in  my  com- 
partment—  alone.  The  train  was  about  to 

[   177  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

start  when  the  door  was  yanked  open.  A 
tall,  middle-aged  officer  brought  up  his  hand 
to  salute,  flung  his  bag  in,  entered  after  it, 
banged  the  door,  and  sat  down  just  as  the 
train  moved.  He  cast  a  keen  glance  at  me, 
then  unbuckled  his  belt  and  made  himself 
comfortable.  The  first  time  he  caught  my 
eyes  he  leaned  over,  and  said : 

"  I  imagine  that  you  are  the  American 
lady  who  lived  up  on  the  hill  at  Huiry  ?  " 

I  owned  up. 

"  I  have  heard  of  you,"  he  said.  "  I  have 
a  friend  who  was  quartered  in  your  house." 

Then  he  settled  down  to  chat.  He  seemed 
to  need  it,  which  is  unusual.  He  appeared 
to  be  about  forty-five,  —  a  lieutenant.  He 
asked  all  sorts  of  things  about  the  States  — 
how  long  it  would  take  their  army  to  get 
ready?  What  sort  of  soldiers  did  I  think 
they  would  make?  How  many  did  I  think 
were  over?  And  so  forth. 

I  did  my  best,  but  I  could  not  tell  him  how 
many  were  over,  and  we  would  not  be  really 
ready  until  the  army  was  here.  The  only 
thing  of  which  I  could  actually  assure  him 
was  that  the  boys  from  the  States  would, 
with  a  little  experience,  make  as  fine  soldiers 
as  the  war  has  yet  seen.  On  that  point  I  was 
absolutely  sure,  and  I  gave  it  to  him,  with 
emphasis,  that,  in  my  opinion,  old  Kaiser 
Bill  would  have  no  greater  disillusion  in  the 
war  than  the  United  States  would  furnish 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

him,  in  proving  to  him  that  it  did  not  take  a 
lifetime  of  drilling  to  create  a  patriotic  army, 
and  that  a  patriotic  army  was  better  than  a 
professional  one. 

With  a  sigh  of  content  he  leaned  back,  and 
I  realized  again  how  great  a  factor  in  the 
morale  of  the  French  the  coming  over  of  the 
boys  from  the  States  was.  After  a  short 
silence  he  smiled  at  me,  and  said: 

"Ridiculous  —  a  war.  You  see,  in  the 
days  before  this  came  I  was  what  one  calls, 
with  considerable  contempt  now,  '  an  intel- 
lectual.' I  did  not  believe  in  force.  I  be- 
lieved in  the  spiritual  development  of  the 
individual.  But  in  days  of  peace  does  any 
man  know  what  is  really  in  him  ?  I  Ve  given 
my  only  son,"  and  he  touched  the  black  band 
on  his  sleeve.  "  Thank  God  his  mother  went 
first.  I've  done  my  duty  as  best  I  could," 
and  he  touched  the  red  ribbon  on  his  breast, 
with  the  barred  one  of  military  medals  be- 
side it.  "  But  I  often  wonder  if  all  educated 
men  have  to  make  the  same  struggle  that  I 
do.  Often,  when  the  moment  comes  to  '  go 
over '  I  wonder  what  my  men  would  think  if 
I  were  to  cry  out,  'Fire  in  the  air!  It  is 
nobler  to  be  killed  than  to  kill.' '  He  looked 
out  of  the  window  a  moment  before  he 
laughed  and  added,  "Absurd,  isn't  it?  Be- 
cause I  know  that  a  war  of  defence  and  for 
principle,  and  for  the  hopes  of  the  future,  is 
a  holy  war." 

[  179  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

Here  the  train  began  to  slow  down. 

" Helloa !  Vaires  already?  I  hope  that 
I  have  not  bored  you? "  And  as  he  buckled 
his  belt,  and  picked  up  his  bag,  he  added, 
"It  is  so  rarely  that  I  talk  to  a  woman  — 
I  Ve  no  family — that  I  rather  lose  my  head. 
A  thousand  excuses.  Good-bye."  And  we 
shook  hands  like  old  friends. 

I  watched  him  as  he  walked  rapidly  away. 
A  lieutenant  at  forty-five !  That  meant  that 
he  was  a  volunteer. 

I  have  been  sitting  here,  off  and  on,  all  day, 
writing  this.  That  shows  my  need  of  com- 
munion in  these  trying  days,  when  we  are 
asking  ourselves  where  the  next  attack  is  to 
be,  and  hoping  that  it  will  not  take  us  by 
surprise. 

I  smile  when  I  remember  that  in  the  first 
hard  days  of  the  first  week  in  March  I  tried 
to  comfort  the  people  about  me  by  saying: 
"Courage!  This  is  the  beginning  of  the 
final  act."  So  it  is,  I  suppose.  But  there  are 
to  be  more  scenes  in  it  than  I  thought  then. 
They  are  still  strong,  those  Huns. 

I  do  hope  that  when  I  write  so  frankly  of 
the  emotions  of  each  day  here  you  do  not  get 
the  impression  that  anyone  has  lost  faith  in 
the  final  issue.  I  don't  think  they  have.  It 
is  only  that  they  are  not  so  sure  as  they  were 
up  to  the  opening  of  this  offensive  that  this 
special  part  of  France  may  not  have  to  be 
[  180  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

sacrificed  as  so  many  places  have  been.  If 
it  is  —  well,  never  mind.  In  our  hearts,  even 
trembling,  we  instinctively  believe  in  a  sec- 
ond miracle.  Yet  why  should  we? 


[   181   ] 


XXII 

May  24,  1918 

WE  are  still  sitting  as  tight  as  we  can, 
waiting  for  the  next  offensive  move,  which 
has  held  off  longer  than  was  anticipated. 
The  absolute  uncertainty  as  to  the  point  in 
the  line  now  menaced,  and  the  inevitable 
nervousness  which  comes  from  waiting  every 
night  for  an  aerial  attack,  and  listening  all 
day  for  the  big  cannon  to  begin  firing  on 
Paris,  makes  each  hour  of  the  twenty-four  a 
bit  trying.  Of  course  the  last  of  the  three 
grosse  Berthas  was  destroyed  by  the  aviators 
on  the  3rd.  But  we  know  that  it  will  not 
stay  out  of  action  forever. 

I  have  kept  busy  planting,  cleaning  house, 
arranging  all  sorts  of  extra  curtains,  but, 
luckily  the  nights  are  getting  very  short  and 
the  Gotha  raids  do  not  force  me  to  be  her- 
metically sealed  for  long  at  a  time.  It  is 
hardly  dark  at  half-past  nine,  and  it  begins 
to  get  light  before  four.  I  have  already 
learned  to  go  about  in  my  shuttered  house  in 
the  dark  when  an  alerte  gets  me  out  of  bed, 
though  there  is  no  need.  But  an  odd  sensa- 
tion comes  over  me  during  an  attack,  espe- 
cially as  the  batteries  for  the  defence  sur- 

182 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

round  us  now  in  a  semicircle  —  there  are  five 
of  them.  When  they  all  begin  to  fire,  I  feel 
as  if  my  little  house  were  the  only  visible 
thing  in  the  landscape,  and  as  though,  if  I  lit 
up,  even  behind  shutters  and  curtains,  I 
should  be  seen.  If  that  is  not  the  wth  power 
of  vanity,  I  don't  know  what  to  name  it. 

I  expect  you  will  get  tired  of  hearing 
about  air  raids,  but  really,  if  I  do  not  tell 
you  about  them  I  should  be  at  a  loss  to  know 
of  what  I  could  write  to  you.  They  are  of 
almost  nightly  occurrence,  and  each  one  is 
different.  We  had  a  double  one  last  night, 
—  or  one  in  two  acts  —  covering  four  hours 
and  a  half,  with  an  entr'acte  of  three  quar- 
ters of  an  hour. 

It  was  about  eleven  o'clock.  I  was  read- 
ing quietly  when  I  heard  the  guns  from  the 
fort.  I  intended  to  stay  comfortably  in  bed. 
It  had  been  understood  between  Amelie  and 
me  that,  under  no  circumstances,  was  she  to 
come  to  me.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  forbid- 
den by  orders,  and  in  the  second,  now  that 
the  barrage  surrounds  us,  there  is  danger 
from  spent  shot  from  the  guns  of  the  forts. 
But  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  I  could  not 
resist  going  out  to  try  to  see  what  was  hap- 
pening. I  had  hardly  got  into  the  garden 
before  the  guns  ceased  firing,  and  I  went 
back  to  bed.  It  was  only  a  little  over  an 
hour  later,  when  boom  went  the  cannon 
again,  and  the  raid  lasted  until  nearly  day- 

[  183  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

light.  This  time  I  went  out  at  once.  It  is 
impossible  to  resist  the  impulse.  In  spite  of 
all  the  regulations  there  was  a  group  in  the 
road  above  my  house,  at  a  point  where  they 
can  look  right  over  the  fort  at  Chelles  into 
the  horizon  line  over  Paris,  and  from  which 
point  they  can  see  and  locate  each  search- 
light and  can  often  see  the  explosion  of  the 
shells.  I  suppose  they  will  continue  to  do 
this  until  a  bit  of  spent  shrapnel  hits  some 
one  in  the  head,  and  demonstrates  to  them 
that  it  is  not  safe. 

It  made  a  rather  long  night,  but  when  the 
last  gun  fired,  just  before  daybreak,  I  was 
still  sitting  on  the  lawn.  All  through  the 
night  I  had  heard  the  military  trains  on  the 
railroad  rushing  along  the  valley,  and,  when 
the  dim  coming  of  day  enabled  me  to  see 
them,  I  noticed  that  a  scouting  engine  pre- 
ceded each  train,  as  in  the  early  days  of  the 
mobilization.  So  I  was  not  surprised  a  few 
hours  later  to  learn  that  a  bomb  had  fallen 
within  fifty  yards  of  the  tunnel  at  Charlifert. 

While  I  was  still  sitting  there,  Amelie 
joined  me.  She  was  all  dressed,  and  I  knew 
that  she  had  not  been  in  bed  at  all. 

It  was  not  quite  four  o'clock.  A  beautiful 
day  was  breaking.  The  cuckoo  was  talking. 
A  blackbird  began  to  sing.  Then  the  spar- 
rows and  the  swallows  yawned  and  chirped, 
and  a  thrush  piped  up.  Overhead,  the 
avions  de  chasse  were  still  scouting.  Out 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

at  the  big  camp,  lying  along  miles  of  the 
fields,  across  the  Marne,  flechettes,  thin 
white  lines  of  light,  mounted  like  silver 
arrows  straight  into  the  air  at  regular  inter- 
vals, to  guide  the  aviators  back  to  their 
landing  field.  Now  and  then,  a  coloured 
light  in  the  air  announced  a  flyer  ready  to 
descend,  then,  in  a  moment,  the  big  lights  on 
the  field  would  flare  up,  and  in  the  coming 
daylight  we  would  see  a  machine  circling 
down.  We  sat  there,  until,  at  half-past  four, 
the  last  homing  avion  was  in.  It  was  no  use 
to  go  to  bed  at  that  hour,  so,  as  the  days  are 
hot,  I  weeded  and  watered  the  garden,  set 
out  a  few  begonias  which  Amelie  went  to 
Meaux  for  yesterday,  and  some  of  the  seed- 
lings—  zinnias,  soucis,  and  old-fashioned 
balsam.  I  promise  myself  to  go  to  bed  with 
the  chickens  to-night  to  make  up. 

I  note  that  you  send  your  love  to  Khaki 
and  Dick.  I  have  given  your  message  to  the 
Grand  Due,  but  Dick  is  very  unpopular  at 
this  moment,  and  civilities  are  suspended  be- 
tween us. 

I  think  I  told  you  that  Dick  had  got  so 
that  he  never  barked  at  a  poilu?  The  army 
might  come  and  carry  off  the  house,  and  me 
in  it,  he  would  consider  it  all  right.  Like 
the  Grande  Duchesse  he  loves  the  military. 
Well,  lately,  life  has  been  very  dull  for  him. 
Since  he  cannot  run  free  without  a  muzzle, 
his  one  idea  is  to  escape,  and  go  in  search  of 

[  185  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

his  adored  poilus,  since  they  don't  just  now 
come  to  see  him.  I  expect  they  let  him  lick 
out  their  gamelles.  It  saves  washing  them. 
Anyway,  last  week  there  was  a  regiment  at 
Quincy.  Dick  disappeared.  He  was  gone 
for  nearly  a  week.  I  kept  hearing  of  him, 
but  the  regiment  had  been  gone  nearly  forty- 
eight  hours  before  he  reappeared.  Amelie 
opened  the  door  for  him.  He  made  a  dash 
upstairs  and  tried  to  jump  on  the  bed  to  give 
me  an  affectionate  morning  greeting,  as  he 
is  allowed  to  do  when  he  is  good.  I  repulsed 
him  severely,  and  tried  to  have  an  explana- 
tion with  him.  I  demanded,  at  least,  to 
know  where  he  had  been  since  the  regiment 
departed.  He  was  very  reticent.  He  looked 
at  me,  and  scratched  his  head  behind  his  ear 
in  a  very  knowing  manner  —  had  brought  a 
military  flea  with  him,  I  suppose,  —  and  ex- 
pected that  to  satisfy  me.  It  distinctly  did 
not.  So  he  was  sent  down  to  his  kennel  and 
chained.  I  hope  he  knew  why.  Still,  as  he 
had  evidently  had  a  good  time,  he  probably 
felt  that  it  was  worth  while  being  chained  up 
for  a  day. 

However,  the  explanation  I  could  not  get 
from  him  followed  almost  at  once.  He 
had  evidently  waited  about  in  Quincy  hoping 
some  more  soldiers  might  arrive,  and  in  the 
waiting  time  he  had  been  overcome  by 
hunger,  and  gone  marketing  for  himself  — 
on  tick,  —  and  his  bills  followed  him  home. 
[  186  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

He  had  eaten  a  franc-twenty-five  centimes' 
worth  of  sausage  at  the  charcuterie.  He  had 
spoiled  a  pound  of  cheese  at  the  cremerle. 
He  had  decamped  with  a  bone  worth  fifty 
centimes  at  the  butcher's,  which  would  have 
been  allowed  him  if  he  had  not  returned  and 
helped  himself  to  a  costly  chop  —  one  franc- 
fifty.  On  the  morning  of  the  third  day, — 
no  regiment  arriving,  —  he  evidently  decided 
that  life  was  too  difficult,  and  that  he  had 
better  return  to  his  regular  boarding-house, 
where,  at  least,  meals  were  certain,  and  wait 
until  more  soldiers  and  more  gamelles  ar- 
rived. I  paid  the  bills  of  the  prodigal,  of 
course,  but  I  did  not  kill  any  fatted  calf  for 
him.  Not  that  he  minded  that,  for,  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  he  rendered  up  some  of  the 
stolen  goods  soon  after  his  return,  and  then 
rolled  himself  up  to  sleep  it  off. 

While  I  am  speaking  about  Dick,  I  must 
tell  you  another  amusing  thing.  -He  has  dis- 
covered the  aeroplanes.  For  a  long  time, 
whenever  a  machine  flew  low,  as  they  often 
do,  he  has  rushed  out  and  barked  furiously 
all  over  the  place.  Just  for  fun,  one  day,  I 
held  him  by  his  collar  and  tried  to  make  him 
look  in  the  right  direction.  I  never  suc- 
ceeded. He  looked  everywhere  but  at  the 
proper  place  over  his  head.  But  one  day, 
standing  with  Amelie  and  me  in  the  garden 
while  a  big  triplane  was  passing,  he  discov- 
ered it  himself.  He  began  barking,  running 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

madly  after  it,  and  trying  to  jump  the  hedge. 
Since  then,  he  has  learned  where  to  look 
when  he  hears  them,  and  he  always  runs  the 
length  of  the  garden,  eyes  in  the  air,  head 
erect,  yelping  and  jumping.  Of  course,  he 
thinks  it  is  a  big  bird,  though  he  never  barks 
at  birds.  But  birds  don't  make  such  a  racket. 

I  have  seen  some  wonderful  flights  of 
avions  lately  —  some  twenty  in  battle  forma- 
tion. It  is  a  wonderful  sight  here  where 
the  sky  space  is  so  extensive.  One  of  the 
prettiest  flights  the  other  day  was  so  high 
that,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  noise  the 
moteurs  made,  I  should  not  have  detected 
them  at  all,  —  they  looked  so  tiny  in  the  blue 
depth  of  that  vast  expanse  —  no  larger  than 
the  swallow  flying  under  them,  thousands 
and  thousands  of  feet  below. 

Kind  of  you  to  congratulate  me  on  drop- 
ping out  of  the  political  note.  As  for  that, 
I  was  stirred  when  Caillaux  went  to  live  at 
La  Sante,  and  I  shall  get  excited  again  when 
he  —  goes  on.  For  all  the  smaller  men  who 
are  moving  out  of  the  line  of  vision  I  am 
little  concerned  so  that  they  go  and  en  route 
close  the  pincers  on  the  chief.  Political  trials 
are  delicate  affairs  in  the  democratic  world 
in  which  a  man  is  said  to  have  a  right  to  his 
opinions,  but  in  times  of  war  there  are  things 
more  important  than  opinions.  The  dis- 
cipline to  which  an  army  defending  the  coun- 
try must  submit,  and  failure  to  do  which 
[  188  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

tcurs  the  penalty  of  death  for  the  soldier, 
surely  applies  in  some  way  to  civilians.  Un- 
til it  is  demonstrated  that  it  does,  there  can 
no  consolations  for  the  terrible  affair  of 

ist  May,  or  for  the  tragedy  of  Coeuvres. 

'hat  is  all. 


[    189   1 


XXIII 

May  30,  1918 

IT  has  been  a  very  trying  week.  Indeed, 
as  I  look  back  to  the  long  months  of  war,  I 
realize  that  it  was  only  when,  on  the  last  day 
of  January,  Germany  began  the  effort  of 
which  this  week  is  only  one  phase,  that  we 
really  began  to  appreciate  the  frightfulness 
of  her  endeavour.  Since  that  day,  no  one 
within  hearing  of  the  front  has  had  a  day 
of  tranquillity,  and  no  one  in  France  an  hour 
free  of  anxiety.  For  that  matter,  no  one  in 
the  world,  capable  of  understanding  or  sym- 
pathy, can  have  been  calm.  But  it  is  surely 
a  different  thing  to  read  about  these  days 
than  to  take  part  in  them.  I  cannot  write 
you  about  the  life  here  in  detail,  because,  as 
I  have  already  assured  you,  things  are  all 
changed  by  the  time  you  read  the  letters,  and 
you  know  long  before  you  get  them  what 
turn  affairs  have  taken.  And  then,  there  is 
always  the  censor. 

There  has  hardly  been  a  night  since  I 
wrote  you  last  without  an  air  raid,  and  on 
the  night  of  the  day  I  last  wrote  you,  we  were 
showered  with  spent  shrapnel.  It  fell  on  the 
roofs  at  Voisins  and  I  am  treasuring  for  you, 

[   190  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

as  a  personal  souvenir  of  me  and  the  war,  a 
large  jagged  bit  which  struck  the  shutter  of 
my  bedroom  window  and  bounded  on  to  the 
terrace. 

On  the  day  before  the  long-awaited  offen- 
sive began  on  our  front,  on  the  historic 
Chemin  des  Dames,  everything  was  quiet 
here.  It  was  a  Sunday.  We  had  had  five  air 
raids  in  about  eight  days.  The  weather  had 
been  very  hot,  and  I  had  felt  a  bit  shaky. 
But  on  Saturday,  that  was  the  twenty-fifth,  I 
had  a  telegram  from  Paris  telling  me  that  a 
friend  was  leaving  for  Bordeaux  on  Mon- 
day, and,  as  she  could  not  get  a  sauf  conduit 
to  come  to  me,  begged  me  to  come  up  to 
town,  if  only  for  an  hour.  So  I  was  up  at 
five,  and  at  six  Pere  was  driving  me  down  to 
the  station  to  take  the  seven  o'clock  train. 
We  always  have  to  allow  plenty  of  time  for 
fear  of  being  delayed  on  the  road  by  military 
camions. 

It  was  a  lovely  morning,  full  of  sunshine, 
but  with  the  fresh  breeze  blowing  from  the 
north-east  still,  as  it  has  for  weeks.  As  we 
turned  from  the  Chemin  Madame  into  the 
route  nationale,  we  found  ourselves  face  to 
face  with  a  procession  of  artillery  camions 
extending  as  far  as  we  could  see  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Meaux,  and  down  the  hill  to  Couilly, 
where,  one  after  another,  they  continued  to 
come  round  the  curve  from  St.  Germain  dur- 
ing our  entire  descent  to  the  station.  The 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

camions  had  cannon  of  all  calibres  mounted, 
each  followed  by  a  load  of  gunners,  and 
every  little  way  came  ammunition-trucks 
and  rolling  kitchens.  Every  cannon's  nose, 
as  it  stuck  its  carefully  capped  muzzle  be- 
tween the  heads  of  the  chauffeur  and  mechani- 
cian was  wreathed  with  flowers,  and  every 
camion  carried  a  huge  bunch  of  red  peo- 
nies or  roses,  with  daisies  and  some  blue 
field  flowers  —  always  making  the  French 
colours.  The  gunners  all  had  clean,  smiling, 
Sunday  faces,  but,  as  Ninette  ambled  down 
the  hill  in  the  cloud  of  dust  made  by  the 
camions  groaning  and  rumbling  up  it,  I  felt 
that  this  tremendous  movement  of  artillery 
must  be  the  prelude  to  the  offensive,  and  that 
the  movement  just  here  must  mean  that  it 
was  the  line  from  Soissons  to  Reims  which 
was  threatened.  I  said  nothing  to  Pere.  I 
was  coming  back  in  the  middle  of  the  after- 
noon. 

I  made  an  easy  trip  to  Paris.  Although 
it  was  Sunday,  there  was  no  crowd.  Nor 
was  there  any  unusual  movement  of  troops 
on  the  line.  I  found  the  streets  more  ani- 
mated than  usual.  It  was  three  weeks  since 
the  long-range  gun,  which  had  so  long  bom- 
barded the  city,  had  been  silenced.  It  looked 
as  if  a  great  many  people  who  had  left  Paris 
during  the  March  offensive  had  returned. 
The  animation  in  the  streets  was  not  that  of 
even  a  year  ago,  but  it  was  anything  but  a 
[  192  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

dead  city  or  a  sad  city  to  me.  So  I  forgot  all 
about  my  impression  of  the  morning,  until, 
as  I  was  driving  back  by  the  road  from 
Esbly,  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  the 
picture  suddenly  returned  to  me,  and  I  in- 
stinctively turned  to  look  across  the  Marne, 
and  listened  for  the  guns.  Not  a  sound. 
Perhaps  I  was  mistaken,  I  thought. 

We  had  a  peaceful  night.  I  went  out 
early  the  next  morning.  All  was  silent.  But 
while  I  was  having  my  coffee  there  was  one 
heavy  shot.  I  jumped.  It  was  once  more 
that  big  gun  firing  on  Paris.  There  was  no 
doubt  in  my  mind  —  that  was  the  accompani- 
ment, or  the  prelude,  to  the  new  battle.  But 
still  we  heard  no  sound  of  artillery  in  the 
direction  of  the  front.  The  only  explanation 
seemed  to  us  was  that  the  attack  was,  after 
all,  not  here  but  on  a  part  of  the  line  farther 
north  —  perhaps  again  in  Picardy  where  the 
attack  of  March  had  carried  the  Germans 
nearer  the  sea  and  nearer  still  to  the  railroad 
communication  so  important  to  the  British. 
So  you  can  imagine  our  surprise  when  the 
news  came  that  the  attack,  which  had  begun 
at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  was  against 
the  line  in  front  of  us  from  Montdidier  in 
the  west,  with  Compiegne  and  the  route  to 
Paris  down  the  Oise  valley,  Chateau  Thierry 
and  the  route  down  the  Marne,  Reims  and 
Chalons,  as  objectives. 

The  big  gun,  which  had  begun  to  bombard 

[  193  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

Paris  at  half-past  six  in  the  morning  was  still 
firing  at  half-past  six  at  night,  and  at  half- 
past  ten  at  night  there  was  an  air  raid  which 
lasted  about  an  hour  and  a  quarter. 

With  all  one's  pluck  held  tight  in  both 
hands,  and  our  morale  builded  up  on  the 
same  principles  that  are  handed  out  to  the 
soldiers,  you  must  agree  that  there  is  some- 
thing appalling  in  this  determined,  reckless 
exhibition  of  brute  force.  Even  although  I 
am  not  a  bit  sentimental  about  this,  I  must 
remark  that  it  seems  to  be  stupid.  The 
demonstration  does  not  seriously  alarm  any- 
one —  it  surely  demoralizes  no  one.  It  must 
be  pretty  costly.  Besides  that,  the  amount  of 
harm  it  does  is  infinitesimal  in  comparison 
to  the  effort.  One  life  sacrificed  in  that  way 
is  one  too  many,  but  more  lives  are  lost 
almost  any  day  by  the  ordinary  accidents  of 
life  than  by  this  superman  effort  of  frightful- 
ness.  As  for  the  air  raids  —  they  get  less 
and  less  effective,  as  the  air  defence  is  elab- 
orated by  actual  experience. 

Trying  as  the  week  has  been,  it  has  been 
absolutely  different  from  that  of  the  big 
battle  of  March.  We  have  hardly  heard  a 
gun.  Dead  silence  has  reigned  here,  and 
that  silence  has  been  terribly  trying.  We 
have  known  that  it  was  largely  an  infantry 
battle,  and  all  the  time  the  wind  has  blown 
steadily  from  the  north-east  —  what  Amelie 
calls  "  le  vent  des  Boches"  because  it  is  a 

[    194  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

wind  which  brings  their  gas  over.  But  that 
is  the  prevailing  wind  here  at  this  season, 
and  the  Germans  have  made  a  great  study 
of  meteorology,  as  a  military  science.  In 
the  drive  towards  Amiens  in  March,  the 
heavy  guns  played  a  big  part,  and  for  days 
and  nights  the  earth  shook  with  the  artillery 
play  even  as  far  south  as  this.  To-day,  the 
fourth  of  this  battle,  the  silence  is  almost 
terrifying.  I  keep  saying  to  myself,  "  Will 
the  heavy  artillery  never  get  to  work?" 

We  have  lost  Craonne,  and  the  Chemin 
des  Dames,  and  how  many  a  tragic  hilltop? 
Day  after  day  we  trace  the  battle-line  as  well 
as  we  can,  and,  as  it  approaches  us,  the  only 
consolation  is  that  though  it  bends  and  curves 
and  stretches,  it  does  not  break.  The  Ger- 
mans have  again  crossed  the  Aisne  and  the 
Vesle,  and  were  last  night  at  Fismes,  which 
the  English  retook  in  October,  1914,  some- 
thing like  twenty  miles  nearer  to  us.  Reims 
is  holding  out  superbly.  But  for  that  matter, 
with  its  tremendous  underground  structures, 
it  is  practically  impregnable.  I  don't  believe 
it  can  be  taken  except  by  a  siege,  but  the 
rermans  are  encircling  it  and  rapidly  ap- 
)roaching  Chateau-Thierry,  which  threatens 
)ur  railroad  communications. 
It  was  only  last  week  that  I  had  a  letter 
>m  you  in  which  you  said:  "Of  course 
tey  will  attack  again.  They  must  or  own 
icmselves  defeated.  But  they  will  not  be 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

so  strong."  Hm!  They  were  650,000 
against  80,000  when  this  battle  began.  Of 
course,  that  was  before  our  reserves  were 
brought  up.  I  sit  trembling  for  fear  of  a 
panic  again.  I  cannot  blame  these  poor 
people.  They  are  as  loyal  as  possible,  but 
our  roads  are  again  crowded  with  refugees 
flying  from  the  front.  It  is  a  horrid  sight. 

Wednesday  a  man  rested  at  my  gate.  He 
had  been  obliged  to  leave  his  farm  when 
the  surprise  attack  forced  the  army  back  so 
quickly  Sunday  that  civilians  had  no  time  to 
save  anything  but  their  lives.  He  had  left 
his  big  modern  reaping  machines  —  they  had 
to  be  destroyed  to  keep  them  from  falling 
into  German  hands.  He  had  left  two  thou- 
sand pounds  of  beans,  requisitioned  by  the 
army,  —  there  was  no  time  to  move  them, 
and  they  were  not  paid  for  —  burned  that 
the  enemy  might  not  get  them.  And  he  is 
only  one  of  thousands,  and  it  is  inevitable 
that,  after  the  first  excitement,  must  come 
the  sense  of  personal  loss.  I  could  under- 
stand that,  for  this  is  the  second  time  he 
had  been  driven  out. 

It  was  hard  to  find  just  the  right  thing  to 
say  —  especially  as  I  was  safe  —  so  far.  No 
personal  sacrifice  has  been  asked  of  me.  So 
I  said  finally:  "Don't  be  discouraged  yet. 
All  these  things  will  be  arranged,  and  your 
children  will  have  a  better  world  to  live  in. 
Besides,  the  American  boys  are  coming  over 

[  196  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

as  fast  as  they  can  get  here.  There  are 
nearly  a  million  here  now,  I  should  think." 

He  shook  his  head.  uToo  late,"  he  re- 
plied. "  What  are  a  million  against  the  three 
millions  the  Huns  have  brought  from 
Russia?" 

Well,  there  you  are,  and  can  you  blame 
him? 

It  was  Wednesday  that  things  began  to 
look  serious  here.  On  that  day  the  scenes 
of  1914  began  to  repeat  themselves.  The 
better  class  began  to  fly.  The  humbler 
farmers  and  peasants  began  to  hide  their 
belongings.  Caves  and  subterranean  pas- 
sages were  again  filled  with  furniture,  bed- 
ding and  household  treasures,  even  clothing. 
Some  of  the  richer  farmers  began  to  drive 
their  cattle  south,  and  some  people  even 
wheeled  their  possessions  in  wheelbarrows 
to  the  quarries  at  Mareuil,  where  work  had 
stopped,  owing  to  the  bombs  that  have  fallen 
there. 

It  was  in  vain  that  I  argued  that  there 
was  no  immediate  danger;  that  we  should 
get  warning  if  it  were  necessary  to  go;  that 
the  roads  were  sufficiently  blocked  already 
by  those  who  had  been  driven  out,  and  by 
the  army,  without  our  adding  further  to  the 
confusion.  The  peasants  and  the  farmers 
would  listen,  —  if  you  set  them  the  example, 
you  can  count  on  them,  but  not  so  well  on 
those  who  have  a  place  to  go  to,  and  money 

[  197  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

in  their  pockets  to  get  there.  Besides,  I 
really  was  "  talking  through  my  hat,"  and 
I  thought  to  myself,  "  If  I  am  a  bad  prophet 
they  may  mob  me,  and  serve  me  right  for 
interfering." 

In  the  meantime  Amelie  sat  tight.  I  had 
her  fixed  with  my  eye,  —  and  she  had  not 
forgotten  1914. 

Thursday  —  that  was  yesterday  —  was  the 
hardest  day.  All  night  the  confusion  on  the 
road  was  terrible.  Sleep  was  impossible. 
On  that  day,  while  every  one  was  rushing 
about  hiding  things  —  too  busy  to  do  any 
work  in  the  fields  —  a  group  of  refugees 
arrived  here.  As  a  rule,  we,  who  are  off 
the  main  road,  see  them  at  Quincy  and 
Voisins,  and  Couilly,  and  go  out  to  help 
them.  But  just  before  sunset  yesterday  one 
of  the  children  of  the  hamlet  came  running 
to  the  gate  with  the  news  that  a  group  of 
emigres  were  crossing  the  hilltop  by  the 
Chemin  Madame.  Of  course  if  they  were 
taking  that  road,  they  were  coming  here. 
It  leads  nowhere  else.  The  first  impulse  of 
every  one  seemed  to  be  to  hang  back.  Refu- 
gees here,  where  every  one  was  so  nervous, 
seemed  to  them  the  last  straw — especially 
at  the  moment  when  they  felt  pretty  sure  that 
another  day  or  two  might  see  them  all  refu- 
gees themselves.  But  they  are  children, 
these  simple  people.  So  when  I  started  hur- 
riedly up  the  road,  without  a  word,  to  meet 

[  198  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

them,  they  all  followed,  as  I  knew  they 
would.  I  thought  of  how  it  must  feel  to  be 
driven  out  of  one's  home,  and  to  enter,  at 
sundown  of  a  hot  day,  into  a  little  hamlet 
like  this,  not  knowing  what  kind  of  a  recep- 
tion awaited  one  —  was  it  to  he  a  welcome, 
or  only  curious  looks  from  indifferent  eyes? 

As  I  reached  the  corner  I  met  coming 
across  the  hill  a  procession  of  five  loaded 
farm  wagons,  drawn  by  big  sturdy  farm 
horses.  Beside  the  train  marched  a  middle- 
aged  man  and  half  a  dozen  boys.  In  the 
wagons  rode  the  women  and  children,  and  by 
them  ran  a  couple  of  dogs.  The  man  walk- 
ing at  the  head  of  the  group,  with  a  heavy 
stick  in  his  hand,  looked  about  fifty,  and 
was  apparently  the  leader.  When  I  smiled 
him  a  welcome,  he  took  off  his  hat,  and  then 
we  shook  hands  ceremoniously,  and  then  the 
Huiry-ites  all  followed  suit.  For  a  moment 
I  thought  it  was  going  to  be  a  real  function, 
and  I  was  about  to  tell  him  that  I  was  not 
the  Mayor  of  Huiry,  but  a  foreigner,  when 
I  was  spared  the  trouble.  He  spotted  me 
at  once,  and  said:  "  Fous  etes  Americaine, 
n'est-ce  pas?"  So  much  for  my  accent.  He 
explained  that  he  knew  the  accent.  He  had 
left  a  lot  of  our  boys  where  he  had  come 
from,  —  north  of  Compiegne. 

When  I  asked  him  what  we  could  do  to 
make  the  party  comfortable,  he  explained 
that  he  had  been  told  that  there  was  room 

[    199   J 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

on  the  hill  to  shelter  his  horses  for  the  night, 
and  that  that  was  all  they  needed.  If  we 
could  give  the  old  grandmother  and  her  little 
grandchild  a  bed,  the  rest  would  camp,  and 
then  he  added:  "We  don't  want  to  put  any 
one  out.  We  can  pay  for  everything.  But 
the  horses  must  rest  for  one  night,  as  we 
have  been  on  the  road  since  sunrise  yes- 
terday." 

You  should  have  seen  how  quickly  it  was 
arranged.  I  took  in  the  grandmother  —  she 
was  not  as  old  as  I  am,  by  the  way  —  and 
the  little  child,  whose  father  had  been  killed, 
and  whose  mother  is  a  nurse  in  a  hospital  in 
Paris,  and  a  pretty  blonde  girl,  who  proved 
to  be  the  aunt,  and  inside  half  an  hour  the 
horses  were  stabled,  the  wagons  under  cover, 
and  beds  ready  for  every  one,  and  a  kitchen 
found  in  the  house  across  the  road  from  me, 
which  was  empty. 

You  can  get  some  idea  of  what  these 
people  are  like  when  I  tell  you  in  a  jiffy  the 
women  turned  up  the  skirts  of  their  best 
dresses,  got  out  their  big  aprons,  and  went 
to  work  to  get  their  dinner.  They  had  every- 
thing with  them  —  chickens,  rabbits,  vege- 
tables, tinned  things,  bread,  and  even  char- 
coal. A  kind  welcome  had  made  them  cheer- 
ful, and  before  nine  o'clock  they  were  all 
established  at  an  improvised  table  on  the 
roadside,  eating,  chatting  and  laughing.  It 
was  a  sight  that  did  us  all  good. 
[  200  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

It  was  not  much  after  ten  when  the  women 
went  to  bed,  leaving  the  men  to  clear  up  and 
re-pack.  It  was  a  family  of  neighbours  — 
rich  shop  keepers,  hotel  keepers,  and  their 
farm  hands,  and  farmers.  One  man  told 
me  that  he  alone  had  left  fifty  thousand 
francs'  worth  of  materials  behind  him,  and 
his  only  prayer  was  that  the  Allies  had  been 
able  to  take  it  or  destroy  it.  There  was  no 
sign  of  class  distinction.  They  were  all  one 
family,  and  had  all  such  pretty  manners. 
The  baby  —  about  three  —  came  to  offer  her 
little  hand  when  she  was  put  to  bed,  and 
lisp  her  " Bon  soir,  Madame,  et  bonne  nuit" 
and  one  after  another  of  the  group  came 
into  the  garden  to  say  good-night. 

The  elderly  man  remarked  that  it  would 
be  pleasant  to  sleep  out  of  the  sound  of  the 
guns.  I  had  to  laugh,  as  I  replied : 

"  Well,  I  am  sorry  that  we  cannot  promise 
you  that.  We  are  just  in  front  of  the  guns 
of  the  outer  forts  of  Paris,  and  we  get  a 
Gotha  visit  almost  every  night." 

But  that  idea  did  not  disturb  them.  They 
had  been  accustomed  to  so  much  worse.  And 

re  enough,  we  had  hardly  got  into  bed, 
hen,  at  about  twenty  minutes  past  eleven, 
the  guns  began  to  fire  from  the  forts,  and 

{>r  an  hour  and  a  quarter  the  noise  was 
fernal. 
I  was  up   early  this  morning,  but,   as   I 
anted  to  keep  the  house  quiet,  in  order  that 
[    201     ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

my  tired  guests  might  sleep,  I  came  upstairs 
to  write  to  you.  The  news  is  bad  —  the 
Germans  are  in  Soissons  again,  and  the  Allied 
army  is  still  retreating  south  and  west.  Poor 
Soissons!  This  makes  the  third  time  its 
people  have  had  to  get  out.  I  remember  so 
well  that  day  in  the  end  of  August  —  the 
twenty-ninth,  I  think  —  in  1914,  when  the 
British  lost  it  the  first  time.  But  a  fortnight 
later  people  were  returning,  though  they  did 
not  stay  long,  as  the  following  January  the 
Germans  began  bombarding  it,  and  it  was 
not  until  March,  1917,  that  the  town  was 
again  safe  for  civilians,  and  now,  for  the 
third  time,  these  poor  people  are  wanderers 
again. 

Well,  my  guests  are  beginning  to  move 
about.  Amelie  is  calling  me  to  my  coffee, 
and  I  will  finish  this  later. 

Later 

All  sorts  of  things  have  happened  since  I 
went  down  to  breakfast.  I  have  only  time 
to  add  a  few  words  to  this.  News  has  come 
that  the  railroad  is  cut — for  civilians  —  at 
Meaux.  There  is  no  certainty  that  even  that 
communication  with  Paris  will  not  at  any 
moment  become  impossible.  I  am  leaving 
for  Paris  —  only  for  twenty-four  hours  —  at 
five  o'clock. 

I  will  write  to  explain  from  there.  In  the 
meantime  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  worry 

[    202    ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

yet.  In  case  of  any  change  in  my  plans  I 
shall  cable  so  that  you  will  know  where  I  am. 
I  shall  time  the  cable  to  reach  you  before 
this  letter  does  so  that  you  will  not  be  left 
in  any  uncertainty.  In  case  you  have  received 
no  word  by  wire  when  this  reaches  you,  you 
are  to  understand  that  I  am  back  here,  and 
all  is  well. 


[   203   ] 


XXIV 

5  Villa  Victor  Hugo,  Paris,  June  I,  !Qi8 

WELL,  here  we  are,  in  practically  the  same 
situation  as  on  that  memorable  September 
day  in  1914,  when  Amelie  and  I  made  our 
rush  to  Paris,  to  return  the  same  night  and 
find  the  British  army  at  the  gate,  at  the  end 
of  that  tragic  two  weeks'  retreat  from  Mons. 

This  is  what  happened. 

The  cordial  welcome  that  my  neighbours 
gave  the  refugees  who  arrived  Thursday 
on  the  hilltop  braced  them  up  and  consoled 
them  at  the  end  of  their  two  days'  pilgrim- 
age in  the  heat  and  dust,  and  their  calm  and 
courage  braced  us  all  up.  But  alas !  the  bad 
news  of  Friday  morning  spoiled  all  that. 
When  I  went  into  the  garden  after  my  coffee, 
I  found  them  in  the  road  at  the  gate,  with 
their  heads  over  a  newspaper  examining  a 
map  of  the  front.  I  was  not  especially  sur- 
prised when  the  leader  came  into  the  garden 
a  little  later,  and  said: 

"Well,  Madame,  although  you  were  all 
so  kind  as  to  urge  us  last  night  to  rest  here 
to-day  and  not  go  on  until  to-morrow,  we 
have  decided  that  it  is  hardly  wise.  We  are 
leaving  at  once,  and  making  for  Melun.  The 
[  204  ] 


in 

sa 

: 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

roads  are  crowded  now,  and  it  seems  to  us 
most  unsafe  here.  We  hope  to  reach  Melun 
during  the  night." 

Two  hours  later  they  were  gone. 

Not  long  after,  while  I  was  sitting  in  the 
garden,  listening  to  the  confused  noises  from 
the  moving  trains  of  refugees  on  the  road, 
and  trying  to  make  up  my  mind  calmly  what 
it  was  wisest  to  do,  Amelie  came  out,  and 
began  to  argue  the  matter  with  me.  To  my 
surprise  I  found  that  her  mind  was  fixed  on 
having  me  go  to  Paris  at  least,  and  wait 
there  for  the  turn  of  the  tide  —  for  turn  it 
must.  I  don't  really  know  why  it  must,  but 
I  feel  that  it  will.  All  her  arguments  did 
not  seem  sound,  but  some  of  them  were  wise 
enough. 

She  argued  that  every  one  had  gone  but 
the  farmers  and  peasants;  that  the  situation 
was  different  from  that  of  1914;  that  then 
I  belonged  to  the  most  powerful  of  the  neu- 
tral countries,  whereas  to-day  I  belonged  to 
the  most  hated  of  Germany's  enemies;  that 
even  if  we  were  not  invaded  we  risked  being 
bombarded;  that  in  case  of  a  bombardment 
they  could  all  live  in  the  subterranean  pas- 
ages,  and  not  mind  it  too  much,  but  that  it 
ould  be  unnecessarily  uncomfortable  for 
e;  that  I  could  still  get  to  Paris  with  a 
trunk,  but  in  case  of  a  hurried  evacuation 
ter  I  would  have  to  go  without  clothes  — 
nd  finally,  as  a  crowning  argument,  she  said, 

[  205  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

uWe  all  want  you  to  go,  and  we  shall  feel 
less  anxious  when  you  are  in  a  safer  place." 

I  heard  her  out,  but  I  was  doing  some 
pretty  tall  thinking.  One  thing  was  certain 
—  I  had  to  have  money.  Was  n't  history  re- 
peating itself?  It  was  already  taking  three 
and  sometimes  four  days  to  get  a  letter  into 
Paris,  and  almost  as  many  to  get  one  out. 
That  meant  that  it  would  take  nearly  a  week 
to  get  money  by  mail,  and  communications 
might  be  cut  at  any  minute.  Besides,  Amelie 
was  quite  right  on  one  point,  —  it  might  be 
prudent  for  me  to  have  a  trunk  in  Paris,  so 
that,  in  case  we  were  ordered  out,  I  could 
at  least  find  clean  clothes  at  the  end  of  my 
voyage. 

Finally  I  cut  the  argument  short. 

"  All  right,  Amelie,"  I  said.  "  I  '11  go  up 
to  Paris.  But  I  shall  come  right  back  as  soon 
as  I  get  some  money,  see  how  things  really 
are  in  Paris,  and  leave  my  trunk." 

uGood,"  said  Amelie,  jumping  up.  "Pack 
the  trunk  at  once.  There  is  a  train  at  five. 
I  '11  harness  in  an  hour.  That  will  give  you 
time  enough,  and  we  must  allow  for  the 
crowd  on  the  road." 

I  protested  that  the  next  morning  would 
do,  but  she  insisted  that  it  was  possible  that 
the  next  morning  I  might  not  be  able  to  get 
away.  I  didn't  believe  it,  but,  in  the  end,  I 
took  the  five  o'clock  train  —  that  was  day 

206 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

before  yesterday,  the  day  on  which  I  last 
wrote  to  you. 

We  started  away  silently,  except  that  I 
assured  every  one  who  came  out  to  say  good 
bye  to  me  that  there  was  no  good  bye,  as  I 
was  coming  back,  surely  no  later  than  Mon- 
day. But  as  we  drove  across  the  Chemin 
Madame  I  was  surprised  to  find  that  Amelie 
was  crying,  a  thing  she  rarely  does.  When  I 
leaned  forward  to  smile  into  her  face  she 
quite  broke  down. 

'  You  must  not  try  to  come  back.  None 
of  us  want  you  to.  It  is  too  dangerous. 
After  this  is  all  over  we  can  find  one  another 
again.  We  will  do  all  that  we  can  to  save 
your  house  and  all  your  things." 

"  Nonsense/'  I  replied,  "  of  course  I  am 
coming  back!  You  are  to  go  to  Couilly  to 
fetch  me  at  two  o'clock  on  Sunday,  and,  in 
case  I  am  not  there,  at  the  same  hour  Mon- 
day, when  I  shall  surely  be  there.  In  the 
meantime,  if  I  can  telegraph,  I  will.  Do  you 
understand?" 

"  I  understand  that  you  are  coming  if  you 
can  get  back." 

"  Fudge,"  I  replied,  but  I  knew  that  I  was 
taking  that  chance,  so  I  hurriedly  gave  her 
certain  instructions  in  case  our  hill  was  evac- 
uated ;  emptied  what  money  I  had  on  me  into 
her  lap;  carefully  wrote  out  a  couple  of 
addresses,  in  and  out  of  Paris,  where  she 

[  207  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

could  reach  me;  arranged  what  was  to  be 
done  about  all  the  beasties  in  case  worse 
came  to  worst,  and  the  one  consolation  I  felt 
was  that  in  case  Amelie  was  right  and  I 
wrong  about  the  situation  I  could  certainly 
serve  them  better  by  going  than  staying.  If 
a  bombardment  drove  them  down  into  the 
caves  I  should  be  an  embarrassment  to  them. 
If  military  orders  drove  them  into  the  roads, 
why  there  were  a  horse  and  donkey  and  two 
covered  wagons,  and  again  they  would  be 
more  at  ease  without  me,  while  outside  the 
zone  I  could  help  them  better  than  inside, 
and  prepare  a  refuge  for  them. 

But  as  I  stood  on  the  steps  at  the  station 
watching  Amelie  drive  away  I  knew  that 
she  was  still  crying  —  her  mind  made  up 
for  the  worst.  I  simply  refused  to  consider 
that  it  could  happen.  I  was  not  gay.  Who 
could  be  ?  You  never  saw  such  a  sight  as  the 
gare  was.  The  refugees  who  had  arrived 
thus  far  on  foot,  with  their  pitiful  bags  and 
parcels,  were  being  taken  on  by  the  rail- 
road. Hundreds  of  women  and  children 
from  Couilly  and  St.  Germain  and  Quincy 
were  flying,  taking  beds  and  all  sorts  of 
boxes  and  bundles  with  them.  It  was  1914 
all  over  again,  only  a  hundred  times  sadder. 

At  Esbly,  where  we  changed  cars,  it  was 
even  worse. 

The  train  from  Meaux  was  over  an  hour 
and  a  half  late.  The  platform  was  piled 

[  208  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

with  boxes  and  bundles,  trunks  and  baby-car- 
riages loaded  with  parcels,  baskets  and 
rolled-up  bedding.  The  crowd  was  as  sad- 
looking  as  the  baggage  —  women  leading 
children  and  dogs,  carrying  bundles  of  all 
sorts,  and  string-bags  in  which  shoes  and 
bread  were  conspicuous.  There  were  birds 
in  cages,  and  cats  crying  in  baskets.  The 
sight  did  not  tend  to  make  anyone  gay. 

It  was  a  strangely  silent  crowd  that  stood 
during  that  hour  and  a  half  of  weary  wait- 
ing while  train  after  train  of  rolling  stock 
from  up  the  line  was  hurried  towards  Paris, 
and  train  after  train  of  military  material  was 
rushed  through  to  Meaux.  When  the  train, 
which  should  have  come  at  twenty  minutes 
to  six,  finally  pulled  in  at  almost  half-past 
seven  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  back  at  that 
day  in  1914,  —  over  forty-five  months  ago. 

If  the  trip  to  town  had  not  had  some  en- 
couraging moments  I  am  afraid  that  I  might 
have  arrived  in  Paris  in  a  mood  not  far  re- 
moved from  that  in  which  I  had  left  Amelie 
at  Huiry. 

The  crowd  in  the  packed  compartment,  in 
which  I  found  a  place,  was  interesting. 
There  was  a  family  from  Nancy,  which  had 
been  stopping  at  Meaux,  there  was  an  in- 
firmiere  from  the  big  military  hospital,  Val 
de  Grace,  and  people  flying  from  Meaux, 
and  the  principal  topic  of  conversation  was, 
quite  naturally,  the  "boys  from  the  States." 

[  209  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

The  greatest  anxiety  of  every  one  but  the 
nurse  was  that  the  delay  of  the  train  would 
force  them  to  remain  over  night  in  bom- 
barded Paris. 

We  should  have  been  in  Paris  before 
seven  o'clock.  We  got  there  at  ten  minutes 
to  nine. 

All  along  the  line  we  had  been  side-tracked 
or  held  up  to  let  long  military  trains  have  the 
right  of  way  —  trains  packed  with  poilus- 
those  closed  cars  marked  "  hommes,  40, 
chevaux,  8;"  you  remember  them?  —  with 
men  sitting  in  the  open  doors,  their  feet 
hanging  out,  all  smoking  and  laughing,  trains 
camoufle  with  splashes  of  green  and  dirt- 
coloured  paint;  trucks  on  which  were  mounted 
all  sorts  of  cannon,  their  noses  in  the  air, 
trains  of  ammunition  wagons,  trains  of  trucks 
carrying  huge  gas-tanks  with  all  sorts  of 
cautionary  directions  in  huge  letters,  and, 
finally,  as  we  drew  out  of  Vaires  and  stopped, 
we  came  alongside  of  the  first  train  bllnde 
and  the  first  tanks  I  had  ever  seen.  The 
huge  armoured  train  —  camoufle,  of  course 
—  consisted  of  four  enormous  cars,  and  each 
had  its  lower  car  for  the  gunners.  On  the 
lower  roofs  sat  the  men,  singing  and  laugh- 
ing—  most  of  them  in  their  shirt-sleeves  — 
extraordinary  for  French  boys  —  and  each 
car  had  its  mascot.  On  one  was  a  white 
lamb,  with  a  ribbon  about  his  neck.  On  one 
was  a  monkey.  On  one  was  a  white  poodle, 
[  210  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

who  looked  as  if  he  had  just  had  a  bath.  On 
the  fourth  was  a  bird  in  a  cage. 

Somehow  all  this  bucked  me  up  tremen- 
dously. Every  one  was  hanging  out  of  the 
car  windows.  There  was  a  hearty  exchange 
of  courtesies.  There  was  no  sign  of  any- 
thing but  high  faith  and  cheery  good  humour 
on  the  faces  of  any  of  these  men,  who,  inside 
a  very  few  hours,  would  probably  be  in  the 
thick  of  it.  I  drew  a  long  breath  as  I 
thought  to  myself,  "Well,  the  French  are 
not  all  dead  yet.  With  spirit  like  this  they 
ought  to  be  able  to  stem  the  tide." 

The  scene  at  the  station  in  Paris  beggared 
all  description.  Never  since  the  war  began 
have  I  seen  anything  like  it.  The  baggage 
was  piled,  pell-mell,  on  the  platforms.  It 
had  been  apparently  many  days  since  there 
had  been  any  empty  space  in  the  baggage 
rooms.  One  had  to  pick  one's  way  through 
it  to  find  an  exit.  I  found  an  old  porter  who 
knew  me  to  carry  my  bag,  and  gave  him  a 
receipt  for  my  trunk.  He  shook  his  head 
and  advised  me  not  to  try  to  get  it  that  night, 
as  it  would  surely  be  hours  before  I  could 
find  it,  and  by  that  time  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  get  a  cab,  as  it  would  be  dark,  and 
cabs  do  not  care  to  make  long  trips  after 
dark,  when  a  Gotha  attack  is  an  almost 
nightly  occurrence.  There  seemed  to  be 
nothing  else  to  do,  although,  as  I  looked 
about,  I  saw  no  reason  why  anyone  could  not 

[    2"    ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

help  himself  to  a  good-looking  small  trunk 
like  mine  and  walk  off  with  it. 

When  we  got  outside  there  was  no  cab  in 
sight,  and  a  crowd  waiting.  So  the  old  man 
told  me  to  stay  right  where  I  was  —  not 
budge,  no  matter  what  happened,  even  if  he 
should  be  ten  minutes.  So  there  I  stood  fixed 
in  the  twilight,  watching  the  scene.  Now 
and  then  a  taxi-auto  would  come  in  through 
the  gate.  Instantly  twenty  people  would 
rush  to  meet  it.  It  was  a  real  case  of  short 
distance  sprinting  and  no  favour. 

But  that  did  not  interest  me  as  much  as  the 
big  camions  of  the  American  Red  Cross 
which  have  done  most  of  the  rescue  work 
during  this  evacuation.  The  refugees  who 
arrive  at  this  station,  after  they  have  been 
fed  and  cleaned,  are  carried  by  these  big 
camions  to  the  stations  on  the  lines  going 
out  to  the  south  and  west.  It  was  exciting 
for  Parisians  to  see  these  great  open 
camions,  with  sturdy  American  lads  in  their 
sombreros,  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  —  with  the 
sleeves  rolled  to  the  elbows  at  that,  —  stand- 
ing braced  on  widespread  feet,  with  their 
arms  folded,  as  the  autos  bumped  over  the 
pavements. 

It  was  not  ten,  but  twenty,  minutes  before 
my  old  porter  finally  came  back,  riding  on 
the  running-board  of  a  taxi.  I  was  glad  to 
see  him,  I  can  tell  you.  It  was  already  dark. 
It  was  ten  o'clock  when  I  reached  my  desti- 
[  212  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

nation,  and  I  had  left  home  at  four,  and  had 
had  no  dinner  —  not  that  this  is  very  impor- 
tant in  these  days. 

I  had  not  even  got  through  talking  when 
the  alerte  sounded.  But  this  is  getting  to  be 
a  common  occurrence,  so  that  it  would  not 
be  worth  recording,  if  it  had  not  been  a 
rather  unusual  raid.  It  was  quarter  to 
eleven  when  the  first  gun  fired,  and  fifty-five 
minutes  later  came  the  berloque.  But  while 
the  "all  clear"  was  being  bugled  in  the 
streets  there  came  a  second  alerte,  and  for  a 
few  minutes  the  sirene  and  the  B-flat  bugle 
did  a  duet,  and  I  assure  you  it  was  comic. 
People  who  had  started  from  the  abris  said 
the  whole  thing  was  very  funny  —  the  bugler 
lowered  his  bugle,  —  the  fireman  began  toot- 
ing his  horn,  —  people  who  had  come  out  of 
the  cellars  ran  back  —  anyway,  here  are 
more  points  for  the  future  makers  of  farce- 
comedy. 

After  it  was  all  over  we  stood  for  a  while 
on  the  balcony  listening  to  the  church  bells 
ringing  out  the  message  "  all  clear"  in  the 
suburbs.  It  sounded  so  pretty.  It  is  a  pity 
that  so  alluring  a  sound  in  the  night  should 
be  associated  with  anything  so  sinister.  On 
our  hill,  the  alerte  is  given  by  tolling  the 
bells.  I  don't  enjoy  that.  We  have  no  "  all 
clear  "  signal.  We  know  when  the  forts  stop 
firing  that  it  is  over. 

As  soon  as  I  had  my  trunk  in  Paris  I 

[   213   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

wanted  to  go  right  home  again.  I  found  real 
comfort  in  the  fact  that  if  I  were  driven  out 
of  my  home  I  should  have  at  least  a  change 
of  shoes  —  they  are  so  costly  just  now  —  sev- 
enty-five francs  a  pair  for  shoes  that  in  the 
old  days  cost  twenty-five.  But  since  I  was 
in  town  it  seemed  wise  to  look  the  situation 
over  carefully  and  provide  for  possibilities. 
One  thing  was  certain  —  if  I  were  actually 
forced  out  by  military  operations,  with  which 
neither  fear  nor  my  own  wishes  had  anything 
to  do,  why  then  Paris  would  be  no  place  to 
stay. 

There  is  not  in  my  mind  the  smallest 
chance  of  Paris  ever  being  taken  or  besieged. 
But  there  is  a  chance  that,  if  the  Germans 
pass  Compiegne,  they  can  mount  the  guns 
which  bombarded  Antwerp,  and  still  pound 
Dunkirk,  and  Paris  may,  for  a  few  days,  be 
seriously  bombarded.  In  case  of  that  possi- 
bility becoming  a  fact,  I  imagine  that  few  of 
us  foreigners  would  be  allowed  to  stay  in 
Paris,  and  I  have  spent  all  day  to-day,  which 
is  Sunday,  arranging  for  that  eventuality, — 
that  is  to  say,  all  except  what  has  been  spent 
writing  you  this  long  letter. 


XXV 

June  4,  igi8 

WELL,  here  I  am  at  home  again,  and  I 
have  been  very  busy  ever  since  I  got  here, 
most  of  the  time  chuckling.  Life  is  not  all 
tragic,  and  it  is  only  a  breath  over  the  line  to 
laughter,  as  usual. 

I  came  back  on  Monday,  the  second,  as 
I  said  I  should.  The  drive  on  Paris  at  both 
Chateau-Thierry  and  Compiegne  seems  to 
be  held  up.  The  Boches  are  in  Chateau- 
Thierry,  and  they  have  crossed  the  Marne 
at  Dormans,  southeast  of  Chateau-Thierry, 
but  they  are  still  outside  Compiegne.  Yes- 
terday was  the  eighth  day  of  the  big  battle, 
and  it  almost  appears  to  be  a  rule  that  an 
eight  days'  drive  is  about  all  an  army  can 
stand. 

The  trip  back  was  what  it  always  is  in 
these  days,  as  almost  the  only  soldiers  I  meet 
on  the  train  are  the  boys  from  the  States. 
But  they  are  not  much  given,  just  now,  to 
talk.  They  know  little  about  the  country, 
and  their  one  desire  seems  to  be  to  get  on  to 
the  job,  get  it  done,  and  get  home.  Besides, 
in  spite  of  anything  one  can  do,  there  is  a 
different  feeling  in  one's  heart  towards  them. 
The  French  and  English  seem  hardened  to 

[  215  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

it,  and  take  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course.  The 
boys  from  the  States  do  not,  yet. 

I  found  Amelie  waiting  at  the  station. 
She  was  visibly  surprised  to  see  me.  It  was 
quite  evident  that  she  had  not  expected  me. 
She  drove  me  up  the  hill  quite  sadly,  and 
her  only  comment  was : 

"  Now  you  '11  have  to  do  it  all  over  again. 
I  was  comfortable,  knowing  you  were  safe, 
and  now  I  've  got  to  go  through  it  all  again." 

When  I  got  to  the  house,  the  moment  I 
opened  the  door  I  discovered  one  reason  for 
her  discomfort  at  my  return.  The  house 
was  dismantled.  My  first  impulse  was  to 
scold,  but  when  I  realized  how  hard  they 
must  all  have  worked,  and  with  what  good 
intention,  I  decided  to  laugh  loud  and  long 
instead. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  house. 
There  was  not  a  curtain.  There  was  not  a 
dish  in  the  dining-room  nor  in  the  kitchen. 
The  mirrors  were  down,  and  pictures  on  the 
floor,  faces  to  the  wall.  My  winter  clothes, 
all  the  bed  and  body  linen  and  even  kitchen 
towels  had  been  packed,  and  everything  car- 
ried up  the  hill  and  hidden  underground. 
My  first  impulse  as  I  looked  about  the  dis- 
mantled home  was  to  be  very  cross,  but,  be- 
fore I  opened  my  mouth  I  looked  into  the 
library.  There  stood  my  books  all  along  the 
walls.  She  had  not  dared  touch  them.  The 
hearty  laugh  the  sight  simply  knocked  out 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

of  me  gave  me  time  to  appreciate  it.  As 
soon  as  I  could  get  my  face  straight  I  said: 
"  Oh,  Amelie,  Amelie !  And  you  said,  in 
1914,  that  nothing  would  ever  induce  you  to 
do  a  thing  like  this  again!  " 

"Well,  mistress,"  she  replied,  "it's  your 
things  I  Ve  hidden  this  time,"  which  was  per- 
fectly true.  Her  own  home  had  not  been 
touched. 

There  was  no  reply  to  be  made  to  that  ex- 
cept that  I  was  grateful  to  her  for  leaving 
me  something  to  read  and  my  typewriter. 
She  had  hidden  the  phonograph. 

She  explained  that  she  saw  no  way  to  hide 
the  books,  as  there  were  not  cases  enough 
or  time  enough  —  and  she  reasoned  that  if 
the  house  were  destroyed,  and  evidently  she 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  that,  I  could  go  on 
without  books,  but  that  I  would  be  glad  to 
have  bedding  and  dishes  and  clothes.  I  saw 
her  point  of  view.  She  did  not  see  mine. 

So  you  can  guess  how  I  am  living.  Amelie 
has  made  me  up  one  bed  with  her  sheets.  I 
drink  my  coffee  out  of  a  bowl,  and  stir  it  with 
a  pewter  spoon.  I  have  two  plates  and  a 
knife  and  fork  from  her  house.  I  know  a 
little  of  discomforts  of  which,  up  to  now,  I 
have  had  none.  I  am  going  to  support  it  a 
few  days.  I  really  have  not  the  heart  to 
order  all  that  hard  work  done  over  again  at 
once,  especially  as  Amelie'  is  not  yet  sure  that 
I  may  not  have  to  leave. 

[   217   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

The  atmosphere  is  anything  but  calm  here. 
Meaux  was  bombarded  yesterday,  and  more 
harm  done  in  an  hour  than  during  the  entire 
battle  of  the  Marne.  In  addition,  one  of  the 
first  regiments  du  choc,  the  boys  who  fell 
back  in  the  first  hours  of  the  attack  of 
May  27  —  less  than  two  hundred  are  left  of 
the  regiment  —  came  here  to  rest  before  re- 
tiring further  to  reorganize.  Naturally  they 
arrived  in  a  sadly  demoralized  condition,  in 
a  commune  rather  demoralized  already.  It 
was  an  unfortunate  combination.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  the  poilus  had  ever  brought 
anything  but  courage,  hope  and  gaiety  into 
the  place. 

Yet  let  me  tell  you  a  strange  thing.  Even 
with  Amelie,  whose  mind  is  made  up  that  we 
are  to  be  invaded,  that  idea  does  not  for  a 
moment  mean  that  she  believes  in  a  defeat. 
It  does  not  do  even  to  say  to  her  "  the  Ger- 
mans are  so  strong."  Any  speech  like  that 
arouses  her  anger.  She  replies  with  a  vicious 
emphasis : 

"They  are  no  stronger  than  we  are.  If 
they  are,  why  have  they  not  beaten  us,  when 
they  were  ready,  and  we  were  not,  when  they 
are  so  much  more  numerous  than  we  are,  and 
have  three  times  as  many  guns? "  And  they 
have,  you  know.  But  that  does  not  prevent 
one  from  dreading  an  invasion  all  the  same. 

As  long  ago  as  the  first  weeks  of  the  war 
I  wrote  you  that  I  could  not  foresee  a  defeat 

[  218  j 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

for  France,  and  that  I  believed  that  even  if 
her  armies  were  beaten  back  to  Bordeaux, 
with  their  backs  against  the  Biscay,  I  was 
convinced  they  would  still  hold  out.  Of 
course  they  could  not  have,  if  all  the  world 
had  not  come  to  their  aid,  but  is  n't  it  a  legit- 
imate matter  of  pride  that  France,  as  a  na- 
tion and  as  a  people,  has  made  herself  so 
dear  to  the  affections  of  :he  world,  and  the 
cause  for  which  she  stands  so  just,  that 
twenty  governments  have  ranged  themselves 
beside  her,  so  that  even  though  Paris  be 
taken,  even  though  the  army  of  France  be 
wiped  out,  Germany  would  have  no  chance 
to  win,  for  all  the  United  States  will  come 
over  before  that  can  happen. 

I  sometimes  wonder  if  it  is  possible  for 
you  to  understand  just  what  it  means  to  be 
French  to-day?  The  men  from  the  States, 
great  as  their  sacrifice  is,  leave  their  women 
and  children  in  security.  The  men  of  France, 
standing  out  there  in  that  battle-line,  have 
not  that  comfort,  for,  while  they  are  offering 
their  lives  for  the  cause,  right  over  their 
heads  the  enemy  is  sending  death  to  their 
very  firesides.  Startling  idea,  isn't  it? 

Our  roads  are  full  of  moving  artillery  — 
Americans  passing  everywhere,  and  the  en- 
thusiasm for  them  grows  every  day. 

The  heavy  artillery  was  very  noisy  at 
noon.  But  we  are  so  used  to  that  that  we 
are  nervous  without  it.  When  we  don't  hear 

[  219  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

it  every  one  here  thinks  nothing  is  doing,  and 
that,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  we  all  know 
the  present  battle  is  a  battle  of  movement, 
an  infantry  battle,  the  sort  of  battle  in  which 
the  French  are  most  at  home. 

It  looks  to-night  as  if  Compiegne  were 
safe,  although  it  has  suffered  badly  from  the 
artillery  fire.  Do  you  remember  the  last 
day  we  were  there,  and  lunched  at  the  hand- 
some new  hotel  at  the  entrance  of  the  forest, 
with  its  wide  verandah  and  its  awnings  —  so 
much  more  English  than  French,  —  and  how 
we  drove  through  the  forest  to  take  tea  at 
Pierrefonds  ?  I  remember  it  was  a  hunts  day, 
and  every  little  way,  down  the  long  vistas  of 
trees,  we  saw  the  huntsmen  dashing  across, 
and  heard  the  horns.  It  is  a  lovely  memory. 
Though  the  town  is  so  badly  hurt,  we  are 
told  the  palace,  with  its  souvenirs  of  Napo- 
leon III,  has  been  spared  by  order  of  the 
Kaiser,  as  it  was  there  he  planned  to  make 
his  last  rest  on  the  route  to  Paris,  to  put  on 
his  white  uniform  de  parade,  and  take  his 
automobile  for  the  fortifications,  where  his 
war-horse  was  to  wait  him  and  carry  him 
into  Paris,  and  through  the  Arc  de  Tri- 
omphe,  —  another  of  those  illusions  already 
twice  destroyed,  since  he  waited  outside 
Nancy,  ready  to  enter.  It  has  been  a  close 
shave  each  time,  but  "  a  miss  is  as  good  as 


a  mile." 


[   220  ] 


XXVI 

June  22,  1918 

THINGS  have  not  changed  much  since  I 
wrote  you.  The  battle  seems  for  the  mo- 
ment stationary,  but  we  all  know  that  it  is 
only  held  up  until  the  Germans  can  re-organ- 
ize another  coup.  As  that  of  March  2ist 
extended  from  Cherizy  to  the  forest  of 
Coucy,  and  that  of  May  2yth  along  the 
tragic  Chemin  des  Dames,  from  the  defences 
of  Soissons  to  Reims  and  across  the  Marne 
the  other  side  of  Chateau-Thierry,  about 
thirty  miles  from  us,  we  are  unusually  nerv- 
ous right  here  as  to  the  direction  of  the  next 
attack.  If  it  should  be  in  the  direction  of 
Meaux  it  would  be  all  up  with  us. 

By  a  strange  chance  it  is  on  the  sector 
which  includes  Chateau-Thierry  that  the 
boys  from  the  States  are  holding  the  line  and 
holding  it  bravely  —  brilliantly.  Isn't  it 
odd  to  think  that  while  they  are  all  along  the 
line  it  should  be  at  the  point  where  an  ad- 
vance would  menace  my  house  that  the  "  boys 
from  home  "  should  be  doing  their  most  con- 
spicuous work?  The  people  about  me  are 
really  sentimental  on  the  subject.  You 
would  think,  from  their  attitude,  that  I  had 

[    221     ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

especially  ordered  the  arrangement.  Per- 
haps I  will  be  mobbed  if  they  don't  hold  on ! 

We  hear  the  guns  intermittently.  There 
is  an  almost  daily  movement  of  American 
troops  over  the  route  to  Meaux.  I  do  not 
see  them.  We  have  been  dealt  three  air 
raids  since  I  last  wrote,  and  now,  as  we  have 
a  tir  de  barrage  from  five  points  in  an  arc 
about  us,  the  noise  of  the  guns  of  defence  is 
terrible. 

Almost  every  day  a  new  group  of  refugees 
arrive.  We  have  a  large  number  from  Acy, 
near  Soissons,  and  within  a  mile  or  two  of 
Sarches,  where  the  Englishwomen  who  used 
to  be  at  Meaux,  and  of  whom  I  think  I  wrote 
you,  went  last  fall  to  organize  a  big  foyer. 
Somehow,  in  all  the  excitement  of  the  last 
month,  it  was  not  until  the  people  from  Acy 
arrived  that  I  realized  that,  of  course, 
the  big  foyer  at  Sarches  must  have  been 
destroyed. 

It  was. 

A  week  ago  last  Tuesday  they  surprised 
me  by  walking  into  the  garden.  They  had 
come  over  from  Meaux,  where  they  stopped 
in  the  retreat,  to  help  in  the  hospital,  where 
they  were  short  of  nurses.  I  am  afraid  they 
were  surprised  when  they  found  me  here. 
They  insisted  that  I  was  not  to  stay,  that  the 
Americans  at  Meaux  sent  word  that,  if  I 
were  still  here,  I  was  to  be  told  that  I  was 
"  crazy  to  stay." 

222 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

They  had  passed  through  a  terrible  ex- 
perience, seeing  all  they  had  organized  so 
well,  and  all  they  had  collected  and  arranged 
—  libraries,  music  rooms,  tennis  courts,  dear 
little  houses  and  gardens  —  destroyed,  and 
had  made  a  tragic  retreat  over  roads  full  of 
empty  gun-carriages,  flying  women  and  chil- 
dren, retreating  soldiers,  exploding  ammuni- 
tion as  the  retiring  army  destroyed  its  stores 
to  prevent  the  Germans  from  getting  what 
could  not  be  carried.  They  arrived,  nerve- 
tired,  at  Meaux  to  go  right  into  the  crowded 
hospital,  just  in  time  (they  were  on  night 
service)  to  stand  to  their  posts  when  the  air 
raid  on  the  morning  of  the  third  of  June  did 
such  damage  only  a  short  distance  from  the 
ambulance.  It  was  no  wonder  that  they 
were  a  bit  pessimistic  about  our  chances  here. 
They  were  sweetly  sympathetic  about  the 
house  and  my  library,  and  wanted  me  to 
make  an  effort  to  get  military  automobiles  to 
come  and  take  away  my  treasures  before  it 
was  too  late. 

But  for  that  I  had  no  ambition.  Military 
automobiles  have  too  much  work  to  do  which 
is  more  important,  and  I  thought  it  would  be 
time  enough,  if  ever,  when  we  were  warned 
to  get  out. 

"  But  you  will  get  no  warning,"  they  ex- 
claimed; "if  you  wait  for  that  it  will  be  too 
late." 

But  my  mind  was  made  up.  I  have  often 

[  223  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

wondered  what  would  become  of  all  the  stuff 
I  have  collected  about  me  when  I  have  done 
with  it.  Don't  you  remember,  even  in  the 
old  days  before  I  came  out  here,  I  used  to 
laugh  about  it  with  you?  A  poor  person's 
library,  got  together  haphazard,  is  like  one's 
collection  of  friends,  —  no  one  else  wants  it. 
I  'd  hate  the  idea  of  its  being  sold,  and  turn- 
ing up  for  years  after  in  the  dusty  boxes  on 
the  quais,  as  I  have,  in  my  time,  found  the 
books  of  others.  Well,  if  it  were  to  go  up  in 
srnoke,  as  my  sacrifice  f6r  the  victory,  I 
shan't  care.  In  fact,  it  will  be  a  fine  end,  and 
settle  one  anxiety  in  my  mind. 

They  insisted  so  much  about,  at  least,  my 
leaving  that  I  was  glad  to  be  able  to  tell  them 
that  I  was  going  to  Paris  next  day,  and  I  did 
not  tell  them  that  I  was  coming  directly  back 
—  but  I  did. 

I  was  glad  I  went,  for  I  had  a  most  inter- 
esting trip,  and  saw  thousands  of  our  boys. 
I  don't  see  much  of  them  unless  I  do  move 
about  a  bit,  for  they  just  rush  by  here  to 
Chateau-Thierry. 

I  went  up  last  Friday.  On  the  route  de 
Meaux,  as  I  drove  down  to  the  station,  I 
found  the  road  simply  full  of  camion-loads 
of  the  boys  from  home.  As  Ninette  walked 
slowly  along  the  line,  I  leaned  out  to  call  my 
greeting  to  the  boys  in  English.  I  wish  you 
could  have  seen  their  smiling  faces.  It  took 
Ninette  half  an  hour  to  go  from  the  top  of 
[  224  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

the  hill  down  to  the  station,  and  I  did  my  best 
to  give  them  a  solo  acclamation  all  the  way, 
and  they  returned  the  compliment. 

As  my  train  ran  into  Esbly,  we  passed  car- 
load after  carload,  side-tracked  outside  the 
station,  all  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  sitting  in  the 
cattle-cars  which  carry  the  French  troops, 
eating  their  breakfast  in  picnic  fashion.  I 
longed  to  run  back  down  the  track  to  greet 
them,  but  I  had  not  time,  so  I  bought  up  all 
the  English  papers  I  could  get — a  few  Paris 
Heralds  and  Daily  Mails  —  and  sent  them 
down  by  the  station-master,  who  was  only 
too  glad  to  make  the  trip. 

The  excitement  in  the  station  was  intense. 
Every  one  was  crowded  on  the  end  of  the 
platform  from  which  the  train-load  of  Amer- 
icans could  be  seen.  You  would  have 
thought,  from  their  air,  that  the  war  would 
be  over  day  after  to-morrow.  You  should 
have  seen  their  faces  and  heard  the  tone  of 
their  voices  when  they  spoke  of  "  ces  braves 
garqons  de  I'Amerique"  I  told  you  at  the 
time  that  war  was  declared  in  Washington 
that  we  were  a  lucky  people.  Our  boys  have 
come  over  to  cast  the  deciding  vote  in  a  long- 
tied  struggle.  They  are  going  to  get  credit 
for  that  decision.  Please  God  they'll  play 
up  to  the  enthusiasm  there  is  for  them, — 
and  modestly  do  full  justice  to  the  great  sac- 
rifices which  have  prepared  the  road  for 
them. 

[  225  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

It  is  lucky  that  in  these  days  I  rarely  read 
in  the  train  —  the  road  is  too  interesting  — 
otherwise  I  should  have  missed  seeing  the 
groups  of  lads  from  the  States  bivouacked 
all  along  the  line,  lying  on  the  banks  or 
grouped  about  eating.  I  rode  most  of  the 
way  at  the  open  window,  waving  my  greet- 
ings, and  they  not  only  always  waved  back  as 
cordially  as  if  they  had  known  I  was  a  fellow 
citizen,  but  often  rose  to  their  feet  to  do  it. 

I  found  Paris  quiet,  —  it  was  the  fifteenth, 
and  the  big  gun  had  ceased  firing  on  the 
twelfth,  and  there  had  been  no  air  raids  for 
nine  nights.  But  on  Sunday  night  there  was 
a  terrible  one,  in  which  there  were  lives  lost 
and  a  big  fire  started.  It  began  at  twenty 
minutes  after  eleven  and  lasted  until  one 
o'clock  —  long  enough  to  spoil  the  night. 

On  the  train  Monday  I  read  the  news  that 
the  big  offensive  for  Venice  had  begun,  so 
there  is  one  more  cause  for  hourly  suspense, 
but  the  worst  seemed  to  be  over  in  three  days 
—  this  time  the  Italians  are  holding. 

The  weather  has  been  queer.  For  a  month 
here  we  had  practically  no  rain,  and  every- 
thing is  drying  up.  My  lawn  is  a  pitiful 
sight,  but  that  is  no  matter.  What  does 
matter  are  the  potatoes  and  beans. 

Last  night  we  had  a  most  remarkable  sun- 
set. I  never  saw  anything  at  all  like  it,  or 
anything  of  the  sort  that  was  so  strangely 
beautiful.  The  western  horizon  was  like  the 

c  226  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

flames  of  a  huge  fire  —  copper  and  gold  with 
a  background  of  sullen  red.  From  the  point 
where  the  sun  was  sinking  started  broad 
clouds  like  banners,  extending  in  even  rays, 
like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel,  up  to  the  zenith 
and  paling  down  to  the  east.  These  cloud 
rays  were  almost  white  on  one  edge  and 
blackish  gray  on  the  other.  They  were  even 
in  width,  and  as  evenly  spaced  as  if  done  with 
a  compass,  and  they  curved  with  the  dome  of 
the  heavens.  Every  one  was  out  on  the  hill 
to  watch  the  spectacle,  and  if  I  had  seen  it  in 
a  picture  and  not  with  my  own  eyes,  I  could 
not  have  believed  it  to  be  a  true  bill. 


[  227 


XXVII 

June  29,    igi8 

I  GOT  up  this  morning  feeling  as  if  I  had 
never  had  a  trouble  in  the  world.  All  my 
nervousness  had  disappeared  in  the  night. 
I  'd  like  to  think  that  it  presages  something 
remarkable.  I  am  afraid  it  only  means  that 
I  slept  from  ten  to  six  without  budging, — 
which  is  unusual.  You  can  guess  how  sound 
my  sleep  was  when  I  tell  you  that  there  was 
a  raid  last  night,  and  I  never  heard  it.  I  am 
generally  a  light  sleeper.  I  never  expected 
to  arrive  at  sleeping  through  a  bombardment. 
But  I  have.  So  it  may  be  that  I  am  getting 
used  to  it.  I  am  willing,  for  it's  small  serv- 
ice I  can  render  listening  to  the  racket.  I 
can't  stop  the  bombs,  nor  bring  down  the 
Gothas,  though  if  wishing  it  on  them  would 
accomplish  it  they  would  long  ago  have  been 
all  annihilated. 

It  has  been  rather  a  busy  and  picturesque 
week. 

Last  Sunday  —  that  was  the  twenty-third 
—  we  had  the  304th  dragoons  camped  here 
for  the  night  —  the  very  biggest  cantonne- 
ment  we  have  ever  had,  and  I  had  the  Cap- 
tain in  the  house. 

[  228  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

They  arrived  at  six  o'clock,  and  it  was  one 
of  the  hottest  days  I  ever  saw.  They  had 
been  in  the  saddle  since  four  in  the  morning. 

The  quartermaster  and  a  couple  of  cor- 
porals had  been  here  all  day  preparing  the 
cantonnement.  We  had  eighty  horses  in  the 
little  railed-in  pasture  on  the  top  of  the  hill, 
which  we  never  thought  was  too  big  for 
Ninette  and  Bijou,  and  fifty  in  the  smaller 
one  where  we  used  to  put  the  goat.  These 
two  little  pares,  as  Pere  calls  them,  are  on 
either  side  of  the  devise,  a  bit  of  City  of 
Paris  land  following  the  line  of  the  Paris 
water  conduits  from  the  Ourcq  to  Paris,  and 
across  it  runs  a  footpath,  always  kept  clear, 
which  is  barred  at  regular  distances  so  that 
it  resembles  a  hurdle-course,  though  it  is  only 
for  pedestrians. 

I  never  had  such  respect  or  understanding 
for  the  tremendous  work  required  to  keep  an 
army  going  as  I  had  while  I  watched  that 
regiment  arrange  itself  just  for  this  etape  of 
ten  hours.  Every  one  knew  just  what  to  do. 
In  less  than  an  hour  after  the  head  of  the  line 
came  into  the  courtyard  at  Pere's  where  the 
kitchens  and  big  commissary  wagons  were  set 
up,  all  was  in  order. 

I  sat  on  a  big  stone  beside  the  road  and, 
while  the  horses  were  being  led  in  a  line  to 
the  watering-troughs,  I  saw  the  speed  with 
which  posts  four  feet  high  attached  with 
heavy  cords  were  driven  into  the  ground  some 

[  229  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

ten  feet  apart  along  both  sides  of  the  footpath. 
To  these  posts  such  of  the  horses  as  could 
not  be  stabled  or  put  into  our  little  enclosures, 
were  attached  by  their  halters.  It  took  al- 
most less  time  than  it  takes  me  to  write  it  for 
saddles  to  be  removed,  nose  bags  to  be  ad- 
justed, and  there,  close  around  the  four  sides 
of  the  enclosures,  and  almost  shoulder  to 
shoulder  down  either  side  of  the  footpath, 
the  horses  ate,  while  saddles  were  being  in- 
spected and  piled  in  regular  heaps  in  the 
centre  of  the  enclosure  and  against  the  bar- 
riers on  the  outside.  Every  one  was  busy, 
there  was  plenty  of  blague  falling  about,  but 
no  one  seemed  to  get  into  anyone's  way,  and 
by  nine  o'clock  everybody  was  eating. 

My !  but  it  takes  lots  to  feed  them.  They 
threw  whole  beeves  out  of  the  big  camion, 
—  an  old  Paris  tram-car,  if  you  please,  with 
windows  replaced  by  wire  screenings,  inside 
which  the  beef  and  mutton  hung  up  just  as  it 
does  at  the  butcher's,  —  while  whole  kegs  of 
beer  had  a  camion  of  their  own,  and  the 
vegetable  kettles  were  almost  as  big  as 
barrels. 

While  the  dinner  was  preparing,  and  a 
huge  dish  of  eggs  which  it  took  two  men  to 
carry  was  being  cooked  in  my  kitchen,  the 
men  washed  up  wherever  they  could  find  a 
place.  I  suppose  you  have  heard  that  the 
poilu  never  washes  unless  he  has  to.  It  is  a 
standard  joke.  There  are  exceptions.  You 
[  230  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD  , 

ought  to  have  seen  the  court  at  Amelia's,  and 
what  I  sarcastically  call  my  basse  cour. 

Long  ago,  when  I  thought  I  'd  raise  geese 
— I  never  told  you  about  that,  perhaps?  — 
one  of  my  follies  —  for  lack  of  a  brook  I 
bought  a  huge,  flat,  round  bathtub.  It  was  a 
metre  and  a  half  in  diameter.  When  I  gave 
up  raising  geese  the  tub  was  put  in  the  tool 
house,  and  there  it  stood  on  end.  The  poilus 
found  it.  Just  as  I  was  coming  through  the 
long  garden  at  Amelie's,  which  runs  beside 
the  chickens'  home,  with  only  a  high  grillage 
between,  a  loud  voice  warned  me  with :  "  At- 
tention. Defense  d'entrer.  Salle  de  bain 
privee"  and  I  got  through  the  gate  in  time 
to  avoid  a  study  in  the  nude.  Amelie  ex- 
plained when  I  got  through  that  they  were 
sprinkling  one  another  in  the  tub  with  the  big 
watering-pot. 

They  were  still  eating  when  I  went  to  bed. 

As  I  closed  up  for  the  night  I  thought  to 
myself  "  It  is  dollars  to  doughnuts  that  the 
Gothas  will  come  to-night."  And  just  before 
eleven  they  did,  and  the  barrage  was  not 
silent  until  midnight. 

Amelie  told  me  in  the  morning  that  the 
boys  simply  put  out  their  lights,  and  finished 
cleaning  and  repacking  in  the  dark. 

Just  imagine  how  much  actual  work  all 
this  means,  when  I  tell  you  that  at  three 
o'clock  the  next  morning  they  were  up  and  at 
work,  and  at  half-past  three  they  were  in  the 

[   231   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

saddle,  and  the  long  line  of  cavalry  and  the 
big  commissary  wagons  and  the  ammunition 
train,  with  its  mule-drawn  mitrailleuses,  were 
trotting  and  rattling  on  the  road  again. 

We  had  one  day's  rest  and  then  the  iO2nd 
artillery  came  in  for  the  same  sort  of  a  re- 
pose. It  was  a  different  kind  of  cantonne- 
ment,  of  course,  as  there  were  no  horses  ex- 
cept those  of  the  officers;  everything  else  — 
men,  cannon,  ammunition,  equipment  —  was 
carried  on  camions  and  in  lorries.  But  the 
little  road  in  front  of  my  house  has  never 
been  so  picturesque.  All  along  that  road 
from  the  turn  above  the  well  at  Amelie's  to 
that  below  where  it  goes  into  Voisins,  in 
front  of  Mademoiselle  Henrietta's,  a  line  of 
camions  carrying  guns  was  drawn  up,  and  in 
the  open  space  in  front  of  my  gate  the  am- 
munition wagons  were  simply  packed.  In 
this  etape  there  were  no  kitchens  and  no  com- 
missary. The  men  each  carried  one  day's 
rations,  and  the  officers  rode  down  to  the 
hotel  at  Couilly  to  dine. 

I  thought,  as  I  looked  out  of  my  bedroom 
window,  that  night,  "La!  la!  if  the  Gothas 
get  this  to-night  they  will  make  a  mess." 
But  they  did  not.  And  before  daylight  the 
next  day  they  were  off. 

We  are  still  waiting  for  some  sign  of  the 
next  movement  at  the  front,  and  of  course 
all  this  military  activity  means  something. 

The  artillery  had  hardly  got  away  when 
[   232   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

news  came  that  the  2ist  dragoons  were  com- 
ing in,  and  while  I  was  talking  to  the  Cap- 
tain's orderly,  who  was  arranging  the  offi- 
cers' quarters  here,  and  I  was  explaining  the 
kitchen  to  the  cook — for  four  officers  were 
to  eat  in  the  house  —  I  got  a  telegram  from 
Paris  telling  me  to  come  up  without  delay, 
as  I  was  wanted  at  the  Embassy.  So  I  had 
just  time  to  welcome  the  Captain  as  he  rode 
in,  and  catch  the  noon  train. 

I  went  directly  to  the  Embassy,  where  I 
was  informed  that,  at  the  request  of  the 
French  Government,  all  strangers  were  being 
asked  to  leave  Paris  as  well  as  the  war  zone. 
The  explanation  given  was  that  while  no  one 
thought  it  possible  that  the  Germans  could 
get  to  Paris,  it  was  possible  —  perhaps  prob- 
able—  that  Paris  would  be  bombarded.  As 
far  as  I  was  personally  concerned  they  con- 
sidered my  situation  untenable,  as  even  a 
slight  advance  on  the  Marne  would  bring 
me  within  fifteen  miles  of  the  firing  line, 
where  I  would  be  an  embarrassment  to  the 
army,  —  in  fact,  though  they  put  it  more 
politely,  a  nuisance.  All  my  papers  had  to 
be  examined  and  'vised,  and  I  had  to  select 
a  place  to  go,  which  was  properly  written 
against  my  name  in  the  list  of  Americans 
allowed,  in  the  last  combing  out,  to  remain 
in  France,  and  then  I  was  told  that,  as  I 
lived  in  the  zone  des  armees,  and  travelled 
at  the  pleasure  of  the  Fifth  army  corps,  I 

[  233  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

would  have  to  go  to  the  French  bureau  which 
controlled  circulation  on  the  railroads,  and 
get  a  French  vise. 

Before  we  left  the  house  we  had  agreed 
that  if  it  became  necessary  to  leave  the  town 
we  would  go  to  Versailles,  as  a  first  etape. 
It  is  outside  the  fortifications  to  the  south- 
west, and  in  case  of  need  it  would  be  easier 
to  retreat  west  from  there  than  from  the 
city  proper.  Of  course  what  the  authorities 
are  really  trying  to  do  is  to  avoid  the  possi- 
bility of  a  panic  at  the  railway  stations  at 
the  last  minute  in  case  the  town  is  bombarded. 
There  are  plenty  of  people  who  will  not  take 
this  warning  seriously,  but  a  great  number 
will,  and  the  fewer  people  there  are  in  the 
city  the  better. 

The  passport  department  had  been 
crowded.  It  was  evident  that  they  were 
combing  people  out  carefully.  I  had  only 
escaped  hours  of  waiting  on  the  stairs  by 
being  discovered  by  an  old  Boston  friend 
who  needed  a  witness  to  swear  to  her  iden- 
tity. But,  even  with  that  advantage,  which 
admitted  me  long  before  my  turn,  the  process 
was  a  long  one,  and  my  papers  were  exam- 
ined by  at  least  six  men  before  I  escaped 
and  pushed  my  way  downstairs  through  the 
waiting  crowd.  I  had  been  telegraphed  for 
by  a  friend  as  we  were  called  alphabetically. 

From  the  Embassy  I  went  to  the  French 
bureau  on  the  rue  de  Rivoli.  There  I  found 

[  234  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

the  waiting  line  extending  down  the  street 
and  round  the  corner,  and  at  that  hour  of 
the  day  the  sun  shines  right  into  the  colon- 
nade. There  I  stood  in  the  heat,  in  a  push- 
ing line,  for  an  hour  before  my  turn  came 
to  even  enter  the  building.  When  I  finally 
got  in  and  found  my  proper  man,  I  was  told 
that  my  papers  were  in  perfect  order,  that  I 
could  go  to  Versailles  whenever  I  desired. 
And  I  was  told  that  the  sooner  I  left  Paris 
the  better.  I  took  the  advice  forty-eight 
hours  later,  but  I  did  not  go  to  Versailles, 
I  came  back  here.  I  tell  you  all  this  just  to 
show  you  what  it  is  like  to  be  here  now. 
There  is  an  even  chance  either  way,  that's 
all. 

I  stayed  in  town  Wednesday  and  Thurs- 
day night,  and  came  home  yesterday.  On 
both  nights  there  was  a  bad  air  raid.  That 
on  Wednesday  destroyed  a  big  shop  which 
we  both  know,  and  that  on  Thursday  was 
the  noisiest  I  have  heard  since  March,  and 
one  of  the  most  destructive.  It  began  at 
half-past  nine  and  lasted  until  midnight,  and 
the  bombs  seemed  to  be  distributed  over  a 
wide  area.  Just  as  in  the  big  March  raid  I 
had  happened,  by  accident,  on  one  of  the 
bombarded  regions,  so  yesterday  morning  I 
went  through  another  on  my  way  to  the 
station  —  the  Place  Vendome.  But  all  the 
damage  I  could  see  was  a  terrible  destruc- 
tion of  window  glass.  There  was  hardly  a 
whole  pane  in  the  square. 

c  235 1 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

On  arriving  at  Couilly  I  found  the  road 
up  the  hill  full  of  ammunition  camions,  and 
Ninette  climbed  up  with  the  huge  camions 
full  of  big  obns  crawling  by.  I  own  to  have 
felt  foolishly  nervous  as  they  jerked  slowly 
along.  I  felt  as  if,  should  one  backslide  or 
topple  over,  I  should  see  Kingdom-come  be- 
fore this  cruel  war  was  over.  Of  course  I 
knew  they  wouldn't,  but  we  have  had  some 
queer  accidents  on  that  road  since  the  great 
activity  which  has  never  ceased  began  on 
May  twenty-sixth. 

I  found  the  2ist  dragoons  had  gone. 
Amelie  said  they  had  seemed  very  happy  — 
the  officers  —  and  I  imagine  they  had  a  bet- 
ter time  than  if  I  had  been  at  home,  for  they 
had  the  freedom  of  the  house  and  no  fear 
that  they  were  putting  its  mistress  out. 
Amelie  said  they  did  not  leave  the  garden 
at  all  —  that  they  read  and  played  cards  and 
wrote  and  chatted  all  day,  and  had  their 
coffee  out  on  the  lawn;  but  I  found  a  little 
note,  tucked  into  the  drawer  in  the  salon 
table,  from  the  Captain,  saying: 

"  Please  read  here  the  cordial  thanks  and 
respectful  homages  of  a  Captain  who  was 
bitterly  disappointed  that  his  charming  host- 
ess, as  soon  as  he  had  set  eyes  on  her, 
disappeared." 

Really,  aren't  they  wonderful?  It  is  not 
only  that  they  feel  the  necessity  to  do  that 
sort  of  thing,  but  that  they  are  so  uncon- 

c  236  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

scious  and  do  it  so  well,  and  sign  it  all  up 
with  their  names  and  rank. 

I  told  you  that  I  was  feeling  very  chipper 
when  I  began  this,  and  I  am.  I  wish  I  knew 
why.  It  is  not  only  that;  I  simply  ordered 
Amelie  this  morning  to  set  my  house  in 
order.  I  don't  care  how  many  people  she 
gets  to  help  her.  It  must  be  done  at  once. 
She  argues  that  since  things  are  put  away 
they  may  as  well  stay  until  we  are  sure  of  the 
next  move,  but  I  say  "  No,"  and  when  I  say 
it  loud  like  that  I  am  always  obeyed. 

Besides,  just  to  show  you  how  well  I  feel, 
I  have  decided  to  go  to  Paris  both  for  the 
Fourth  and  the  Fourteenth  of  July.  Paris 
is  going  to  make  our  Independence  Day  a 
national  fete,  and  on  the  Fourteenth  I  shall 
know  that  somewhere  you  will  be  watching 
the  States  celebrating  Bastille  Day  at  the 
same  time  that  I  am  standing  somewhere  in 
Paris  cheering  the  Allies.  Well,  of  course, 
not  exactly  that,  because  really  I  shall  be  in 
the  streets  while  you  are  still  sleeping  at  two 
in  the  morning,  and  I  shall  be  at  tea  when 
you  see  your  procession  start,  but  that 's  not 
important.  The  Allied  spirit  of  the  thing 
is  what  matters.  This  is  a  great  decision  for 
me.  You  know  how  I  hate  a  crowd.  But 
there  will  be  few  more  things  of  this  sort 
left  for  me,  and  I  do  feel  that  perhaps  this 
is  the  first  scene  in  the  last  act.  You  see 
how  very  much  on  the  right  side  of  the  bed 
I  got  out  this  morning. 

[  237  ] 


XXVIII 

July  12,  1918 

WELL,  I  can  tell  you  this  is  dry  season. 
If  it  were  important  I  should  grieve  over 
my  garden.  You  should  see  my  dahlias.  I 
don't  ask  them  to  be  superb  until  later,  but 
they  never  came  up  in  such  a  state  as  they 
have  this  year.  The  slugs  ate  them  as  fast 
as  they  came  out  of  the  ground,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that,  armed  with  the  tongs,  I 
picked  them  up  carefully  twice  a  day.  Such 
dirty  slimy  things,  all  sizes  and  all  colours, 
from  little  pale  white  things  and  ditto  black 
up  to  big  fat  yellow  fellows  and  ditto  brown, 
with  horrid  heads  like  seals  and  bulging 
eyes,  which  they  draw  in  and  close  when  you 
touch  them.  In  spite  of  all  that  hard  and 
disagreeable  work  the  first  leaves  were  all 
eaten  and  the  first  buds  to  open  are  small, 
because  of  the  lack  of  water,  and  worse  than 
that,  they  are  half  eaten  away  by  the  slugs. 
But  never  mind,  I  had  the  fun  of  playing  at 
gardening,  and  now  I  can  busy  myself  doc- 
toring them.  We  have  had  every  variety  of 
weather  this  week.  It  was  piping  hot  on 
Sunday,  it  blew  hard  on  Tuesday,  was  clear 
and  sunny  like  an  autumn  day  on  Wednes- 

[  238  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

day,  it  showered  on  Thursday,  it  opened  and 
shut  on  Friday,  it  pours  to-day.  Variety, 
anyway.  In  spite  of  the  terrible  drought 
of  which  the  farmers  complain  with  reason, 
and  which  has  dwarfed  all  my  posies  and 
scorched  my  lawn  yellow,  the  grain  looks 
well,  and  I  have  never  heard  the  larks  sing 
as  they  sing  these  mornings  and  evenings,  as 
I  watch  them  mounting  and  mounting,  their 
rippling  notes  falling  out  of  the  clouds  long 
after  the  bird  is  invisible.  And  there  are  so 
many  finches.  There  is  one  who  sits  and 
gives  a  real  concert  on  the  ridge-pole  of  the 
house  every  day,  and  I  am  just  as  nice  an 
audience  as  I  know  for  him  —  always  with 
an  eye  that  Khaki  does  not  sneak  up  there, 
for  I  suspect  Khaki  and  doubt  if  he  makes 
any  distinction  between  birds  that  sing  and 
birds  that  don't,  when  he  goes  a-hunting. 

You  ask  me  if  the  winter  is  going  to  be  a 
hard  one.  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  except 
that  I  know  it  is  to  be  another  winter  with 
the  army  "  out  there,"  I  have  not  thought 
much  about  it.  Anyway,  what  were  hard- 
ships for  four  winters  will  not  be  so  bad  this 
winter,  because  I  am  used  to  them,  and  ex- 
pect nothing  else.  I  am  getting  in  wood 
every  day.  It  is  easier  to  get  it  than  it  has 
been  in  the  previous  war  years,  and  I  am 
buying  it  everywhere,  and  shall  as  long  as  I 
can  find  any  place  to  put  it.  What  the  army 
is  going  to  say  I  don't  know,  for  there  is  a 

[   239   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

board  on  my  gate  which  announces  billets 
for  one  officer  and  twenty  men,  and  I  am 
afraid  my  wood  is  filling  up  the  soldiers' 
bedrooms.  But  I  suppose  we'll  find  some 
way  out  of  it.  Perhaps  the  army  will  settle 
it  by  taking  my  wood  away. 

We  have  heard  the  artillery  at  the  front 
almost  every  day  since  I  last  wrote  to  you, 
but  the  newspapers  say  nothing  which  ex- 
plains. The  soldiers,  going  through,  say 
"  Don't  worry.  All  is  going  well.  In  eight 
days  you  can  expect  to  get  good  news,"  and 
that  has  to  content  us  for  the  present. 

On  Monday  of  last  week  we  had  an  air 
raid,  which  began  at  quarter  before  eleven 
and  lasted  until  nearly  two  the  next  morning 
—  that  was  the  first  day  of  this  month  — 
and  the  next  morning,  at  half-past  seven, 
while  I  was  in  the  garden,  there  was  a  heavy 
tir  de  barrage,  but  it  appeared  to  be  directed 
to  the  protection  of  Meaux,  though  it  was 
impossible  to  be  sure,  in  spite  of  my  hearing 
the  Boche  machine  distinctly.  As  spent  shot 
began  to  rattle  on  the  roof,  I  thought  it  pru- 
dent to  take  to  cover. 

The  next  day  I  went  up  to  Paris  to  pass 
the  Fourth,  as  I  wrote  you  I  should.  Before 
I  left  I  made  sure  that  our  two  communes 
and  Huiry  itself  had  American  flags,  and 
left  Amelie  to  fling  the  Stars  and  Stripes  to 
the  French  breezes  over  the  gate  here  and 
under  the  bedroom  windows,  and  on  the 
[  240  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

road  side  of  her  house.  That  is  all  the  fete 
there  will  be  here,  but  it  is  enough. 

The  Fourth  was  a  lovely  day.  Every  one 
had  anticipated,  and  even  the  papers  had  not 
hesitated  to  say,  that  it  was  more  than  likely 
that  the  Boches  would  consider  the  national 
fete-day  of  the  States,  to  be  gloriously  cele- 
brated in  the  streets  of  the  French  capital, 
as  a  legitimate  opportunity  to  bring  into  play 
again  their  long-distance  cannon.  But  the 
Kaiser,  if  he  expected  that  possibility  would 
keep  anyone  from  going  into  the  streets  to 
see  the  boys  from  the  States  march  down  the 
Champs-Elysees,  had  another  disappoint- 
ment. 

We  had  no  desire  to  hear  the  discourses 
nor  to  see  the  statesmen  sitting  in  the  official 
tribunes  —  the  former  we  could  read  later, 
and  the  latter  were  an  old  story.  We  had 
instead  a  desire  to  see  the  crowd  in  the  street 
and  the  movement  and  watch  the  reception 
of  the  troops  at  various  points  of  the  short 
march  from  Washington's  monument  at  the 
head  of  the  newly  christened  Avenue  Presi- 
dent Wilson  to  the  Strasbourg  monument  on 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde. 

The  streets  in  the  vicinity  of  the  line  of 
march  were  crowded,  and  everywhere,  even 
in  the  quiet  and  deserted  streets  of  the  other 
quarters,  were  the  American  flags.  There 
was  no  shop  too  small  to  show  one.  Bonnes 
on  the  way  to  market  had  the  Stars  and 

[  241  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

Stripes  on  their  market  baskets.  Every  taxi- 
cab  was  decorated  with  the  flag,  and  so 
was  every  decrepit  old  sapin.  It  floated  on 
the  tram-cars  and  the  omnibuses,  it  hung 
out  of  almost  every  window,  and  at  the 
entrance  of  the  big  apartment  houses,  already 
closed  but  for  the  presence  of  the  concierge. 
Crippled  soldiers  distributed  tiny  flags  on 
all  the  streets.  We  took  ours,  two  steps 
from  the  door,  from  a  one-legged  chasseur 
Alpin,  who  ran  about  on  his  peg  as  lively  as  a 
cricket,  and  as  gay  —  only  twenty-two  he 
told  me,  three  years'  service  stripes  on  his 
sleeve,  and  a  croix  de  guerre  and  medaille 
militaire  on  his  breast,  and  he  laughed  in  my 
face  when  I  looked  grave  as  he  pinned  a  flag 
on  me,  and  remarked,  "  Don't  you  mind, 
I  'm  not  done  with  them  yet; "  and  away  he 
hopped  across  the  street  to  pin  an  American 
flag  on  some  one  else. 

We  took  a  cab  and  drove  along  the  line 
looking,  from  our  higher  elevation,  over  the 
heads  of  the  crowds  behind  each  barrier,  as 
no  one  could  approach  without  a  ticket  to 
within  a  block  in  any  direction  of  the  grand- 
stand—  there  was  only  one.  My  object  was 
to  see  the  cortege  passing  down  the  Champs- 
Elysees  from  the  Rond  Point  to  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde.  So  we  drove  to  the  Avenue 
Gabriel,  and,  close  to  the  garden  entrance  to 
the  Presidential  residence  we  got  out  and 
walked  across  the  garden  between  the  Ambas- 
[  242  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

sadeurs  and  the  Alcazar,  now  given  up  to  the 
American  work  for  the  aid  of  the  French 
wounded.  You  remember  just  the  place,  for 
I  know  we  went  there  to  dine  together  ten 
years  ago.  You  remember?  We  sat  at  a 
table  in  the  balcony  just  opposite  the  stage, 
and  had  what  you  called  "the  best  table 
d'hote  dinner  for  the  price"  you  had  ever 
eaten,  and  watched  a  good  variety  show  — 
or  at  least  I  did.  I  remember  that  you  were 
more  interested  in  the  women  walking  about 
in  the  couloirs,  and  the  wonderful  clothes. 
Alas !  those  days  are  gone. 

On  arriving  near  the  Avenue  some  one 
helped  me  mount  on  to  a  bench,  where,  over 
the  heads  of  the  throng  massed  at  the  curb, 
I  could  look  up  and  down  the  Avenue,  with 
an  American  aviator,  in  a  Liberty  machine, 
doing  stunts  over  my  head  just  above  the 
tree-tops,  and  I  assure  you  I  had  my  heart  in 
my  mouth  most  of  the  time. 

The  crowd  that  packed  the  line  of  march 
was  almost  as  picturesque  as  the  procession. 
As  far  as  the  French  went  it  was,  of  course, 
largely  women,  children,  and  white-haired 
men,  with  a  sprinkling  of  pollus  on  leave, 
convalescent  soldiers  —  the  crippled  soldiers 
had  a  reserved  stand  near  the  head  of  the 
route  —  and  a  great  number  of  English  and 
American  men  in  khaki  —  the  Red  Cross  and 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  units,  the  commissary  men,  who 
have  their  headquarters  in  the  Avenue,  and  a 

[  243  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

sprinkling  of  uniforms  of  all  the  nations  in 
arms.  The  shouts  and  cheers  went  up  in 
waves  as  the  cortege  started  far  away,  but 
in  the  Avenue  itself  only  began  when  the 
head  of  the  line  appeared  preceded  by  the 
band.  Then  the  cries  of  "  Fivent  les  Ameri- 
cains"  "  Fivent  nos  Allies"  were  cut  with 
the  "  Hip,  hip,  hurrah !  "  of  the  Americans, 
and  it  culminated  when  the  division  of  the 
Marines,  in  their  battle-stained  uniforms, 
their  soiled  but  trim  knapsacks  on  their  backs, 
and  their  battered  "  tin  hats  "  (the  boys  who 
cleared  the  Bois  de  Belleau),  came  into  sight. 
I  thought  then  that  the  kind  of  crowd  which 
was  gathered  that  day  could  not  make  any 
more  noise  than  they  made  for  the  Ameri- 
cans, who,  with  their  guns  on  their  shoulders, 
marched  as  steadily  as  veterans,  though  their 
faces  were  the  faces  of  boys.  But  I  was 
mistaken,  for,  with  a  fine  spirit  that  I  loved, 
they  had  justly  reserved  their  most  ardent 
acclamations  for  their  own  war-worn  troops, 
and  the  shouts  of  "  Vwent  nos  poilus"  "  Five 
la  France,"  were  as  near  hysterical  as  any- 
thing I  have  seen  in  France  since  the  war 
began.  I  saw  women  laughing  and  crying  at 
the  same  time,  and  only  able  to  wave  their 
hands  in  greeting. 

After  it  was  all  over,  we  found  our  taxi 

again  and  drove  back  up  the  Avenue.     It 

looked  so  gay,  with  the  crowds  laughing  and 

chatting  and  flowers  everywhere.     Paris  had 

[   244  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

needed  to  see  its  armies  and  cheer  the  boys 
from  the  front.  It  did  them  more  visible 
good  than  all  the  heroic  talk  can  ever  do. 
I  know  it  did  me. 

I  had  loved  seeing  so  many  of  our  boys, 
not  only  in  the  procession,  but  the  crowd  in 
the  street.  I  love  seeing  —  good  soldiers  as 
they  are  proving  themselves  —  how  little 
they  stand  on  ceremony  in  private  life.  The 
officers  nod  to  one  another  instead  of  salut- 
ing. A  common  soldier  or  a  corporal  says 
"  Hulloa,  old  man,"  to  his  lieutenant,  with 
whom  he  probably  went  to  school.  Even  in 
public  an  officer  will  sometimes  stand  uncov- 
ered as  he  talks  in  the  street  to  a  girl  friend. 
It  is  only  something  so  solemn  as  the  passing 
of  the  colours  that  brings  the  American  boy 
erect,  his  heels  together,  his  shoulders 
squared,  his  hand  at  just  the  proper  angle 
of  salute,  and  when  it  is  over,  he  slaps  his 
hand  on  his  leg  in  real  regimental  fashion  — 
and  limbers  up  to  the  characteristic  Ameri- 
can slouch  again. 

I  remarked  to  an  American  officer  one 
day,  as  he  lifted  his  hat  to  greet  me,  that 
he  was  most  unmilitary,  and  his  reply  was: 
"Hell!  We  American  soldiers  are  only 
camoufled  civilians;"  and  that  is  terribly 
true,  added  to  which  they  have  not  worn 
a  uniform  long  enough  to  be  unconscious  in 
playing  the  role  of  a  soldier. 

In  spite  of  all  the  expectations  of  an  attack 

[  245   1 


*•«„• 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

of  some  sort,  the  big  cannon  made  no  sign, 
and  there  was  no  air  raid  that  night. 

I  came  back  on  the  sixth,  which  was  last 
Saturday.  I  had  hardly  got  my  hat  and  coat 
off  when  a  French  officer  arrived  at  my  gate 
to  arrange  for  the  cantonnement  here  of  the 
American  boys  coming  out  from  the  secteur 
at  Chateau-Thierry  —  lads  who  fought  at 
Bois  de  Belleau.  You  should  have  seen  the 
face  of  the  young  American  sergeant  when 
I  addressed  him  in  English,  and  told  him 
that  I  was  an  American.  I  don't  know  which 
of  us  was  the  most  excited. 

The  French  officer,  who  spoke  no  English 
and  depended  on  me  to  help  him  out,  told  me 
that  there  were  seven  Americans  here  to  ar- 
range the  cantonnement  for  fifteen  hundred 

—  a  Town  Major,  a  quartermaster,  and  a 
few  corporals  and  sergeants,   and  that  the 
rest  were  expected  Monday  morning.    They 
were  coming  by  road,  marching  on  foot,  and 
expected  to  take  two  days,  in  fact  they  were 
supposed  to  have  already  "  come  out."    They 
are  to  rest  a  few  days  and  go  up  to  Paris  the 
morning  of  the  Fourteenth,  to  be  decorated 

—  the  Marines  won  their  fourragere  in  the 
Bois    de    Belleau  —  and    to    march    in    the 
procession. 

The  weather  was  terribly  hot,  so  when 
Monday  came  and  went  and  there  was  no 
sign  of  the  American  Marines  every  one  was 
as  disappointed  as  I  was,  but  we  all  explained 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

it  by  the  intense  heat,  which  would  make 
marching  nearly  forty  miles  no  joke  to  tired 
soldiers  just  out  of  a  battle.  But  Tuesday 
and  Wednesday  passed,  and  the  advance 
guard  of  the  battalion  who  had  arrived  here 
with  only  three  days'  rations  began  to  worry 
a  little.  They  were  getting  a  new  kind  of 
taste  of  war.  In  the  meantime  they  drifted 
round  one  after  another  to  see  me,  play  the 
phonograph  and  chat.  I  am  afraid  they 
were  rather  bored.  They  spoke  little  French, 
though  they  got  on  well  with  the  French,  and 
they  had  guard  duty  to  do,  and  the  Town 
Major  kept  strict  discipline.  But  here  it  is 
Friday  night,  and  I  am  leaving  for  Paris  to- 
morrow to  see  the  celebration  of  the  Four- 
teenth. I  do  want  to  see  the  armies  of  all 
the  Allies  in  the  Avenue  du  Bois,  otherwise  I 
would  not  go  until  the  Americans  have  come 
and  are  comfortably  settled. 

Amelie  is  not  at  all  content.  She  is  afraid 
that  she  cannot  properly  replace  me.  She 
has  made  me  write  a  note  in  English  which 
she  is  to  show  any  American  soldier  who 
comes  to  the  door.  It  is  just  a  line  saying 
that  they  are  welcome  and  are  to  consider 
the  house  as  "  a  little  piece  of  home,"  and 
make  themselves  comfortable  accordingly. 
She  stood  over  me  while  I  wrote  it  on  a  big 
sheet  of  paper,  imploring  me  to  write  it 
"  very  large  and  very  distinct,"  which  shows 
you  what  Amelie  thinks  of  my  handwriting. 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

She  has  pinned  it  on  the  blotter.  She  knows 
how  to  say  "cum  een,"  and  I  can  imagine 
her  taking  them  by  the  sleeve,  and  leading 
them  up  to  the  desk  to  read  the  proclama- 
tion. She  has  made  me  write  "  Mildred 
Aldrich,  American,"  as  a  signature. 

By  the  way,  Amelie's  English  does  not 
march  very  rapidly.  She  can  still  say  "  I 
spek  Engleesh  vairee  veil,  oh  yees."  She 
says  they  understand  her,  but  she  does  not 
get  their  reply,  and  is  disappointed  when  I 
am  not  by  to  hear  and  tell  her  what  they  said. 
She  has  also  learned  to  say  "  Got  cigarette?  " 
with  a  strong  interrogatory  inflection.  You 
see  Amelie  loves  her  cigarette,  but  she  does 
not  like  Egyptians,  the  only  thing  available 
just  now,  when  the  ordinary  French  cigarette 
is  not  sold  to  civilians.  That  works  very 
well.  The  boys  understand,  and  if  they  have 
a  cigarette  they  give  it  to  her.  But  they 
more  often  have  a  pipe  and  tobacco.  I  have 
told  Amelie  that  she  must  not  do  this,  as 
the  boys  have  none  too  much  tobacco  for 
themselves,  and  I  thought  I  had  broken  her 
of  it.  But  the  other  day  there  was  an  officer 
calling  and  she  went  out  to  look  at  his  big 
car  and  admire  the  chauffeur  —  she  thought 
him  so  chic  —  and  I  heard  her  getting  off 
her  "  Got  cigarette?  "  When  he  had  gone  I 
reproached  her,  and  she  looked  grieved  as 
she  explained  that  she  did  not  want  his  ciga- 
rettes—  besides  he  did  not  have  any.  When 

[  248  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

I  desired  to  know  why  she  had  taken  the 
trouble  to  ask  if  she  did  not  want  any  she 
replied:  " Histoire  de  parler  anglais!" 

I  thought  that  was  lovely. 

I  have  an  idea  that  the  American  Marines 
are  not  coming  at  all.  There  is  a  tremen- 
dous activity  everywhere  about  us.  You 
know,  now,  since  the  Germans  reached  the 
Marne  again,  we  are  not  only  zone  des 
armees  but  we  are  arriere  front,  and  never 
since  the  war  began  has  the  military  move- 
ment about  us  been  so  constant.  There  are 
hours  of  the  day  when  we  simply  cannot 
drive  on  our  roads  at  all.  All  this  means 
something,  and,  although  I  am  going  up  to 
see  the  first  real  war  celebration  of  the  Four- 
teenth, I  am  going  with  a  feeling  that  if 
something  does  not  happen  while  I  am  gone, 
something  will  all  the  same  happen  soon. 

You  realize,  of  course,  that  the  next  move 
settles  our  fate  here.  So  long  as  the  Ger- 
mans hold  Soissons  Paris  is  menaced,  so  long 
as  they  hold  Chateau-Thierry  the  Marne 
valley  is  open  to  them.  In  either  case  our 
situation  is  critical.  If  the  next  move  sees 
the  Germans  not  only  held,  but  pushed  back, 
all  danger  to  us  here  is,  I  am  convinced, 
ended  forever. 

But  whichever  way  it  turns  is  only  locally 
important.  Even  if  Paris  is  taken,  even  if  it 
were  possible  to  wipe  out  the  French  army, 
Germany's  situation  would  not  be  changed 

[   249   ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

and  never  will  be  until  she  has  wiped  out  the 
States.  But  every  time  I  think  about  it  the 
condition  of  France  seems  to  me  the  more 
remarkable  —  all  her  men  in  the  war  or  in 
war  works,  all  the  rescued  population  of  the 
invaded  districts  from  the  frontier  to  the 
Somme  and  the  Marne  crowded  into  the 
south  and  west,  and  millions  of  Allied  sol- 
diers from  other  countries,  with  thousands 
of  Red  Cross  workers  of  all  sorts,  and  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  German  prisoners,  and 
here  we  are  trying  to  lead  a  normal  life,  and 
coming  precious  near  to  doing  it.  And 
strangest  of  all,  the  majority  of  the  people 
are  more  sane  and  happier  than  they  have 
ever  been.  It  is  a  great  disaster.  Of  course 
it  is.  But  we  are  all  terribly  alive,  and  it  is 
not  at  such  epochs  that  the  world  ever 
bothers  itself  to  write  symposiums  on  "  Is 
Life  Worth  Living?",  or  speculates  about 
"  La  Lutte  pour  la  Vie." 

Thanks  for  the  newspaper  clipping  con- 
taining the  pen  portrait  of  me  sitting  on  the 
wheelbarrow  on  the  platform  of  the  railway 
station  at  Esbly,  on  the  day  I  went  to  Paris 
to  carry  my  trunk,  "  with  tears  in  my  voice  if 
not  in  my  eyes."  I  am  afraid  that  touch  was 
the  pretty  young  journalist's  poetic  license  — 
she  was  pretty,  you  know.  I  am  sorry  the 
picture  struck  you  as  "  pitiful  and  pathetic." 
I  really  am.  Come  now,  what  would  you 
have  had  me  do,  sitting  there  among  that 

[   250  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

crowd  of  women  leading  children  by  one 
hand  and  lugging  such  of  their  poor  effects 
as  they  had  saved?  You  surely  could  not 
have  expected  that  I  would  do  a  song  and 
dance  simply  because,  up  to  date,  my  home 
was  safe.  I  was  sad.  How  could  I  have 
been  anything  else  ?  Only  a  few  hours  before 
I  had  seen  a  poor  flying  woman  carrying  a 
dead  baby  in  her  arms,  and  among  other  ob- 
jects of  my  journey  to  Paris  was  a  visit  to  the 
American  Red  Cross  to  beg  some  layettes  for 
newborn  babies  in  our  commune  —  emigre  es 
of  course  —  and  stuff  to  make  underclothes 
for  women  and  children  who  had  arrived 
with  only  what  they  had  on  their  backs,  for 
in  that  retreat  of  over  thirty  miles,  from 
Noyon  to  Chateau-Thierry,  between  May 
2yth  and  June  4th  these  poor  people  were 
taken  by  surprise  and  had  no  time  to  save 
mo're  than  their  skins  and  what  covered  them. 
Will  that  explain  the  "tears  in  my  voice"  if 
they  were  there? 

You  ask  me  for  news  of  Mademoiselle 
Henriette.  Is  it  possible  that  in  all  the  ex- 
citement of  the  days  since  the  retreat  of 
March  21  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  she  had 
gone?  She  is  at  Salonica.  She  left  here  in 
March  —  the  very  first  if  I  remember.  Any- 
way I  have  looked  up  her  first  note  —  a  post- 
card—  from  Toulon,  dated  March  3,  in 
which  she  says : 

"We  sail  to-morrow.     It  is  Sunday,  and 

[  251  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

I  have  just  attended  mass  on  deck.  It  was 
pretty  and  very  impressive.  Standing  in  the 
midst  of  officers,  soldiers  and  sailors,  I  had 
once  more  the  illusion  that  I  too  was  on 
active  service,  and  felt  once  more  at  home. 
We  are  sailing  without  escort,  under  the  pro- 
tection simply  of  the  Red  Cross,  although  we 
have  on  board  a  neutral  —  an  officer  of  the 
Spanish  navy." 

Odd  that  I  should  have  forgotten  to  tell 
you  this  at  the  time.  She  is  now  at  Zeiten- 
lick,  where  the  service  is  very  hard;  but  it 
is  interesting  and  she  is  at  an  age  to  enjoy 
novel  experiences,  even  when  they  have  to  be 
paid  for  with  mighty  hard  work. 


252 


XXIX 

July  22,  igiS 

THIS  has  been  such  a  week  of  mixed  emo- 
tions that  I  have  not  been  able  to  settle  down 
to  write. 

I  got  your  cable  of  congratulation  on  the 
"  great  victory  "  last  night.  I  shall  say  what 
I  think  of  that  later.  It  may  surprise  you 
to  know  that  I  am  not  in  the  humour.  We 
are  calm  and  confident  here.  We  are  not 
throwing  our  hats  in  the  air  yet.  The  ten- 
sion has  been  terrible,  and  it  is  a  comfort  to 
know  that  to-night  there  is  not  a  German  on 
the  south  bank  of  the  Marne,  and  we  hope 
they  have  crossed  it  for  the  last  time. 

I  wrote  you,  if  I  remember,  the  night  be- 
fore the  Fourteenth,  when  I  was  preparing 
to  go  up  to  town  to  help  celebrate  the  great 
day.  I  went  and  I  enjoyed  it. 

It  was  drizzly  weather,  and  when,  at  nine, 
I  prepared  to  go  out  and  find  a  place  so  near 
the  Porte  Dauphine  that  I  could  see  the  Al- 
lied armies  enter  the  city  from  the  Bois,  I 
found  that  no  one  wanted  to  go  with  me,  on 
the  plea  that  it  would  be  prettier  to  see  it 
with  my  eyes  than  go  out  in  a  crowd  plus  a 

[  253  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

drizzle,  which  of  course  was  flattering  but 
covered  a  lazy  spirit. 

Luckily  it  stopped  raining,  and  the  air  was 
fresh,  the  sky  a  little  overcast,  and  there  was 
no  dust.  It  was  an  ideal  day  for  comfort. 

I  stay  in  Paris  only  five  minutes'  walk 
from  the  entrance  to  the  Bois  at  the  end  of 
the  Avenue  du  Bois.  I  never  saw  the  city 
look  more  beautiful.  Nothing  had  been 
done  to  conceal  or  disfigure  its  beauty. 
There  were  no  seats  put  up  along  the  route, 
and  the  only  tribune  was  on  the  east  side  of 
the  Avenue  —  near  the  Porte  —  just  an  en- 
closed space  hung  in  the  traditional  red,  with 
reserved  seats  for  the  President,  the  diplo- 
matic corps  and  the  city's  guests. 

On  the  same  side  of  the  Avenue,  a  little 
nearer  the  Porte,  was  the  colour-stand.  All 
along  the  street  on  both  sides  were  the  chairs 
that  are  always  there,  only  more  of  them, 
and  a  simple  wooden  barrier  behind  them 
prevented  people  from  pushing  into  the  space 
thus  reserved.  There  was  no  bunting  on 
any  of  the  houses  —  nothing  in  the  way  of 
decoration,  but  the  flags  of  all  the  Allied 
nations. 

Every  inch  of  space  was  taken.  When  I 
arrived  at  my  place,  just  behind  the  colour- 
stand,  the  presidential  party  had  already  ar- 
rived, and  I  passed  behind  a  long  line  of  the 
most  wonderful  automobiles  I  ever  saw  (and 
did  not  much  wonder  at  hearing  some  one 

[  254  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

remark,  "Well,  it  seems  there  is  still  some 
essence  in  Paris!  "). 

Just  then  the  head  of  the  procession  began 
to  issue  from  the  trees  of  the  Bois,  and  ap- 
proach the  Porte.  The  light  was  just  right 
for  it,  and  the  forest  of  moving  bayonets 
made  a  wonderful  picture,  which  I  shall 
never  forget.  Most  of  the  people  in  the 
great  crowd  had  evidently,  like  me,  never 
seen  many  of  the  armies,  though  most  of 
them  had,  like  me,  I  suppose,  seen  individual 
soldiers  of  all  the  Allies.  I  am  sure  the 
American  papers  have  given  you  a  full  de- 
scription of  the  great  cortege  in  which  the 
armies  of  all  the  Allies-in-arms  for  the 
world's  liberty  marched  for  the  first  time  in 
the  city  the  whole  world  loves,  and  which 
even  her  enemies  envy,  and  doubtless,  by  the 
time  you  get  this,  the  cinemas  will  have 
shown  it  moving  on  the  screen,  for  I  counted 
almost  as  many  machines  at  work  as  there 
were  nations  in  the  show.  But  what  they 
cannot  give  you  is  the  colour,  which  was  at- 
mospherically French,  and  how  much  that 
says,  you  who  love  France  know,  nor  can  it 
give  you  the  thrills.  I  simply  adored  seeing 
the  flag  of  each  nation  approach,  and  the 
colours  on  the  Allied  stand  dip  to  receive 
each  nation's  salute,  and  the  soldiers  in  the 
crowd  as  far  as  I  could  see  rising  to  atten- 
tion with  their  hands  at  salute  as  the  flags 
passed. 

[  255  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

Along  the  barrier,  behind  the  seats,  sol- 
diers, mostly  American,  British  and  Italian, 
who  were  not  marching,  stood  erect  braced 
like  bareback  riders  in  their  perilous  posi- 
tion, and  they  managed  to  stand  rigid  as 
statues  to  salute  the  colours  —  a  fine  ath- 
letic display. 

The  handsomest  men  in  the  line  were,  to 
my  mind,  the  Italians.  Their  greenish  grey 
uniform  is  a  beautiful  colour,  and  their  hats, 
higher  in  form  than  those  of  the  other  Allies, 
are  terribly  smart.  But  the  sturdy  Serbs  and 
the  Poles  with  their  new  flag,  and  the  Czechs, 
who  sang  as  they  marched,  were  greeted  with 
thundering  cheers.  As  the  Americans  were 
the  clou  of  the  Fourth  of  July,  the  British 
carried  off  the  honours  of  the  Fourteenth. 
They  made  a  wonderful  showing,  so  trim, 
marching  as  if  they  had  never  done  anything 
but  parade  duty,  they  who  have  fought  like 
the  bulldogs  they  are.  There  were  English 
and  Irish,  Scotch  and  Welsh,  there  were 
Australians,  New  Zealanders,  the  armies  of 
Egypt  and  India  and  South  Africa.  It  was 
a  fine  show,  and  none  of  them  were  more 
cheered  than  the  tall  ruddy  men  in  kilts 
marching  to  the  crooning  of  the  pipes.  It 
was  so  hard  to  realize  that  this  was  a  demon- 
stration in  the  midst  of  a  war,  at  a  time  when 
the  enemy  was  nearer  the  fortifications  of 
the  city  than  they  had  been  in  forty-six 
months,  in  a  city  which  had  known  forty  days 

c  256  ]  ' 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

of  bombardment  by  a  German  cannon,  and 
could  not  be  sure  that  the  forty-first  might 
not  come  before  the  procession  disbanded. 

It  was  this  spirit  that  I  had  gone  out  to  see 
and  I  had  seen  it. 

This  was  the  sort  of  experience  one  cannot 
hope  to  get  more  than  once  in  a  fortunate 
lifetime,  the  sort  of  thing  that  centuries  have 
not  seen,  and  centuries  may  never  see  again. 
It  was  the  very  essence  of  the  spirit  which  is 
to  carry  a  righteous  cause  to  victory,  and 
which  future  ages  will  have  good  reason  to 
bless. 

As  a  detachment  of  French  cavalry 
brought  up  the  rear — for  the  French  divi- 
sions had  been  scattered  through  the  line, 
acting  as  escort  to  their  comrades-in-arms, 
which  I  thought  a  pretty  idea  —  the  crowd 
broke  up  quietly,  and,  while  the  echoes  of  the 
cheers  came  back  to  me,  receding  with  the 
music  as  the  cortege  continued  its  route,  I 
walked  slowly  back  to  the  house,  strangely 
comforted. 

We  all  knew  that  we  were  on  the  eve  of 
another  German  offensive,  and  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  great  bound  forward  of 
two  of  the  previous  ones,  it  was  impossible 
to  be  quite  free  from  nervousness,  or  from 
the  feeling  that  Paris  was  in  danger.  But 
we  had  seen  the  men  who  were  to  meet  the 
attack,  and  seen  nowhere  anything  but  cour- 
age, so  why  should  we  worry? 

[  257  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

Personally,  I  can  say  that  nothing  has 
done  me  so  much  good  as  the  two  look-ins 
I  have  taken  in  Paris  in  the  past  ten  days, 
with  the  men  who  are  defending  her  march- 
ing through  her  streets. 

On  that  day,  no  more  than  on  the  Fourth, 
did  any  of  the  things  the  pessimists  prophe- 
sied come  true.  The  Grosse  Bertha  did  not 
get  to  work.  The  night  was  quiet,  —  no  air 
raid. 

I  stayed  over  until  the  morning  of  the  six- 
teenth. I  had  to.  I  had  a  few  necessary 
errands  to  do.  I  arrived  in  Paris  on  Satur- 
day after  many  shops  —  now  having  what 
they  called  "la  semaine  anylaise" — were 
closed,  and  Monday,  the  day  after  the  Four- 
teenth, was  a  holiday. 

On  Monday — the  fifteenth — just  before 
two  o'clock,  "bang"  went  the  Big  Bertha 
again,  after  a  silence  of  three  weeks.  The 
first  shot  went  harmlessly  into  the  Seine,  just 
missing  a  great  mark,  and  after  a  lapse  of 
about  three  hours  it  began  again  and  put  in 
several  shells  before  dark.  No  one  had  any 
doubt  that  this  presaged  the  new  offensive, 
and  we  impatiently  awaited  the  papers  the 
next  morning,  which  announced  simply  the 
fact  that  the  Germans  had  attacked  again  on 
the  front  from  Soissons,  which  they  still 
hold,  to  Reims,  which,  although  they  have 
destroyed  it,  they  have  not  been  able  to  take 
since  they  were  driven  out  in  the  battle  of 

[  258  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

the  Marne  —  that  is  to  say,  the  nearest  point 
to  us. 

Needless  to  tell  you  that  I  could  not  get 
back  home  quickly  enough,  although  the  little 
news  we  got  seemed  to  be  good.  The  Allies 
were  holding  them.  This  time  the  Germans 
had  not  been  able  to  take  Foch's  army  by 
surprise,  as  they  had  done  in  March  and 
May.  The  attack,  in  extent,  vigour  and 
material  seemed  to  be  quite  as  formidable  as 
that  of  March  for  Amiens. 

Amelie  met  me  at  the  station,  and  almost 
before  I  was  out  of  the  train  she  told  me  that 
the  Americans  had  gone.  The  rest  of  the 
division,  as  I  had  foreseen,  never  came  at  all, 
and  a  camion  came  for  those  stranded  on 
our  hill,  and  carried  them  away. 

She  announced  that  the  movement  on  our 
roads  had  been  terrible  for  over  forty-eight 
hours.  The  little  road  passing  my  gate 
had  seen  three  hundred  camions  dashing  by 
towards  the  canal  on  the  day  before,  —  the 
day  the  battle  began.  No  sleep  had  been 
possible  for  two  nights.  She  had  had  great 
difficulty  in  getting  to  the  station,  as  the 
route  Natlonale  was  closed  to  all  civilians. 
She  had  come  down  by  the  cart-track  across 
the  fields. 

I  lost  some  time  at  the  station  —  my  bag- 
gage had  not  come.  It  was  not  personal  bag- 
gage—  that  is  still  waiting  in  Paris,  to  go  to 
Versailles,  if  I  have  to.  It  was  only  a  sack 

[  259  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

of  sugar  —  oh,  so  precious!  —  and  a  case 
of  condensed  milk  from  an  American  rescue 
work,  for  the  little  refugee  children  and  the 
old  people.  I  had  checked  it  the  day  before 
to  save  time.  The  station  is  always  so 
crowded  at  train-time,  and  one  has  to  wait 
so  interminably  to  be  weighed  that  I  took 
advantage  of  the  holiday,  when  I  had  noth- 
ing to  do,  to  get  it  off.  Incidentally,  I  am 
distressed  about  it,  as  it  has  not  turned  up 
yet,  and  that  is  six  days  ago.  But  on  the  day 
I  returned  I  was  too  occupied  with  other 
anxieties  to  worry.  Besides,  it  would  have 
been  a  heavy  load  for  Ninette  to  drag  up 
the  hill. 

When  we  turned  out  from  the  station  and 
crossed  the  Morin,  the  road  looked  clear, 
and  after  the  guard  had  examined  my  papers 
—  they  seem  to  put  a  new  guard  every  day, 
so  it  always  has  to  be  done  —  Amelie  fool- 
ishly decided  to  try  going  up  the  grande 
route.  We  had  not  gone  ten  steps  when  a 
soldier  with  a  red  flag  appeared  in  front  of 
us,  and  turned  us  back,  and  we  had  to  come 
up  the  ruelle.  It  is  a  very  steep,  very  rough 
path,  deeply  rutted  by  farm-wagons  and 
mowing-machines.  The  day  was  very  hot. 
Ninette  struggled  along  until  I  finally  de- 
cided that,  even  in  the  blazing  sun,  I  could 
climb  on  foot  easier  than  I  could  sit  behind 
her,  and  watch  her  strain  and  tug,  so  Amelie 
and  I  both  got  out  and  walked  up,  and  I  took 

260 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

in  the  news  at  the  various  stations  we  made 
to  rest.  The  Americans  had  come  to  say 
good  bye.  They  had  said  a  lot  of  things, 
and  she  was  sad  because  she  had  not  under- 
stood a  word.  Meaux  had  been  bombarded 
Monday  and  rather  seriously  damaged. 
Otherwise  everything  was  as  usual. 

During  the  next  two  days  the  news  was 
not  bad,  and  then  on  Saturday  came  word 
that  Foch  had  launched  his  counter-attack, 
and  that  it  looked  brilliantly  successful.  By 
Sunday  morning  we  knew  that  the  Germans 
had  recrossed  the  Marne  at  Dormans,  just 
south-east  of  Chateau-Thierry,  hotly  pur- 
sued by  the  Americans,  —  not  a  live  German, 
unless  he  was  prisoner,  left  on  the  south 
bank  of  the  river.  Every  day  since  then  the 
Germans  have  retreated.  It  is  slow,  but  it 
is  hopeful. 

Ever  since  we  have  lived  again  on  the  map. 
Although  we  do  not  yet  feel  like  calling  it 
"a  glorious  victory"  as  you  do,  we  do  feel 
that  never  again  will  the  Germans  cross  the 
Marne.  If  the  Allies  have  been  able  to 
thrust  them  back  now,  when  the  Americans 
are  not  yet  all  ready,  how  can  it  be  possible 
that  we  shall  not  hold  them  when  we  are 
getting  stronger  every  day?  We  may  be 
wrong,  for  one  thing  we  do  know,  the  Ger- 
mans are  still  strong,  and  they  will  fight  a 
terrible  battle.  They  have  still  thirty  unused 
divisions,  and  ever  so  much  more  artillery 

[  261  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

than  we  have,  and  a  spy  system  that  is  amaz- 
ing. They  advanced  from  the  Chemin  des 
Dames  in  May  to  the  Marne,  thirty  miles  in 
six  days.  It  has  taken  us  nearly  a  week  to 
push  them  back,  mile  by  mile,  a  third  of  the 
way,  so  our  relief  is  great,  but  our  joy  is 
cautious  and  well-contained. 

I  was  speaking  of  the  slowness  of  the  re- 
treat and  the  economy  of  it,  so  far  as  the 
Germans  were  concerned,  this  morning,  to 
an  officer,  and  he  replied : 

"  It  is  better  than  we  dared  hope.  If,  be- 
fore winter  sets  in,  we  can  succeed  in  pushing 
them  back  to  the  strong  positions  in  which 
they  started  in  March,  we  shall  feel  more 
than  satisfied,  and  hopeful,  as  by  the  spring 
the  States  will  be  really  ready,  and  we  shall 
be  as  strong  as  they  are  —  at  least  —  in  ar- 
tillery, and  surely  stronger  in  the  air,  and 
then  we  '11  finish  them  off,  but  it  will  still 
take  time.  They  are  mighty  strong,  and  it  is 
death  we  propose  to  deal  out  to  them." 

I  imagine  that  this  is  a  pretty  fair  state- 
ment of  the  situation.  It  makes  me  shiver 
sometimes  to  see  how  immediately  hopeful 
you  are.  I  have  been  that  way  myself,  and 
I  know  what  getting  over  it  means. 

Of  course,  a  thousand  things  may  happen 
—  the  morale  may  break  in  Germany.  But 
those  who  know  both  the  people  and  the 
country  say  it  never  will.  So  my  present 
prayer  is  that  the  interim  may  be  useful  for 

[  262  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

the  spreading  of  the  conviction  that  this 
war  must  not  stop  when  Germany  is  ready 
to  make  concessions,  not  even  when  she  is 
ready  to  evacuate  the  lands  she  has  seized, 
not  even  when  she  begins  to  whimper  and 
regret  —  not  until  she  is  beaten  to  her  knees, 
and  not  even  then  until  she  has  been  pun- 
ished, and  punished  so  severely  that  she  can- 
not recover  quickly,  and  left  with  a  mark  on 
her  which  she  cannot  conceal,  not  even  by 
her  most  clever  camouflage.  She  is  a  crimi- 
nal nation.  At  large  she  is  a  danger  to  every 
nation  and  to  every  people  on  the  face  of  the 
earth. 

Now  don't,  I  entreat  you,  reply  that  you 
have  heard  me  preach  prison  reform.  I 
have.  I  don't,  of  course,  believe  in  treating 
even  criminals  like  wild  beasts  —  yet  I  don't 
know.  At  least  I  do  believe  in  a  restraint 
which  protects  the  community.  I  never  did, 
nor  could,  advocate  pardon  and  liberty  for 
jail-birds  of  marked  criminal  tendencies. 
The  stigmata  of  crime  are  very  persistent, 
and  Germany  bears  the  mark.  Why  should 
one  cherish  illusions  for  a  race  which  one 
dares  not  harbour  for  the  individual? 

In  an  age  which  proudly  calls  itself  civil- 
ized—  whatever  that  may  mean  —  Germany 
has  waged  a  war  such  as  even  barbarous 
times  never  knew.  It  has  not  been  a  war 
of  legitimate  slaughter,  which  would  have 
been  terrible  enough  in  a  world  of  to-day's 

[  263  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

aspirations  and  pretension.  It  has  been  a 
war  of  violating  women,  abusing  children, 
murdering  inoffensive  civilians,  a  war  of  ra- 
pine and  wilful  destruction,  of  breaking 
every  law  of  the  God  whom  they  arrogantly 
claim,  of  every  law  man  has  made  for  the 
safeguarding  of  the  community,  a  war  of  lies 
and  cunning,  by  a  people  who  claim  the  whole 
world,  and  deliberately  deny  the  right  of 
even  existence  to  every  one  not  born  German, 
who  arrogate  to  themselves  the  right  to  sin, 
and  deny  the  right  to  live  to  all  other  races. 

We  are  told  that  before  the  offensive  of 
March  twenty-first  was  launched  the  disci- 
plinary laws  which  have  long  governed 
armies  were  all  suspended  by  order  of  the 
German  Commander-in-chief,  and  that  the 
sack  of  all  France  on  the  hoped-for  line  of 
march  from  St.  Quentin  to  the  sea,  and  from 
the  Chemin  des  Dames  to  Paris,  was  prom- 
ised the  German  soldiers  as  their  reward  for 
victory,  and  what  really  happened  seems  to 
bear  out  the  truth  of  the  abominable  state- 
ment. From  St.  Quentin  to  the  Somme,  and 
from  the  Chemin  des  Dames  to  the  Marne, 
as  well  as  the  time  permitted,  they  accom- 
plished the  object.  The  amount  of  booty 
they  carried  off  was  tremendous,  and  if  every- 
thing did  not  fall  as  loot  to  the  army,  they  at 
least  achieved  a  destruction  as  complete  as 
possible. 

Naturally  I  did  not  see  this  with  my  own 

[  264  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

eyes,  but  I  have  it  on  the  testimony  of  sol- 
diers who  have  come  back  from  the  devas- 
tated country,  and  whose  word  I  have  no  rea- 
son to  doubt.  They  tore  to  bits  tapestries 
which  they  had  not  time  to  destroy.  They 
smashed  mirrors.  They  made  firewood  of 
the  furniture  in  the  humbler  houses  which 
was  not  good  enough  to  send  to  Germany. 
They  smashed  dishes.  If  they  did  not  de- 
stroy crops  which  they  could  not  carry  off,  or 
if  they  left  a  pin  anywhere  it  was  only  be- 
cause in  neither  of  their  great  pushes  did 
they  achieve  their  objective,  and  in  both 
they  met  a  resistance  more  tenacious  than 
they  expected,  and  which  cost  them  dear,  so 
that  in  certain  places  they  were  unable  to  ac- 
complish under  bombardment  a  destruction 
as  thorough  as  they  planned  or  had  the  will 
to  do. 

It  is  on  things  like  this  on  which  our  minds 
fasten — for  the  flesh  is  weak  and  shrinks 
from  such  suffering  as  all  that  entails  on  the 
individual.  Yet  that  is  not  Germany's  worst 
crime.  She  has  attacked  the  fundamental 
virtues  towards  which  the  world  has  been 
marching  for  centuries,  and  for  which  it  has 
fought  and  bled  many  times,  —  the  rights  of 
peoples  to  choose  their  own  fates;  the  rights 
of  the  individual  to  freedom;  the  hopes  that 
free  peoples  have  cherished  of  seeing  the 
world  become  honest,  and  she  has  tried  to 
bend  all  the  world  to  the  slavery  of  force. 

[  265  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

In  that  lies  her  greatest  crime,  and  it  is  for 
that  abominable  crime  that  she  has  to  suffer, 
and  must  suffer,  unless  the  world  is  to  be 
thrown  back  a  thousand  years. 

After  all  it  is  ideas  that  make  history,  not 
facets.  From  the  beginning  Man  has  shed 
his  blood  for  ideas  and  opinions.  They 
make  history.  That  has  marked  the  passing 
of  people,  of  habits  and  customs,  but  the 
ideas  have  persisted.  From  the  beginning  — 
or  rather  in  the  short  span  of  which  we  know 
anything  —  man  has  always  had  to  fight  and 
bleed  for  his  ideas.  Perhaps  he  always  will. 
Who  knows  ?  Considering  how  little  the  ma- 
jority understand  this  it  is  wonderful  how 
heroically  they  do  it. 

As  an  example  of  that:  the  other  day  I 
met  a  young  American  officer  —  a  lieutenant 
from  the  South  —  and  in  course  of  the  con- 
versation he  remarked  that  France  could 
"  never  recover  herself,"  and  when  I  smiled 
and  shook  my  head  at  him,  he  added  with  a 
great  deal  of  feeling: 

"  But  you  have  not  been  out  there.  You 
have  no  idea  of  the  destruction.  There  is 
not  one  stone  on  another.  It  is  terrible. 
When  this  war  is  over,  and  all  the  costs 
counted,  you  will  see  that  France  is  finished." 

I  had  the  folly  to  remark  that  all  that 
would  soon  arrange  itself,  and  that  I  counted 
as  unimportant  in  the  great  scheme  the  mate- 
rial destruction,  and  was  only  concerned  in 

266 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

the  spiritual  side  of  it  all.  Of  course  he  did 
not  understand.  Why  should  he?  So  I 
thought  it  not  worth  while  to  state  that  per- 
sonally I  had  a  deep  regret  for  every  stone 
thrown  down  and  a  deeper  sorrow  for  every 
young  life  so  bravely  given.  He  looked  at 
me  as  if  I  was  crazy.  I  suppose  he  thought 
me  a  white-haired  old  crank.  Is  it  not  true 
of  all  of  us  who  read  our  history  straight  — 
or  as  straight  as  our  limited  intelligences  will 
let  us  —  that,  though  the  life  of  each  genera- 
tion is  made  enthralling  by  the  personal 
struggle,  by  new  ways  of  making  money,  new 
ways  of  spending  it,  new  ways  of  living  and 
new  ways  of  dressing  and  eating  and  amus- 
ing ourselves,  these  are  not  the  vital  things. 
If  they  were,  there  would  have  been  few 
wars,  in  spite  of  adventurers,  camp-followers 
and  free-lances. 

It  is  no  palliation  of  the  offence  that  the 
war  the  Germans  forced  on  the  world,  with 
a  criminal  intent,  has  made  of  the  fighting 
nations  of  the  defence  a  people  who  will  be 
all  the  finer  for  the  struggle.  It  does  not 
lighten  Germany's  sin  that  the  world  will 
have  a  nobler  future,  and  living  itself  be  the 
more  worth  while,  for  the  serried  effort  the 
Allies  have  made.  It  is  nothing  to  Ger- 
many's credit  that,  in  the  shoulder-to-shoul- 
der and  heart-to-heart  sacrifices,  and  the 
heroically  borne  great  grief,  old  differences 
have  been  forgotten  and  a  better  understand- 

c  267  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

ing  achieved,  that  out  of  her  sin  good  will 
come.  She  has  done  her  most  devilish  to  pre- 
vent that.  The  nations  fighting  out  there  in 
front  of  us  to-day  —  on  that  long  line  from 
the  Swiss  frontier  to  the  North  Sea,  and  with 
stiff  lips  and  brave  eyes  offering  their  best 
beloved  on  the  altars  of  right,  justice  and 
liberty  —  must  not  be  merciful  except  to 
a  repentant  sinner.  That  Germany  will 
never  be.  It  is  not  possible  to  her  Kultur. 
A  whining,  lying,  hypocritical  —  in  fact  a 
camoufle  —  penitent  she  may  be;  more  than 
that  is  and  will  be  for  generations  impossible 
for  a  nation  and  people  bred  to  believe  that 
what  a  people  has  strength  to  do,  it  has  the 
right  to  do.  If  after  all  the  experience  the 
Allies  have  had  they  can  be  tricked  into  ex- 
tending pity  to  a  beaten  Germany,  why  then 
they  have  fought  and  bled  in  vain.  I  sup- 
pose there  are  good  Germans.  Well,  God 
must  pity  them,  but  they  must,  for  the  time, 
suffer  for  the  crimes  of  their  race  as  innocent 
children  suffer  for  the  sins  of  their  fathers, 
and  for  the  same  reason;  so  why  should  man 
be  foolishly  lenient  when  neither  the  Al- 
mighty nor  nature  is? 

We  thought  Belgium's  tragedy  could  not 
be  capped  until  Servia's  capped  it,  and  I  am 
inclined  to  believe  that  Germany's  deliberate 
debauching  of  Russia  and  her  conscious  mu- 
tilation of  the  soul  of  a  people  is  her  worst 
crime,  for  it  may  have  arrested  for  centuries 

c  268  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

the  slow  and  hoped-for  evolution  of  a  nation 
and  a  race  in  which  we  all  may  have  had  too 
much  faith,  but  which,  now  that  chaos  has 
been  dealt  out  to  it,  may  be  long  in  recover- 
ing, because  one  sees  nowhere  in  sight  yet 
the  national  hero  who  might  wave  a  magic 
wand  of  personal  love  and  magnetic  patriot- 
ism and  still  the  waters  the  Huns  have 
troubled.  The  Allies  have  a  duty  —  to  aid 
in  conjuring  that  spirit,  but  it  can  never  be 
done  while  there  is  a  German  foot  on  Russian 
soil. 

You  ask  in  one  of  your  late  letters  if  I 
have  been  reading  Cheradame  on  the  "  East- 
ern Question."  Of  course  I  have.  His  ar- 
raignment of  facts  is  appalling.  I  own  that. 
But  it  seems  rather  a  pity  that,  while  his  sta- 
tistics have  tended  to  terrorize  an  easily  ter- 
rorized people,  some  one  does  not  add  a 
footnote  to  remind  the  world,  not  only  that 
there  is  a  spirit  in  this  great  war  —  it  has  a 
soul  as  well  as  facts  —  and  that  if  the  Allies 
have  seemed  to  neglect  the  eastern  to  devote 
themselves  to  the  western  frontier  it  must 
not  be  forgotten  that,  with  all  the  forces  they 
have,  they  have  barely  been  able  to  hold  the 
Huns  at  bay  there.  Besides,  the  vital  thing 
is  to  defeat  Germany,  and  it  is  immaterial 
where  that  is  done  so  that  it  is  done,  and  it  is 
far  from  done  yet.  When  Germany  is  well 
licked,  and  only  then,  will  it  be  possible  to 
deal  with  the  races  concerned  in  what  has 

[  269  ] 


ucai   \\ 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

for  so  long  been  known  as  the  Eastern  Ques- 
tion, which  really  dates  back  to  the  seven- 
teenth century,  when  Austria  started  on  her 
"  eastern  route,"  if  it  does  not  go  far  back 
of  that  to  the  fall  of  Constantinople  and  the 
entrance  of  the  Turk  into  Europe.  With  this 
great  massacre  ended,  with  Germany  weak- 
ened and  punished,  and  the  Turks  driven  out, 
the  Eastern  Question  can  be  dealt  with  by 
other  means  than  a  sword;  and  I  dare  say  it 
will  be  found  that,  delivered  from  Prussian 
intrigue,  the  victorious  Allies,  with  the  power 
and  the  will  to  do  it,  will  meet  with  aid  and 
not  opposition  from  the  people  concerned. 
But  just  as  long  as  Germany  is  left  with 
power  to  interfere  such  dreams  can  never  be 
realized.  Imagine  the  mentality  of  a  people 
who  can  be  lulled  to  sleep  with  Kaiser  Bill's 
"  Peace  Talk,"  who  can  even  tolerate  a 
leader  who  states  that  the  Allies  are  respon- 
sible for  the  continuation  of  the  war  because 
they  refuse  to  stop  fighting  to  protect  their 
homes  and  liberties  by  acknowledging  them- 
selves beaten,  pay  the  expenses  of  a  war 
forced  on  them,  and  leave  in  the  hands  of  the 
spoiler  his  loot  in  lands,  subject  peoples,  and 
material ! 

After  all  the  Kaiser  made  a  mistake  when 
he  thought  he  was  a  second  Napoleon  I. 
Do  you  know  what  he  is  like?  He  is  a 
reincarnation  of  Nabuchodonosor.  Do  read 
Chapters  V  and  VI  of  the  book  of  Judith  in 

[  270  J 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

the  Apocrypha  if  you  don't  believe  me. 
And  the  King  of  the  Assyrians  had  his  Hin- 
denburg,  only  even  in  those  days  of  barbarity 
it  did  not  occur  to  Holofernes  to  poison  the 
wells  and  sources  he  seized  when  he  set  out 
to  reduce  Jerusalem. 

I  suppose  you  will  reply  that  this  comes 
very  ill  from  me,  who  have  been  saying  that 
I  was  tired  of  talk,  and  only  wanted  acts  — 
words  after  achievements.  Only  a  fool 
never  changes  her  mind.  I  can't  be  really  a 
fool,  I  change  mine  so  often. 

I  note  also  that  you  object  to  my  saying 
"  dirty  Germans  "  so  often.  That  is  only  be- 
cause I  am  becoming  so  very  American  — 
it's  an  ill  war  that  brings  about  no  good  — 
ahem!  That's  all  right.  You  may  laugh. 
Besides,  I  supposed  that  you  had  heard  the 
song  the  Amex  boys  brought  over  with  them 
—  a  song  which  lists  off  what  a  soldier  may 
expect  each  day  in  the  week  —  shrapnel  one 
day,  then  gas,  then  "over  the  top,"  down  to 
the  hospital  on  Saturday,  and  a  funeral  on 
Sunday,  and  each  day's  prayer  is  "  Oh,  you 
dirty  Germans,  I  wish  the  same  on  you." 
Ever  since  I  heard  it  in  Paris  we  have  never 
spoken  of  the  Huns  except  as  "  dirty  Ger- 
mans," and  even  Amelie  can  say  it,  and  pre- 
fers it  to  "  les  sales  Boches,"  —  the  usual 
French  designation,  and  of  which  "  dirty 
Germans"  is  a  literal  translation. 

Speaking   of   songs,   I   am  told  that  the 

[  271  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

Marines  went  "over  the  top"  at  Chateau- 
Thierry  singing,  "  I  want  to  go  home,  I  am 
too  young  to  die,"  and  with  cigarettes  in 
their  mouths.  I  don't  vouch  for  that  now, 
but  it  was  told  me  by  one  of  them,  a  sergeant 
who  led  the  third  wave  over  —  thirty  men. 
There  were  only  two  left  with  him  when  the 
mitrailleuse  they  encountered  was  silenced. 
But  I  can  believe  it.  You  ought  to  hear  what 
the  French  say  of  the  Amex  boys,  especially 
of  how  they  fight  when  an  assault  becomes  a 
hand-to-hand.  They  say  that  even  when 
their  ammunition  is  out,  and  their  guns  shot 
out  of  their  hands,  they  use  feet  as  well  as 
fists,  and  rush  it,  heads  down,  as  if  in  a  foot- 
ball tussle.  They  assert  that  with  experience 
they  are  going  to  make  great  soldiers.  That 
emphasizes  the  blow  at  the  German  military 
ideas,  doesn't  it? 

I  imagine  that  they  have  already  dealt 
out  a  flush  of  surprises  to  the  Germans.  We 
have  seen  a  large  number  of  the  prisoners  here 
whom  the  Americans  took  —  some  of  them 
not  looking  more  than  fifteen  or  sixteen  years 
old.  A  few  of  them  know  a  word  or  two  of 
French,  and  when  questioned  about  the 
Americans  they  said:  " Mediants  les  Ameri- 
cains  —  mechantsf"  Aren't  they  wonder- 
ful? Strange  people  who  feel  the  right  to 
do  the  things  they  have  done,  and  then 
think  a  soldier  who  fights  back  impolitely  is 
"  mechant" 
[  272  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

While  I  am  writing  this  Amelia  and  Pere 
have  gone  to  look  at  the  big  gang  of  pris- 
oners who  have  built  our  new  double  bridge, 
which  crosses  both  the  canal  and  the  Marne 
at  Mareuil,  and  the  new  road  which  will 
connect  the  route  nationale  with  that  to  Com- 
piegne,  well  west  of  Meaux.  I  haven't  seen 
it  since  it  was  begun,  but  they  have  been 
down  several  times  and  tell  me  it  is  very 
handsome. 


[  273   1 


XXX 

Remembrance  Day, 

WELL,  we  are  entering  on  the  fifth  year 
of  the  war.  We  were  pained  in  1914  when 
Kitchener  prophesied  a  three  years'  war,  and 
very  cross  when  an  American  financier  de- 
clared that  it  might  last  seven.  I  rather 
imagine  five  will  settle  it,  but  I  am  not 
prophesying.  It  is  a  long  road  still  to  the 
frontier.  But  to-day,  when  all  the  world, 
except  Central  Europe,  is  joining  England 
in  her  solemn  service  of  prayer,  and  the 
Allied  chiefs  are  exchanging  cables  of  hope 
and  confidence,  I  may  as  well  do  my  bit,  by 
sending  you  my  message.  I  feel  especially 
inspired  to  do  it  by  the  fact  that  your  letter 
just  received  expresses  some  surprise  at  what 
you  call  my  losing  my  nerve,  in  the  first  week 
in  June.  Did  I?  Do  you  know,  I  can't  re- 
member. But  you  must  know  that  the  situa- 
tion here  was  desperate  from  March  twenty- 
first  up  to  Foch's  counter-offensive  on  July 
eighteenth.  When  I  say  desperate  I  mean 
just  that. 

Speaking  of  that  time,  I  never  told  you 
that  my  famous  sack  of  sugar  never  got  here. 
By  one  of  those  errors  that  happen  often, 
but  by  good  luck  never  happened  to  me  be- 

[  274  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

fore,  the  cases  I  sent  out  from  Paris  on  the 
morning  of  the  fifteenth  —  the  day  the  fifth 
offensive  was  launched  —  did  not  get  put  off 
at  Esbly,  where  our  narrow-gauge  line  meets 
the  main  line,  but  went  on  to  the  end,  which, 
as  the  Germans  were  across  the  Marne  at 
that  time  at  Dormans,  was  La  Ferte-sous- 
Jouarre,  the  next  station  beyond  Meaux,  and 
only  about  eleven  miles  from  here.  That 
night  the  railway  station  was  bombarded  by 
the  Germans  and  destroyed  and  the  station- 
master  killed.  So  my  precious  sugar  was 
burned  up.  I  mention  the  fact  only  as  inter- 
esting, and  because  it  may  account  for  what 
you  call  my  nervousness.  I  am  perfectly 
sure  that  if  ever  I  were  condemned  to  die  for 
a  cause,  the  hours  of  waiting  for  the  end 
would  be  —  shall  we  say?  —  trying. 

But  all  that  is  changed,  and  one  forgets 
easily. 

On  Friday  night,  at  eight  o'clock,  the 
Allies  entered  Soissons  again,  and  the  pillar 
of  the  German  position  for  the  march  on 
Paris  by  the  valley  of  the  Oise  is  lost  to 
them.  With  both  the  valley  of  the  Marne 
and  that  of  the  Oise  closed  to  the  invader, 
Paris  is  again  safe,  and  we  are  again  calm, 
and  draw  a  long  breath  of  relief,  even  though 
we  know  that  we  must  count  it  lucky  if,  be- 
fore winter,  we  can  see  the  Huns  back  on 
the  famous  Siegfried  line,  from  which  they 
bounded  last  March,  and  to  which  they  re- 

[  275  ] 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

treated  in  March  of  1917.  There  they  will 
be  in  almost  impregnable  positions,  behind  a 
long  line  of  veritable  fortresses,  and  in  much 
better  winter  quarters  than  the  Allies. 

One  of  the  prettiest  things  about  this  slow 
push  forward,  which  is  a  victory,  slow  as  it 
is,  is  the  fact  that  every  nation  in  arms  for 
the  Allied  cause  has  taken  part  in  it,  and 
distinguished  itself. 

Our  boys,  fresh  and  untried,  have  more 
than  held  their  own.  I  had  a  letter  yester- 
day from  a  Californian  who  is  with  the 
Foreign  Legion,  who  writes:  "Since  I  saw 
you  we  have  been  through  two  campaigns 
with  our  beloved  division.  The  first  gave 
us  all  the  sensations  of  the  agony  of  retreat, 
the  second  all  the  exhilaration  of  a  victory. 
And  more  than  that,  we  have  had  the  thrill 
of  seeing  our  American  troops  fight  side  by 
side  with  the  hardened  legionnaires  and  make 
good." 

One  more  consoling  thing.  I  have  often 
asked  myself,  since  I  saw  another  war  winter 
looming  in  sight,  how  our  boys  were  going 
to  stand  the  rough  billets  to  which  the  poilus 
are  accustomed,  —  so  different  from  the 
camp  quarters  of  their  months  of  training 
at  home,  in  England  and  even  here.  An 
American  officer,  who  was  here  yesterday, 
tells  me  that,  although  the  fighting  regiments 
between  the  Marne  and  Fisme,  which  the 
boys  from  the  States  retook  by  assault,  are 

[  276 1 


THE  PEAK  OF  THE  LOAD 

cantonned  in  an  absolutely  destroyed  coun- 
try, under  the  roughest  conditions,  they  take 
it  gaily,  —  he  has  never  heard  the  very 
smallest  complaining. 

So  here  we  are  at  the  beginning  of  the 
Year  V. 

We  know  that  Germany  is  still  strong. 
We  cannot  close  our  eyes  to  the  knowledge 
that  her  death-struggle  will  be  full  of  fear- 
fulness.  Still,  with  the  days  shortening  —  I 
had  to  light  up  last  night  at  half-past  seven 
in  the  salon,  the  first  time  I  have  had  a  light 
except  in  my  bedroom  since  the  last  of  May, 
which  means  winter  will  be  here  before  we 
know  it  —  we  are  really  gayer  than  at  the 
opening  of  any  winter  since  the  war  began. 
It  is  not  wholly  because  we  are  hardened  to 
it.  It  is  because  the  dawn  of  the  new  era 
begins  to  glow  on  the  horizon  of  the  future. 
We  are  moving  slowly  towards  new  days, 
for  the  world  that  was  has  gone,  and  the 
special  colour  of  the  days  before  the  war 
can  never  be  again.  My  Remembrance  Day 
prayer  is  that  the  spirit  moving  over  the 
fighting-line  to-day  and  flinging  its  wide 
wings  over  the  heads  and  hearts  of  all  of  us 
behind  the  lines  may  persist  and  make  the 
nations  as  fine  in  the  great  after-the-war 
work  ahead  of  them,  as  they  have  been  noble, 
sacrificing,  loyal  to  one  another,  and  patriotic 
to  their  own  flags  in  the  great  fight. 

[  277   J 


PLEASE  DO  NOT  REMOVE 
CARDS  OR  SLIPS  FROM  THIS  POCKET 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO  LIBRARY 


D       Aldrich,  Mildred 

570        The  peak  of  the  load 

.9 
A44 


-^^*  y/i 

JMOM 

:^iiancoui 


^^t-StejW^ence  /A 

y «  ••  •  •  1 1 1  •  >  >  ><x     x*-»     •      '! 


cA 


.v" <•»».'_%  t* 


Ecou< 


d 


AW^CoT^M 
,  QJr/XiCro 


^^^^^^A^y- JS^Msljatc -i>; 

^"C/rj/nL  fi—ft-,.  •     ffj/T7g5      \-..nj\j*    /^^  1    -JTW-<~iP«— Is^^~.  _ s~\s- 
*+\  t~ '.  I  IXftrfv-cn  L»  ^* 


<f. 

vlBraisne 

^v^^^.^'-'T 

,  .J'  ,^*av-^^r,SI^es 


^-  r*; 

^ns  ^-.r^o^Tj^ 

:«^ 

'«  S 

^.x^Af/ 

J'«"J^«  ^tf   Vfc<\Ter  ^vt-hai: 

v*^ 

jej