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Title: Where the Sabots Clatter Again
Author: Katherine Shortall
Release Date: July 29, 2004 [EBook #13048]
Language: English
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[Illustration: Where the Sabots
Clatter Again by Katherine Shortall]
[Illustration: Katherine Shortall (autograph), December 1921]
_The Radcliffe Unit in France collaborated with the French Red Cross in
its work of reconstruction after the Armistice. It was as a member of
this unit and as chauffeuse in the devastated regions that the writer
received the impressions set forth in these sketches._
Where the Sabots Clatter Again
by Katherine Shortall
[Illustration: street scene]
Ralph Fletcher Seymour
Publisher
410 S. Michigan Avenue
Chicago
PUBLISHED FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE
RADCLIFFE COLLEGE ENDOWMENT FUND
IN AN EDITION LIMITED TO 150 COPIES
SECOND EDITION OF 150 COPIES
1921
WHERE THE SABOTS CLATTER AGAIN.
THE BRIDE OF NOYON.
A returning flush upon the plain. Streaks of color across a mangled
landscape: the gentle concealment of shell hole and trench. This is what
one saw, even in the summer of 1919. For the sap was running, and a new
invasion was occurring. Legions of tender blades pushed over the haggard
No Man's Land, while reckless poppies scattered through the ranks of
green, to be followed by the shyer starry sisters in blue and white.
Irrepressibly these floral throngs advanced over the shell torn spaces,
crowding, mingling and bending together in a rainbow riot beneath the
winds that blew them. They were the vanguard.
* * * * *
In the midst of the reviving fields lay Noyon: Noyon, that gem of the
Oise, whose delicate outline of spires and soft tinted roofs had graced
the wide valley for centuries. Today the little city lay blanched and
shapeless between the hills, as all towns were left that stood in the
path of the armies. The cathedral alone reared its battered bulk in the
midst; a resisting pile, its two grim and blunted towers frowning into
the sky. Nobly Gothic through all the shattering, the great church rose
out of the wreckage, with flying buttresses still outspread like
brooding wings to the dead houses that had sunk about her.
But Noyon was not dead. We of the Red Cross knew that. We knew that in
cellars and nooks of this labyrinth of ruin already hundreds of hearts
were beating. On this calm September morning the newly cleared streets
resounded with the healthful music of hammer and saw, and cartwheels
rattled over the cobblestones, while workmen called to each other in
resonant voices. Pregnant sounds, these, the significance of which we
could estimate. For we had seen Noyon in the early months of the
armistice: tangled and monstrous in her attitude of falling, and silent
with the bleeding silence of desertion. Then, one memorable day, the
stillness had been broken by the first clatter of sabots--that wooden
noise, measured, unmistakable, approaching. Two pairs of sabots and a
long road. Two broad backs bent under bulging loads; an infant's wail; a
knock at the Red Cross Door--but that was nearly eight months before.
The _Poste de Secours_ was closed for the first time since Madame de
Vigny and her three young _infirmières_ had come to Noyon. Two women
stood without, one plump and bareheaded, the other aged and bent, with a
calico handkerchief tied over her hair. They stared at the printed card
tacked upon the entrance of the large patched-up house that served as
Headquarters for the French Red Cross.
"_Tiens! c'est fermé_," exclaimed Madame Talon, shaking the rough board
door with all her meagre weight, "and I have walked eight kilometers to
get a _jupon_, and with rheumatism, too."
"Haven't you heard the news?" asked her companion with city-bred scorn.
"Ah? What news?" The crisp old face crinkled with anticipation.
"Why, Mademoiselle Gaston is to be married today."
"_Tiens, tiens! est-ce possible?_ What happiness for that good girl!"
and Madame Talon, forgetful of the loss of her _jupon_, smiled a
wrinkled smile till her nose nearly touched her chin, and her eyes
receding into well worn little puckers, became two snapping black
points.
"Is it really so? And the bridegroom--who is he?"
There followed that vivacious exchange of questions and answers and
speculations which accompanies the announcement of a marriage the world
over.
Mademoiselle Gaston was the daughter of an ancient family of Noyon. But
now, her ancestral home was a heap of debris, a tomb for men of many
nations, which she did not like to visit. She took me there once, and we
walked through the old tennis court where a little summer house remained
untouched, its jaunty frailty seeming to mock at the desolation of all
that is solid.
"Ah, I have had good times here," she said in the expressionless voice
of one who has endured too much.
For now she was alone. Tennis tournaments for her were separated from
the present by a curtain of deaths, by the incomparable space of those
four years.
Mademoiselle Gaston had played her part in it all. When the Germans were
advancing upon Noyon, she had stuck to her post and remained in the
hospital where she nursed her compatriots under enemy rule during the
first occupation of the city. Something about her had made them treat
her with respect, although I have been told that the Prussian officers
were always vaguely uncomfortable in her presence. There was, perhaps,
not enough humility in her clear eyes, and they worked her to the
breaking point. Yet so impeccable and businesslike was her conduct that
they could never convict her of any infringement of rules. Little did
these pompous invaders suspect how this slender capable girl with the
hazel eyes was spicing the hours behind their backs, and drawing with
nimble and irreverent pencil portraits of her captors, daring
caricatures which she exhibited in secret to the terrified delight of
her patients. Luckily for her this harmless vengeance had not been
discovered, for doubtless she would have paid dearly for her Gallic
audacity.
She was small of stature and very thin. Not even the nurse's flowing
garb could conceal the angularity of her figure. One wondered how so
fragile a frame could have survived the crashings and shakings of war.
What secret of yielding and resisting was hers? The tension,
nevertheless, had left its mark upon her young face; had drawn the skin
over the aquiline profile, and compressed the sensitive mouth in a line
too rigid for her years. This severity of feature she aggravated by
pinning her _coiffe_ low over a forehead as uncompromising as a nun's.
Not a relenting suggestion of hair would she permit. Yet whatever of
tenderness or hope she strove thus to hood, nothing could suppress the
beauty of her luminous eyes; caressing eyes that belied her austere
manner. No sight of blood nor weariness, no insult had hardened them.
Even when their greenish depths went dark and wide with reminiscence, a
light lurked at the bottom--the reflection of something dancing. Yes,
everybody loved Mademoiselle Gaston.
For weeks we had seen it coming. She had told us of her engagement at
breakfast one Monday morning after a week-end visit to her married
sister in Paris. It had seemed a good business proposition. She
announced it as such, calmly, with a frankness that astonished my
American soul. We were pleased. She would have a château and money, and
a _de_ before her name. Best of all she would have peace and
companionship after her lonely struggles. On the whole we were very much
pleased. Madame de Vigny and her gentle niece were entirely delighted.
Noyon was vociferous in its approval and congratulations. I could have
wished--but at least I did not thrust any transatlantic notions into the
general contentment.
And I soon saw--no one could fail to see--the change that day by day
came over our reserved companion. The stern line of her lips relaxed. In
amazement one day we heard her laugh. Then her laughter began to break
forth on all occasions; and we listened to her singing above in her
room, and we smiled at each other. That tightness of her brow dissolved
in a carefree radiance. At work, she mixed up her faultless card
catalogues and laughed at her mistakes. Once, during our busy hours of
distribution, we caught her blithely granting the request of fat Mère
Copillet for a cook stove and thereupon absently presenting that jovial
dame with a pair of sabots, much too small for her portly foot, to the
amusement of all the good wives gathered in the Red Cross office. They
laughed loudly in a sympathetic crowd, and Mademoiselle Gaston laughed
also, and they loved her more than ever. When they learned that she had
chosen to be married in the ruined cathedral of her native town, their
affection turned to adoration. Not a peasant in the region but took this
to be an honor to his city and to himself. Gratitude and a nameless hope
filled the hearts of the people of Noyon.
The day was at hand. The _poste_ was closed, for within there was a
feast to prepare and a bride to adorn. In the early morning the
sun-browned peasant women brought flowers, masses of goldenrod and
asters. These we arranged in brass shells, empty husks of death, till
the bleak spaciousness of our shattered house was gay. The rooms, still
elegant in proportion, lent themselves naturally to adornment; and I
found myself wondering what former festivities they had sheltered, what
other brides had passed down this stately corridor before the bombs let
in the wind and the rain and the thieves; and what remote luxuries had
been reflected in the great mirror of which only the carved gilt frame
was left? Today, goldenrod and asters bloomed against the mouldy walls
and one little tri-colored bouquet. Flowers of France, in truth, sprung
on the battle field and offered by earth-stained fingers to her who had
served.
From the kitchen came noises of snapping wood, and a sizzling which
tempted me to the door. It was a fine old kitchen, though now the tiles
were mostly gone from the floor, and the cracked walls were smeared with
uncouth paintings, the work of some childish soul--some German mess
sergeant, perhaps, who had been installed there, but today Jeanne
reigned again, bending her philosophic face over the smoking stove, and
evoking with infallible arts aromatic and genial vapors from her
casseroles. At her side, Thérèse, pink and cream in the abundance of her
eighteen years, fanned the fire, her eyes wide open with the novel
excitement of the occasion.
"_La guerre est finie, Mademoiselle Miss!_" cried Jeanne with spoon
dripping in mid air. "Today I have butter to cook with. Now you shall
taste a French dinner _comme il faut_!"
In the garage, Michel, all seriousness, polished the Ford that was to
carry away the bridal pair. Recently demobilized, he wore the bizarre
combination of military and civilian clothes that all over France
symbolized the transition from war to peace--black coat encroaching upon
stained blue trousers, khaki puttees, evidence of international intimacy
and--most brilliant emblem of freedom--a black and white checked cap,
put on backwards. His the ultimate responsibility at our wedding
ceremony and he looked to his tires and sparkplugs with passion.
The married sister, beautiful and charming in her Paris gown, was
superintending the _toilette_; and when all was ready, we were called
up to examine and admire. The bride was sweet and calm, smiling dreamily
at us in the foggy fragment of mirror. Below, somewhat portly and
constrained in his black coat and high collar, the bridegroom marched
with agitation back and forth in the corridor, clasping and unclasping
his hands in their gray suède gloves. The Paris train was due. Relatives
and friends began to arrive; and little nieces and nephews, all in their
best clothes. Noyon had not seen anything so gay in years. There was
bustle and business and running up and down stairs. The _poste_, usually
clamorous with the hoarse dialect of northern France, hummed and rippled
with polite conversation and courtly greetings. The bride appeared. The
bridegroom's face lost its perturbed expression in his unaffected
happiness at seeing her. Photographs were taken; she, gracious and
bending in a cloud of tulle; he, stiffly upright but smiling resolutely.
They were off in a string of carriages--sagging old carriages
resurrected from the dust--while a few of us hastened to the cathedral
by a short cut to take more pictures as they entered.
The vast nave engulfed us in its desolation. The mutilated apse seemed
to be far, far away, and one looked at it fearfully. High above through
the broken vaulting shone the indestructible blue, and through the
hollow windows the breath of Heaven wandered free. The little bride
stepped bravely between the piles of refuse, daintily gathering her
dress about her. A dirty sheet on the wall flapped without warning, and
we had a glimpse of a gaunt and pallid crucifix, instantly shrouded
again in a spasm of wind. Passing under an arch we entered a less
demolished chapel. Here all Noyon was waiting.
Thin and quavering through the expectant hush came the chords of a
harmonium. Rustlings and whisperings among the closely packed people as
the misty white figure advanced slowly into sight. At the altar the
silver-haired bishop turned his scholarly face upon her, full of
tenderness; and when he spoke, his voice seemed an assurance of peace
and purity. The service was long. In France one listens to a sermon
when one is married, and the pretty bridesmaids came round for three
collections. The bishop talked of her father, his friend, who had died
under cruel circumstances. Shoulders heaved in the congregation, and in
a dark corner a sob was stifled.
"You have suffered, my children. There has been a mighty mowing and a
winter of death, and our mother the earth has lain barren. But today
stand up, O children, and listen and feel. We are united in these ruins
by more than sorrow. What are these pulsations that beat this day upon
our soul?"
The words flowed on following the ancient grooves of sermons, but the
loving voice thrilled us. It floated through the dim atmosphere into our
consciousness, holding us as in a dream, dovelike and soothing.
My eyes trailed to the delicate bride kneeling beside a great cracked
column, and I thought of the tiny blossom again by the road, and of
those stretches without the town, no longer gray, but brushed with new
color. I saw the daisies and the grasses waving out on No Man's Land:
like heralding banners of the triumph march they waved, leading out of
sight beyond the horizon. And as the priest talked, my heart throbbed
its own silent canticle:
"Joy in the new dawned day, and in peace-awakened fields. Hope of the
flower that blooms again. Faith in the unfolding of petals, gently,
forever, and in season."
"_Soyez loué, Seigneur!_" the voice deepened and concluded.
Decisively, now, burst forth the reedlike chords of music. A wave of
movement throughout the crowd. And the bowed form trembled a moment
within its sheathing veil, against the cold stone pillar.
LITTLE GRAINS OF SAND
Shall I tell you about the old woman and her statue of Sainte Claire?
She was a true native of Picardy, and if I could give you her dialect,
this story would be more amusing. We came upon her in the course of our
visits, living in her clean little house that had been well mended. She
was delighted to have someone to talk to.
"Come in, my good girl," she patronized the queenly and aristocratic
Madame de Vigny. "Come in, everybody," and we all went in.
"Sit down, my dear," again to Madame de Vigny. "Those barbarians didn't
leave me many chairs, but here is one, and this box will do for these
young ladies." She herself remained standing, a stout old body in spite
of her eighty years. Her blue eyes were clear and twinkled with fun, and
she had a mischievous way of smiling out of the corner of her mouth,
displaying two teeth. She loved her joke, this shrewd old lady.
"_Dites, Madame_," she said, "is it true that you give away flannel
petticoats and stockings?"
"Yes, Madame, when one has need of them."
"Is it possible? And for nothing? Ah, that is good, that is generous.
Tonight I shall tell Sainte Claire about you. Would you like to see my
'_tiote[1] Sainte Claire_?" We followed her back through a little yard
and down into a cellar. "You see, Mesdames, when the villains bombarded
Noyon, I stayed right here. I wasn't going to leave my home for those
people. One night the convent opposite was struck, and the next morning
in the street I found my Sainte Claire. She wasn't harmed at all, lying
on her back in the mud. 'Now God will protect me,' I said, and I picked
her up in my arms and carried her into my house. And Sainte Claire said
to me, 'Place me down in the cave, and you will be safe.' So I brought
her down."
[Footnote 1: Dialect for _petite_.]
She led us to a tiny underground apartment, probably a vegetable cellar,
and there, on a bracket jutting from the mildewed wall, stood the
painted plaster image of the saint.
"_Voilà ma Sainte Claire!_" exclaimed the old peasant woman, crossing
herself. "She and I have lived down here during the bombardment and the
entire occupation. She has protected me. Look, Madame--" and she showed
us a corner of the ceiling that had been newly repaired. "The _obus_
passed through here, and never touched us. I kept on praying to the
Sainte, and she said, 'Do not move and you will be safe.' All night I
was on my knees before her, and toward morning the house was hit--only
one meter away the wall fell down, and we were not harmed, Madame,
neither the Sainte nor I. Then Sainte Claire said to me, 'The Boches are
coming. Take half of your potatoes and bring them down here.' I had a
beautiful pile of potatoes, Madame, just harvested. But I took only half
and put them in a sack and stuffed it with hay. For thirteen months,
Madame, I slept on those potatoes. Then Sainte Claire said, 'Take half
your wine, and put it down the well.' I wanted to hide it all, but she
said 'No, take only half.' And I sunk one hundred bottles, Madame, of my
best wine in the well. The Boches came. Five of them came to my house.
Five _grands gaillards_ with square heads. Oh, they are ugly, Madame!
'Show us your wine,' they ordered. 'It is there, Messieurs, in the
cellar,' I answered meek as a lamb. And they all began drinking till
they were drunk. Then one of them dragged me down here by the arm, and
for thirteen months, Madame, I lived in this hole with Sainte Claire
while they possessed my house. They made me cook for them, the animals;
but I should have starved, Madame, if I had not had my potatoes. Then
the French began their bombardment. Ah, it was terrible, Madame, to be
bombarded by one's friends. I did not leave this cave, and I prayed and
prayed, 'Sainte Claire, save me once more!' and Sainte Claire replied,
'The French are coming. We shall not be hurt.' One morning it was
suddenly quiet: the cannon had stopped. I listened and heard nothing,
and I came up into my house. It was empty, Madame. The Boches had gone.
One shell had fallen through the roof into my bedroom--that was all. But
ah, Madame! _Noyon, pauvre Noyon!_ She was like a corpse. _Ah lala,
lala! Qué'malheur!_ The next day our soldiers came. Ah, how glad I was.
And I asked Sainte Claire, 'May I not go to the well and bring up a
bottle of wine?' And she said 'No, not yet.' So we waited, Madame, until
the day of the Armistice. Then Sainte Claire said, 'Now you may go and
bring up all the wine.' And, Madame, what do you think? I went to the
well and I hauled up the wine and out of the hundred bottles only two
were broken." The old woman laughed with delight at the trick she had
played on the invader.
"They never guessed it was there. It was Sainte Claire, Madame, who
saved it. I poured her a glassful and we celebrated, Madame; we
celebrated the victory down in our cave, _ma'tiote Sainte Claire_ and
I."
* * * * *
Mademoiselle Froissart and I left the _Poste de Secours_ one day, and
started for a far away village that was said to be utterly wiped out.
Our drive lay over a terrific road. We crossed a vast sad plain,
intersected with trenches, with nothing in sight but one monster
deserted tank, still camouflaged, and here and there the silhouette of
a blasted tree against the lowering sky. These dead trees of the battle
line! Sometimes, with their bony limbs flung forth in gnarled unnatural
gestures, they remind me of frantic skeletons suddenly petrified in
their dance of death. They are frenzied, and unutterably tragic. They
seem to move; yet they are so dead. And I imagine their denuded tortured
arms reaching toward unanswering Heaven in an agony of protest against
the fate that has gripped all nature.
We entered a torn and tangled forest. The road was narrow and overgrown,
and several times I had to dodge hand grenades that lay in the grassy
ruts. The Ford ploughed bravely through deep mud, skidded, recovered,
fell into holes, and kept on. My attention was so focused upon driving
that I saw little else but the road ahead, though once at an exclamation
from Mademoiselle Froissart, out of the corner of my eye I saw a machine
gun mounted and apparently intact. The motor was toiling, but in my soul
I blessed its regular noise that told me all was well. Leaving the wood
we came to what appeared to be a large rough clearing. There were no
trees--only bumps of earth covered with tall weeds. To our surprise we
caught sight of the jaunty blue figure of a poilu, and then a band of
slouching green-coated prisoners who were digging in their heavy
leisurely manner. Mademoiselle Froissart inquired for the village of
Evricourt.
"_Mais c'est ici, Madame_," replied the soldier with a grin.
"Here!" We stared. There was nothing by which one could have told that
this was the site of a town, except an occasional bit of brick that
showed beneath the weeds. All the Germans had stopped work to look at
these two women who had so unexpectedly penetrated to this God-forsaken
spot. We asked whether any of the inhabitants had returned.
"Just one old man," said the poilu, "who lives all alone in his cellar,
over there." He pointed, and suddenly from the ground emerged an aged
man, white haired and erect. He came toward us, an astonishingly
handsome figure. His beautifully modeled head was like a bit of perfect
sculpture found suddenly among rank ruins, whose very fineness shocks
us because of its contrast with its coarse surroundings. His blue eyes
were piercing under bushy white brows, while a snowy and curling beard,
abundant yet well trimmed, set off the dark ivory of his complexion. And
on his head, above the silvery waving hair, was placed at a careful
angle a blue _callot_. He was dressed in that agreeable soft blue that
distinguishes the garments of those who work out of doors, and a
spotless white shirt was turned back at the throat.
"_Bonjour, Mesdames_," he greeted us, taking off his cap and came up for
a chat. We were amazed at his charm and intelligence. He had come back
thus alone "because, Mademoiselle, this is my home. An old man can best
serve his country by living off his own land. What good is he in a
strange province where they eat such ridiculous things, and where
everyone has the craze for machinery? Besides, the more one's home is
ruined the greater the obligation to return and rebuild it. _C'est un
devoir, Mademoiselle._" His place was here, unless--with a twinkle in my
direction--Mademoiselle would take him back to America with her, in
which case he would willingly leave. I laughed at the compliment and
told him to name the day and the boat.
Food? He had scratched a little garden by his door and had plenty, thank
you. Clothing? "Do I not look well dressed, Mademoiselle?" We admitted
that he looked ready for a fête. Company? "Ah, Mademoiselle, memories,
memories! I smoke my pipe and I repeople this village. It is alive for
me. Look, Mademoiselle, that is where the church was--it was a pretty
church. And there was the _mairie_. Only"--with a shrug of good humored
despair--"now I have no more tobacco. These _messieurs_"--indicating the
soldier and the Germans who were smiling good naturedly--"are kind
enough to share theirs with me, but they are not very rich themselves,
you see," at which they all laughed at their common plight. Here at last
was something that we could offer. I usually kept cigarettes with me for
such emergencies. And now I produced two boxes of them and several
packages of American matches.
"Mademoiselle, I accept them with my profound thanks," said the old
_gallant_ with a bow, removing his cap.
At length we had to leave. A prisoner stepped forward to crank my car,
and all of them, the dauntless Frenchman in the center, lined up and
gave us the military salute. Before reentering the woods I looked back
and saw the blue-coated figure offering a light to the green coat. From
cigarette tip to cigarette tip the fraternal spark was being
transmitted: the spark that crosses borders and nationalities, that
glows in the darkness, and puts mankind at peace. And so we left them
all--smoking; smoking out there in the ruins, smoking and dreaming of
home. Of home and love unattainable beyond the Rhine; of home and love
buried forever in the wreckage of war and of time.
* * * * *
This week Mademoiselle Froissart and I spent forty-eight hours in Paris,
during which time we purchased one thousand toys for our Christmas
party. Such a time as I had coralling a taxi to carry our large crate
of playthings to the station. Paris was gay and crowded, making up for
its four years of gravity, and the conscienceless taxi drivers were
having pretty much their own way, refusing all that were going in a
direction that did not suit their convenience, and extorting enormous
_pour boire_. I stood on the edge of the mad stream of vehicles that
pressed by on the boulevard, and watched for an empty taxi. One came,
the old reprobate who drove it casting his practiced eye about for a
likely looking customer. He deigned to notice me, recognizing me for an
American, and well knowing our national childish impatience, and its
lucrative consequences. He drove up to the curb.
"Where to?" he asked defiantly, blinking his bleary eyes, his red
alcoholic face set in insolent lines.
"_La Gare du Nord._"
He reflected an instant. "Bon," he decided. I got in, resolving to take
possession before breaking all the news to him.
"First I must stop at the _Grand Bazaar_ to call for a box," I said in
a most matter-of-fact way.
"Ah ça! non! It can't be done!" he exclaimed in a fury. "How do you
expect me to earn my living if I have to go out of my way and wait a
century outside a store?"
"I will pay you for your time."
Still he refused to move. "Déscendez, déscendez!" he cried in an ugly
voice. I knew the next one would be just as bad, and besides I had no
time to lose. The hour of the train was approaching. Basely I resorted
to bribery: "Look here, Monsieur, I am American and I will pay you well.
Did you ever know an American to fail to make it worth your while?" He
considered, and looked me over appraisingly.
"It will be twenty francs then, Madame." This was too outrageous.
"Ah non," I said in my turn, but I laughed. "_Ecoutez_, do you know what
is in that box I am going to get? Toys for the little children of the
devastated regions. If I don't take it with me they will have nothing,
nothing at all for Christmas."
"Eh, what?" His old heart was moved. "_Pays dévasté? C'est vrai? Bien,
Madame_, I will take you anywhere you wish." And he started the car. On
our way through traffic he related to me over his shoulder how his wife
and children had fled from Soissons while he was driving a _camion_ at
the front, and that their home was gone.
At the _Grand Bazaar_ Mademoiselle Froissart was waiting with the huge
crate of toys. It was hoisted onto the front seat beside the chauffeur,
who, far from grumbling at its size, was most solicitous in placing it
so that it would not jar. "We mustn't break the dolls," he said with a
wink. Arriving at the station he insisted upon carrying it to the
baggage room for us. "_Hey, mon vieux!_" he addressed the baggage man,
"step lively and get that case on the train for Noyon. It's full of
dolls--dolls for the little girls." And the whole force laughed and flew
to the crate, and tenderly hustled it out to the train with paternal
interest.
"Merry Christmas and many thanks," I said to our driver, holding out the
twenty francs. He did not glance at the money and pushed back my hand.
"_Non, non, Mademoiselle, c'est un plaisir_," he murmured. I protested,
but his whole expression pleaded. "It's not much, Mademoiselle. It's for
the little girls--out there."
Passing through the gate, I looked back and saw him still standing and
watching us. He waved his hat.
"_Bon voyage!_" he called above the crowd. Then, turning, he went back
into the roaring street, doubtless to continue his business of preying
upon the intimidated and helpless public.
VAUCHELLES.
Three roads wander down from the hills and come together; and at the
point of meeting stands a crucifix. This large and dignified _Calvaire_,
though bearing the nicks of bullets and faded by weather, still sheds a
sorrowful beauty that is perhaps the more impressive because of these
marks of desecration. It forms the center of the tiny village, whose
houses cluster close to the mourning image and then straggle thinly
along the three roads. Not even the war which swept over in all its
ferocity has robbed Vauchelles of its winding charm. Many houses have
collapsed, but the village still retains its ancient outline of peaked
roofs, and on all sides orderly piles of bricks, fresh plaster and new
tar paper give an aspect of thrift and optimism. Vauchelles has met the
challenge of devastation and is setting things aright.
Is the town asleep? The healing July sun softly warms the silent houses
and their broken walls and closed doors. No one is in sight. Yet we have
come with our camionette well laden with clothing for the inhabitants.
Ah! they are all away working in the fields. Old Mademoiselle Masson,
peering through the one pane of glass that is left in her window, sees
us, and hobbles to the door to give us the information. She beams upon
us, an unkempt yet gracious figure, and when she talks her false teeth
move slightly up and down. She will run and call her sister who is up on
the hill, and she will tell Madame Riflet as she goes. The news will
spread. The news always spreads. Already the people are gathering, for
_la Croix Rouge_ is its own introduction; and these peasants, too
proud--most of them--to go and ask, will accept what is freely and
gladly given at their doors.
The first person I call upon is Madame Cat. Shall I soon forget that
determined little face with its deep set blue eyes, and sharp features
unsoftened by the brown hair that is pulled back from her forehead? Or
the one room left in that tiny house, shattered and bare, yet stamped
indelibly with the character of its valiant occupants? The ashes are
swept in the fireplace. Two burnished shells tattooed in a careful
pattern and filled with flowers brighten the mantel. And the bed! Even
though made of fragments found in the debris, with naught but a hay
_paillasse_ and a few old quilts dragged through the long flight and
return, it is nevertheless smooth and noble, adorned only with the
reverence and importance with which the French surround The Bed. The
daughter comes in, a thin music-voiced girl with a fine profile like her
mother's. They accept simply, and with appreciation, the useful things
the Red Cross offers. In this case I am authorized to make an unusual
present. For we have a few rolls of wall paper which we have been
holding for someone who takes a special pride in her interior. It would
cover the cracked and damp walls of Madame Cat and would add much cheer
to her little room, besides keeping out the wind. Their faces are
radiant at the suggestion. The daughter will come to the _poste_
tomorrow for it. Can they hang it themselves? "_Ah, c'est facile,
Mademoiselle!_" and the mother gives me her recipé for a wonderful glue
that will hold for years. They accompany me to the street.
"You will come again soon, Mademoiselle, and see it for yourself?"
I promise eagerly.
Across the street lives Monsieur Martin. He comes from his house to
greet me and holds open the gate, a tall farmer in corduroys with
gentle, genial face. His wife had died during the cruel flight from the
invader, and he and his three sons have come back to the remains of
their old home. He apologizes for it, though I find it immaculate.
Shining casseroles hang by the hearth, the three beds are carefully
made, and on the fire something savory is cooking in a _cocotte_.
"It needs a woman's touch," he says smiling. "We are four men and we do
what we can, but--" he finishes with a gesture of the helpless male
entangled in that most clinging, exasperating web of all--cooking and
dish-washing! "_Ca n'en finit plus, Mademoiselle_," he exclaims in
humorous misery. "One has no sooner finished, when one must begin again.
Bah! It is woman's work," with a lordly touch of imperiousness. It is
the ancient voice of Man.
The next house is dark. No one answers my knock, and I lift the latch
and go in. The windows, being broken, are all boarded up to keep out the
dreaded drafts. It is a moment before I can see, though a quavering
voice that is neither man's nor woman's bids me enter. Gradually my eyes
make out two wise old faces of ivory in the obscurity by the hearth.
They are old, old--nobody knows how old they are.
"_Entrez, Madame_," and the old woman rises with difficulty, leaning on
her cane, and draws forward a chair.
"_Bonjour, Madame_," in far-away tones from the aged husband, too feeble
to move alone. I linger for some time with these two dear souls--for
they are scarcely more than souls. We talk of bygone, happy days, of the
war, and of their present needs--so few! Then I tell them I am American.
"American?" says the old man, peering into my face, "that
means--friend."
"Yes," I reply, "that means--friend."
Then I come to a wooden _barraque_, a hive buzzing with children. They
are clambering at the windows and playing in the dirt before the door,
all clad in a many-colored collection of scraps which an ingenious
mother has pieced together. A little boy, wearing the blue _callot_ of a
poilu on the back of his head, sits on the doorsill. He smiles and
stands up, and tells me his mother is inside. Within I find the mother
seated in a room of good-natured disorder, nursing her latest born. Her
lavish smile of welcome lights her broad sunburned face framed in tawny
braids, and she indicates a bench for me with the ease and authority of
a long practiced hostess. She sits there with the infant at her ample
breast, and on her face is written unquestioning satisfaction with her
part in life. A swift laughing tale I hear, of little frocks outgrown
and of sabots worn through, and no place to buy anything, and little
Jean so thin and nervous, "but no wonder, Mademoiselle, for he was born
during the evacuation, and only Cécile to take care of me, and she just
sixteen years old, and I had to be carried in a wheelbarrow." I picture
the flight, the father away at the front, the mother unable to walk, yet
marshalling her little ones, comforting, cajoling, scolding, and feeding
them through it all. The baby finishes with a little contented sigh and
the proud mother exhibits him. "It's a boy, Mademoiselle," as
exuberantly as though it were her first instead of her ninth. "_C'est un
petit garçon de l'Armistice_" with a happy blush.
"Ah, let us hope that he will always be a little child of peace." But in
another moment she is playing with him, chucking him under the chin.
"_Tiens, mon coco! Viens, mon petit soldat_--you must grow up strong and
big, for you are another little soldier for France."
Little Vauchelles, far away in the hills of the fertile Oise, I think of
you. I hope I may again visit you. And I wonder. What ripples from the
seething capitals will stir the placid thoughts of your stouthearted
peasants? And will your broad-browed women wait with age-old resignation
for the next wave of war, or will they catch the echo that is rebounding
through all the valleys of the world and join their voices in the
swelling chord for brotherhood?
In your midst, where the three roads meet, still stands the image of
Christ on the Cross.
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