FightingFrance

By

EdithWharton

THELOOKOFPARIS

(AUGUST,1914—FEBUARY,1915)

I

AUGUST

Onthe30thofJuly,1914,motoringnorth fromPoitiers,wehad lunchedsomewhere by the roadside under apple-trees on the edge of a field. Otherfields stretched away on our right and left to a border of woodland and avillage steeple. All around was noonday quiet, and the sober disciplinedlandscapewhichthetraveller'smemoryisapttoevokeasdistinctivelyFrench.Sometimes,eventoaccustomedeyes,theseruled-offfieldsandcompactgreyvillages seem merely flat and tame; at other moments the sensitiveimagination sees in every thrifty sod and even furrow the ceaseless vigilantattachmentofgenerations faithful to thesoil.Theparticularbitof landscapebeforeusspoke inall its linesof thatattachment.Theairseemedfullof thelongmurmurofhumaneffort,therhythmofoft-repeatedtasks,theserenityofthescenesmiledawaythewarrumourswhichhadhungonussincemorning.

Alldaytheskyhadbeenbankedwiththunder-clouds,butbythetimewereachedChartres,towardfouro'clock,theyhadrolledawayunderthehorizon,andthetownwassosaturatedwithsunlightthattopassintothecathedralwaslikeentering thedenseobscurityofachurch inSpain.At firstalldetailwasimperceptible; we were in a hollow night. Then, as the shadows graduallythinnedandgatheredthemselvesupintopierandvaultandribbing,thereburstout of them great sheets and showers of colour. Framed by such depths ofdarkness, and steeped in a blaze ofmid-summer sun, the familiar windowsseemed singularly remote and yet overpoweringly vivid.Now theywidenedintodark-shoredpoolssplashedwithsunset,nowglitteredandmenaced liketheshieldsoffightingangels.Somewerecataractsofsapphires,othersrosesdroppedfromasaint'stunic,othersgreatcarvenplattersstrewnwithheavenlyregalia, others the sails of galleons bound for thePurple Islands; and in thewesternwallthescatteredfiresoftherose-windowhunglikeaconstellationinanAfricannight.Whenonedroppedone'seyesformtheseetherealharmonies,the dark masses of masonry below them, all veiled and muffled in a mistprickedbya fewaltar lights, seemed tosymbolize the lifeonearth,with itsshadows, itsheavydistancesand its little islandsof illusion.All thatagreatcathedralcanbe,allthemeaningsitcanexpress,allthetranquilizingpoweritcan breathe upon the soul, all the richness of detail it can fuse into a largeutterance of strength and beauty, the cathedral of Chartres gave us in that

perfecthour.

ItwassunsetwhenwereachedthegatesofParis.UndertheheightsofSt.CloudandSuresnesthereachesoftheSeinetrembledwiththeblue-pinklustreofanearlyMonet.TheBoislayaboutusinthestillnessofaholidayevening,andthelawnsofBagatellewereasfreshasJune.BelowtheArcdeTriomphe,theChampsElyseesslopeddownwardinasun-powderedhazetothemistoffountainsandtheetherealobelisk;andthecurrentsofsummerlifeebbedandflowedwithanormalbeatunderthetreesoftheradiatingavenues.Thegreatcity,somadeforpeaceandartandallhumanestgraces,seemedtoliebyherriver-sidelikeaprincessguardedbythewatchfulgiantoftheEiffelTower.

Thenextday theairwas thunderywithrumours.Nobodybelieved them,everybody repeated them. War? Of course there couldn't be war! TheCabinets,likenaughtychildren,wereagaindanglingtheirfeetovertheedge;but the whole incalculable weight of things-as-they-were, of the dailynecessarybusinessofliving,continuedcalmlyandconvincinglytoassertitselfagainst the bandying of diplomaticwords. Paris went on steadily about hermid-summer business of feeding, dressing, and amusing the great army oftouristswhoweretheonlyinvadersshehadseenfornearlyhalfacentury.

All the while, every one knew that other work was going on also. Thewholefabricofthecountry'sseeminglyundisturbedroutinewasthreadedwithnoiselessinvisiblecurrentsofpreparation,thesenseofthemwasinthecalmairasthesenseofchangingweatherisinthebalminessofaperfectafternoon.Pariscountedtheminutestilltheeveningpaperscame.

Theysaidlittleornothingexceptwhateveryonewasalreadydeclaringallover the country. "We don'twantwar—mais it faut que cela finisse!" "Thiskindofthinghasgottostop":thatwastheonlyphaseoneheard.Ifdiplomacycouldstillarrestthewar,somuchthebetter:nooneinFrancewantedit.Allwho spent the first days ofAugust in Pariswill testify to the agreement offeelingonthatpoint.Butifwarhadtocome,thecountry,andeveryheartinit,wasready.

At thedressmaker's, thenextmorning, the tired fitterswerepreparing toleavefortheirusualholiday.Theylookedpaleandanxious—decidedly,therewas a newweight of apprehension in the air.And in the rueRoyale, at thecornerofthePlacedelaConcorde,afewpeoplehadstoppedtolookatalittlestripofwhitepaperagainst thewallof theMinisterede laMarine."Generalmobilization"theyread—andanarmednationknowswhatthatmeans.Butthegroup about the paper was small and quiet. Passers by read the notice andwent on.Therewere no cheers, no gesticulations: the dramatic sense of theracehadalreadytoldthemthattheeventwastoogreattobedramatized.Likea monstrous landslide it had fallen across the path of an orderly laborious

nation,disruptingitsroutine,annihilatingitsindustries,rendingfamiliesapart,andburyingunderaheapofsenselessruinthepatientlyandpainfullywroughtmachineryofcivilization...

Thatevening,inarestaurantoftherueRoyale,wesatatatableinoneofthe openwindows, abreastwith the street, and saw the strange new crowdsstreamby.Inaninstantwewerebeingshownwhatmobilizationwas—ahugebreak in the normal flow of traffic, like the sudden rupture of a dyke. Thestreetwas flooded by the torrent of people sweeping past us to the variousrailwaystations.Allwereonfoot,andcarryingtheirluggage;forsincedawneverycabandtaxiandmotor—omnibushaddisappeared.TheWarOfficehadthrown out its drag-net and caught them all in. The crowd that passed ourwindowwaschieflycomposedofconscripts,themobilisablesofthefirstday,whowereonthewaytothestationaccompaniedbytheirfamiliesandfriends;but among them were little clusters of bewildered tourists, labouring alongwith bags and bundles, and watching their luggage pushed before them onhand-carts—puzzled inarticulate waifs caught in the cross-tides racing to amaelstrom.

In the restaurant, thebefroggedand red-coatedbandpouredoutpatrioticmusic,andtheintervalsbetweenthecourses thatsofewwaiterswereleft toserve were broken by the ever-recurring obligation to stand up for theMarseillaise, tostandupforGodSavetheKing, tostandupfor theRussianNationalAnthem,tostandupagainfortheMarseillaise."EtdirequecesontdesHongroisquijouenttoutcela!"ahumouristremarkedfromthepavement.

As theeveningworeonand thecrowdaboutourwindow thickened, theloiterersoutsidebegan to join in thewar-songs."Allons,debout!"—and theloyal roundbeginsagain."Lachansondudepart" isa frequentdemand;andthe chorus of spectators chimes in roundly.A sort of quiet humourwas thenoteof thestreet.DowntherueRoyale, toward theMadeleine, thebandsofother restaurants were attracting other throngs, and martial refrains werestrung along the Boulevard like its garlands of arc-lights. It was a night ofsinging and acclamations, not boisterous, but gallant anddetermined. ItwasParisbadauderieatitsbest.

Meanwhile,beyondthefringeofidlersthesteadystreamofconscriptsstillpouredalong.Wivesand families trudgedbeside them,carryingallkindsofoddimprovisedbagsandbundles.Theimpressiondisengagingitselffromallthissuperficialconfusionwasthatofacheerfulsteadinessofspirit.Thefacesceaselessly streaming bywere serious but not sad; norwas there any air ofbewilderment—the stare of driven cattle. All these lads and young menseemed to know what they were about and why they were about it. Theyoungestofthemlookedsuddenlygrownupandresponsible;theyunderstoodtheirstakeinthejob,andacceptedit.

The next day the army ofmidsummer travelwas immobilized to let theother army move. No more wild rushes to the station, no more bribing ofconcierges, vain quests for invisible cabs, haggard hours of waiting in thequeueatCook's.Notrainstirredexcepttocarrysoldiers,andthecivilianswhohadnotbribedandjammedtheirwayintoacrannyofthethrongedcarriagesleaving the first night could only creep back through the hot streets to theirhotel and wait. Back they went, disappointed yet half-relieved, to theresounding emptiness of porterless halls, waiterless restaurants, motionlesslifts:tothequeerdisjointedlifeoffashionablehotelssuddenlyreducedtotheintimacies and make-shift of a Latin Quarter pension. Meanwhile it wasstrange towatch thegradualparalysisof thecity.As themotors, taxis, cabsandvanshadvanishedfromthestreets,sothelivelylittlesteamershadlefttheSeine. The canal-boats too were gone, or lay motionless: loading andunloadinghadceased.Everygreatarchitecturalopeningframedanemptiness;all the endless avenues stretched away to desert distances. In the parks andgardensnoonerakedthepathsortrimmedtheborders.Thefountainssleptintheirbasins,theworriedsparrowsflutteredunfed,andvaguedogs,shakenoutof their daily habits, roamed unquietly, looking for familiar eyes. Paris, sointensely conscious yet so strangely entranced, seemed to have had curareinjectedintoallherveins.

Thenextday—the2ndofAugust—fromtheterraceoftheHoteldeCrillononelookeddownonafirstfaintstirofreturninglife.Nowandthenataxi-caboraprivatemotorcrossed thePlacede laConcorde,carryingsoldiers to thestations.Otherconscripts, indetachments, trampedbyonfootwithbagsandbanners.Onedetachmentstoppedbeforetheblack-veiledstatueofStrasbourgand laidagarlandather feet. Inordinary times thisdemonstrationwouldatoncehaveattractedacrowd;butattheverymomentwhenitmighthavebeenexpected to provoke a patriotic outburst it excited nomore attention than ifoneof thesoldiershad turnedaside togiveapennytoabeggar.Thepeoplecrossing the squaredidnot even stop to look.Themeaningof this apparentindifference was obvious. When an armed nation mobilizes, everybody isbusy,andbusyinadefiniteandpressingway.It isnotonly thefighters thatmobilize: those who stay behind must do the same. For each Frenchhousehold, for each individual man or woman in France, war means acompletereorganizationoflife.Thedetachmentofconscripts,unnoticed,paidtheirtributetotheCauseandpassedon...

Looked back on from these sternermonths those early days in Paris, intheirsettingofgravearchitectureandsummerskies,wearthelightoftheidealandtheabstract.Thesuddenflamingupofnationallife,theabeyanceofeverysmall andmeanpreoccupation, cleared themoral air as the streetshadbeencleared,andmadethespectatorfeelasthoughhewerereadingagreatpoemonWarratherthanfacingitsrealities.

Somethingofthissenseofexaltationseemedtopenetratethethrongswhostreamed up and down the Boulevards till late into the night. All wheeledtraffic had ceased, except that of the rare taxi-cabs impressed to carryconscripts to thestations;and themiddleof theBoulevardswasas throngedwithfoot-passengersasanItalianmarket-placeonaSundaymorning.Thevasttideswayedupanddownataslowpace,breakingnowandthentomakeroomforoneofthevolunteer"legions"whichwereformingateverycorner:Italian,Roumanian, South American, North American, each headed by its nationalflag and hailedwith cheering as it passed.But even the cheerswere sober:Paris was not to be shaken out of her self-imposed serenity. One feltsomethingnoblyconsciousandvoluntaryinthemoodofthisquietmultitude.Yet it was a mixed throng, made up of every class, from the scum of theExteriorBoulevardstothecreamofthefashionablerestaurants.Thesepeople,onlytwodaysago,hadbeenleadingathousanddifferentlives,inindifferenceor in antagonism to each other, as alien as enemies across a frontier: nowworkersandidlers,thieves,beggars,saints,poets,drabsandsharpers,genuinepeople and showy shams, were all bumping up against each other in aninstinctive community of emotion. The "people," luckily, predominated; thefacesofworkerslookbestinsuchacrowd,andtherewerethousandsofthem,eachilluminatedandsingledoutbyitsmagnesium-flashofpassion.

Irememberespeciallythesteady-browedfacesofthewomen;andalsothesmallbutsignificantfactthateveryoneofthemhadrememberedtobringherdog. The biggest of these amiable companions had to take their chance ofseeingwhat theycould through the forestofhuman legs;buteveryone thatwasportablewassnugly lodged in thebendofanelbow,and from this safeperch scores and scores of small seriousmuzzles, blunt or sharp, smoothorwoolly,brownorgreyorwhiteorblackorbrindled,lookedoutonthescenewith the quiet awareness of the Paris dog. Itwas certainly a good sign thattheyhadnotbeenforgottenthatnight.

II

We had been shown, impressively, what it was to live through amobilization; now we were to learn that mobilization is only one of theconcomitants ofmartial law, and thatmartial law is not comfortable to liveunder—atleasttillonegetsusedtoit.

Atfirstitsmainpurpose,totheneutralcivilian,seemedcertainlytobethewaywardpleasureofcomplicatinghis life;and in that line it excelled in thelastrefinementsofingenuity.Instructionsbegantoshoweronusafterthelull

ofthefirstdays:instructionsastowhattodo,andwhatnottodo,inordertomake our presence tolerable and our persons secure. In the first place,foreignerscouldnotremaininFrancewithoutsatisfyingtheauthoritiesas totheir nationality and antecedents; and to do this necessitated repeatedineffective visits to chanceries, consulates and police stations, each toodenselythrongedwithflusteredapplicantstopermittheentranceofonemore.Betweenthesevainpilgrimages,thetravellerimpatienttoleavehadtotoilonfoot to distant railway stations, from which he returned baffled by vagueanswers and disheartened by the declaration that tickets, when achievable,must also be vises by the police.Therewas amomentwhen it seemed thatones inmost thoughts had to have that unobtainable visa—to obtain which,more fruitless hours must be lived on grimy stairways between perspiringlayersof fellow-aliens.Meanwhileone'smoneywasprobable runningshort,andonemustcableortelegraphformore.Ah—butcablesandtelegramsmustbevisestoo—andevenwhentheywere,onegotnoguaranteethattheywouldbesent!Thenonecouldnotusecodeaddresses,andtheridiculousnumberofwordscontained inaNewYorkaddress seemed tomultiplyas the francs inone'spocketsdiminished.Andwhen the cablewas finallydispatched itwaseither lost on the way, or reached its destination only to call forth, afteranxious days, the disheartening response: "Impossible at present. Makingeveryeffort."Itisfairtoaddthat,tediousandevenirritatingasmanyofthesetransactionswere,theyweregreatlyeasedbythesuddenuniformgood-natureof the French functionary, who, for the first time, probably, in the longtraditionofhisline,brokethroughitsfundamentalruleandwaskind.

Luckily, too, these incessantcomingsandgoings involvedmuchwalkingofthebeautifulidlesummerstreets,whichgrewidlerandmorebeautifuleachday.Neverhadsuchblue-greysoftnessofafternoonbroodedoverParis,suchsunsetsturnedtheheightsoftheTrocaderointoDido'sCarthage,never,aboveall,sorichamoonripenedthroughsuchperfectevenings.TheSeineitselfhadnosmallshareinthismysteriousincreaseofthecity'sbeauty.Releasedfromalltraffic,itshurriedripplessmoothedthemselvesintolongsilkenreachesinwhichquaysandmonumentsat lastsawtheirunbrokenimages.Atnightthefire-flylightsoftheboatshadvanished,andthereflectionsofthestreetlampswere lengthened into streamers of red and gold and purple that slept on thecalmcurrentlikeflutedwater-weeds.Thenthemoonroseandtookpossessionofthecity,purifyingitofallaccidents,calmingandenlargingitandgivingitback its ideal lines of strength and repose. There was something strangelymovinginthisnewParisoftheAugustevenings,soexposedyetsoserene,asthoughherverybeautyshieldedher.

So,gradually,wefell intothehabitof livingundermartial law.After thefirstdaysofflusteredadjustmentthepersonalinconveniencesweresofewthatone felt almost ashamed of their not beingmore, of not being called on to

contribute some greater sacrifice of comfort to the Cause. Within the firstweekovertwothirdsoftheshopshadclosed—thegreaternumberbearingontheir shuttered windows the notice "Pour cause de mobilisation," whichshowed that the "patron" and staff were at the front. But enough remainedopen to satisfy every ordinarywant, and the closing of the others served toprovehowmuchonecoulddowithout.Provisionswereascheapandplentifulasever, thoughforawhile itwaseasier tobuyfood than tohave itcooked.Therestaurantswereclosingrapidly,andoneoftenhadtowanderalongwayfor ameal, andwait a longer time to get it.A few hotels still carried on ahalting life, galvanized by an occasional inrush of travel fromBelgium andGermany;butmostofthemhadclosedorwerebeinghastilytransformedintohospitals.

Thesignsover thesehoteldoorsfirstdisturbedthedreamingharmonyofParis. In a night, as it seemed, thewhole citywas hungwith RedCrosses.Every other building showed the red and white band across its front, with"Ouvroir" or "Hopital" beneath; there was something sinister in thesepreparationsforhorrorsinwhichonecouldnotyetbelieve,inthemakingofbandages for limbsyet soundandwhole, the spreadingofpillows forheadsyetcarriedhigh.Butinsistastheywouldonthewoetocome,thesewarningsignsdidnotdeeplystirthetranceofParis.Thefirstdaysofthewarwerefullofakindofunrealizingconfidence,notboastfulorfatuous,yetasdifferentaspossiblefromtheclear-headedtenacityofpurpose that theexperienceof thenext few months was to develop. It is hard to evoke, without seeming toexaggerate it, that themoodofearlyAugust: theassurance, thebalance, thekind of smiling fatalism with which Paris moved to her task. It is notimpossiblethatthebeautyoftheseasonandthesilenceofthecitymayhavehelpedtoproduce thismood.War, theshriekingfury,hadannouncedherselfbyagreatwaveofstillness.Neverwasdeserthushmorecomplete:thesilenceofastreetisalwayssomuchdeeperthanthesilenceofwoodorfield.

Theheavinessof theAugust air intensified this impressionof suspendedlife.Thedaysweredumbenough;butatnightthehushbecameacute.InthequarterI inhabit,alwaysdesertedinsummer,theshutteredstreetsweremuteas catacombs, and the faintest pin-prick of noise seemed to tear a rent in ablackpallofsilence.Icouldhearthetiredtapofalamehoofhalfamileaway,and the tread of the policeman guarding the Embassy across the street beatagainst thepavement likeaseriesofdetonations.Eventhevariegatednoisesofthecity'swaking-uphadceased.Ifanysweepers,scavengersorrag-pickersstillpliedtheirtradestheydiditassecretlyasghosts.Irememberonemorningbeingrousedoutofadeepsleepbyasuddenexplosionofnoiseinmyroom.Isatupwithastart,andfoundIhadbeenwakedbyalow-voicedexchangeof"Bonjours"inthestreet...

AnotherfactthatkepttherealityofwarfromPariswasthecuriousabsenceof troops in the streets. After the first rush of conscripts hurrying to theirmilitarybasesitmighthavebeenimaginedthatthereignofpeacehadsetin.While smaller cities were swarming with soldiers no glitter of arms wasreflected in the empty avenues of the capital, no military music soundedthrough them. Paris scorned all show of war, and fed the patriotism of herchildrenonthemeresightofherbeauty.Itwasenough.

Evenwhen thenewsof the first ephemeral successes inAlsacebegan tocomein,theParisiansdidnotswervefromtheirevengait.Thenewsboysdidalltheshouting—andeventheirswaspresentlysilencedbydecree.Itseemedasthoughithadbeenunanimously,instinctivelydecidedthattheParisof1914shouldinnorespectresembletheParisof1870,andasthoughthisresolutionhadpassed at birth into thebloodofmillionsborn since that fatal date, andignorant of its bitter lesson. The unanimity of self-restraintwas the notablecharacteristic of this people suddenly plunged into an unsought andunexpectedwar.At first their steadiness of spiritmight have passed for thebewilderment of a generation born and bred in peace, which did not yetunderstandwhat war implied. But it is precisely on such amood that easytriumphsmighthavebeensupposedtohavethemostdisturbingeffect.Itwasthecrowdinthestreetthatshouted"ABerlin!"in1870;nowthecrowdinthestreet continued tomind its ownbusiness, in spite of showers of extras andtoo-sanguinebulletins.

Irememberthemorningwhenourbutcher'sboybroughtthenewsthatthefirstGerman flaghadbeenhungouton thebalconyof theMinistryofWar.Now I thought, theLatinwill boil over!And Iwanted to be there to see. IhurrieddownthequietruedeMartignac,turnedthecornerofthePlaceSainteClotilde,andcameonanorderlycrowdfillingthestreetbeforetheMinistryofWar. The crowd was so orderly that the few pacific gestures of the policeeasilyclearedawayforpassingcabs,andforthemilitarymotorsperpetuallydashing up. It was composed of all classes, and there were many familygroups,withlittleboysstraddlingtheirmothers'shoulders,orliftedupbythepolicemenwhen theywere tooheavyfor theirmothers. It is safe tosay thattherewashardlyamanorwomanofthatcrowdwhohadnotasoldieratthefront;andtherebeforethemhungtheenemy'sfirstflag—asplendidsilkflag,whiteandblackandcrimson,andembroideredingold.Itwas theflagofanAlsatianregiment—aregimentofPrussianizedAlsace.Itsymbolizedalltheymost abhorred in the whole abhorrent job that lay ahead of them; itsymbolizedalsotheirfinestardourandtheirnoblesthate,andthereasonwhy,ifeveryotherreasonfailed,Francecouldneverlaydownarmstillthelastofsuch flags was low. And there they stood and looked at it, not dully oruncomprehendingly, but consciously, advisedly, and in silence; as if alreadyforeseeing all it would cost to keep that flag and add to it others like it;

forseeing thecostandaccepting it.Thereseemed tobemen'sheartseven inthechildrenofthatcrowd,andinthemotherswhoseweakarmsheldthemup.Sotheygazedandwenton,andmadewayforotherslikethem,whogazedintheirturnandwentontoo.Alldaythecrowdreneweditself,anditwasalwaysthe samecrowd, intent andunderstandingand silent,who looked steadily attheflag,andknewwhatitsbeingtheremeant.That,inAugust,wasthelookofParis.

III

FEBRUARY

Februaryduskon theSeine.Theboats areplyingagain,but they stopatnightfall, and the river is inky-smooth, with the same long weed-likereflectionsasinAugust.Onlythereflectionsarefewerandpaler;brightlightsaremuffledeverywhere.Thelineofthequaysisscarcelydiscernible,andtheheightsoftheTrocaderoarelostintheblurofnight,whichpresentlyeffaceseven the firm tower-topsofNotre-Dame.Down thedamppavementsonly afew street lamps throw their watery zigzags. The shops are shut, and thewindowsabovethemthicklycurtained.Thefacesofthehousesareallblind.

InthenarrowstreetsoftheRiveGauchethedarknessisevendeeper,andthe few scattered lights in courts or "cites" create effects of Piranesi-likemystery.Thegleamofthechestnut-roaster'sbrazieratastreetcornerdeepensthesenseofanoldadventurousItaly,andthedarknessbeyondseemsfullofcloaksandconspiracies.Iturn,onmywayhome,intoanemptystreetbetweenhighgardenwalls,withasinglelightshowingfaroffatitsfartherend.Notasoul is in sight between me and that light: my steps echo endlessly in thesilence.Presentlyadimfigurecomesaroundthecorneraheadofme.Manorwoman? Impossible to tell till I overtake it. The February fog deepens thedarkness,andthefacesonepassesareindistinguishable.Asforthenumbersofthehouses, noone thinksof looking for them. If youknow thequarter youcount doors from the corner, or try to puzzle out the familiar outline of abalcony or a pediment; if you are in a strange street, you must ask at thenearesttobacconist's—for,asforfindingapoliceman,ayardoffyoucouldn'ttellhimfromyourgrandmother!

Such, after sixmonths of war, are the nights of Paris; the days are lessremarkableandlessromantic.

Almostall theearlyflushandshiverofromanceisgone;orsoat least itseems to thosewhohavewatched the gradual revival of life. Itmay appear

otherwisetoobserversfromothercountries,evenfromthoseinvolvedinthewar. After London, with all her theaters open, and her machinery ofamusement almost unimpaired, Paris no doubt seems like a city on whomgreatissuesweigh.Buttothosewholivedthroughthatfirstsunlitsilentmonththe streets to-day show an almost normal activity. The vanishing of all themotorbuses, and of the huge lumbering commercial vans, leaves many aforgottenperspectiveopenandrevealsmanya lostgraceofarchitecture;butthetaxi-cabsandprivatemotorsarealmostasabundantasinpeace-time,andtheperilofpedestrianismiskeptatitsnormalpitchbytheincessantdashingtoandfroofthoseunrivalledenginesofdestruction,thehospitalandWarOfficemotors.Manyshopshave reopened,a few theatresare tentativelyproducingpatrioticdramaormixedprogrammesseasonalwithsentimentandmirth,andthecinemaagainunrollsitseventfulkilometres.

Forawhile,inSeptemberandOctober,thestreetsweremadepicturesqueby the coming andgoingofEnglish soldiery, and the aggressive flourishofBritishmilitarymotors.Thenthefreshfacesandsmartuniformsdisappeared,andnowthenearestapproachto"militarism"whichParisofferstothecasualsight-seer is theoccasionaldrillingofahandfulofpiou-piouson themuddyreachesofthePlacedesInvalides.ButthereisanotherarmyinParis.Itsfirstdetachmentscamemonthsago,inthedarkSeptemberdays—lamentablerear-guardof theAllies' retreatonParis.Since then itsnumbershavegrownandgrown,itsdingystreamshavepercolatedthroughallthecurrentsofParislife,sothatwhereveronegoes,ineveryquarterandateveryhour,amongthebusyconfident strongly-steppingParisiansone sees theseotherpeople,dazedandslowly moving—men and women with sordid bundles on their backs,shufflingalonghesitatingly in their tattered shoes, childrendraggingat theirhandsand tired-outbabiespressedagainst their shoulders: thegreatarmyoftheRefugees.Theirfacesareunmistakableandunforgettable.Noonewhohasever caught that stare of dumb bewilderment—or that other look ofconcentratedhorror,fullof thereflectionofflamesandruins—canshakeoffthe obsession of theRefugees. The look in their eyes is part of the look ofParis. It is the dark shadow on the brightness of the face she turns to theenemy.Thesepoorpeoplecannotlookacrosstheborderstoeventualtriumph.They belong mostly to a class whose knowledge of the world's affairs ismeasuredbytheshadowoftheirvillagesteeple.Theyarenomorecuriousofthe laws of causation than the thousands overwhelmed at Avezzano. Theywereploughingandsowing,spinningandweavingandmindingtheirbusiness,when suddenly a great darkness full of fire and blood camedownon them.Andnowtheyarehere,inastrangecountry,amongunfamiliarfacesandnewways,withnothinglefttothemintheworldbutthememoryofburninghomesand massacred children and young men dragged to slavery, of infants tornfromtheirmothers,oldmentrampledbydrunkenheelsandpriestsslainwhile

they prayed beside the dying. These are the people who stand in hundredseverydayoutsidethedoorsofthesheltersimprovisedtorescuethem,andwhoreceive, in return for the loss of everything that makes life sweet, orintelligible, or at least endurable, a cot in a dormitory, a meal-ticket—andperhaps,onluckydays,apairofshoes...

WhataretheParisiansdoingmeanwhile?Foronething—andthesignisagood one—they are refilling the shops, and especially, of course, the great"department stores." In the earlywar days therewas no stranger sight thanthose deserted palaces, where one strayed between miles of unpurchasedwares in quest of vanished salesmen. A few clerks, of course, were left:enough,onewouldhavethought,for therarepurchaserswhodisturbedtheirmeditations.Butthefewthereweredidnotcaretobedisturbed:theylurkedbehindtheirwallsofsheeting,theirbastionsofflannelette,asifashamedtobediscovered. And when one had coaxed them out they went through thenecessary gestures automatically, as if mournfully wondering that any oneshouldcaretobuy.Irememberonce,attheLouvre,seeingthewholeforceofa"department,"includingthesalesmanIwastryingtocajoleintoshowingmesome medicated gauze, desert their posts simultaneously to gather about amotor-cyclist in amuddy uniformwho had dropped in to see his palswithtalesfromthefront.Butaftersixmonthsthepressureofnormalappetiteshasbeguntoreassertitself—andtoshopisoneofthenormalappetitesofwoman.I say "shop" instead of buy, to distinguish between the dull purchase ofnecessitiesandthevoluptuousnessofacquiringthingsonemightdowithout.Itis evident thatmany of the thousands now fighting theirway into the greatshopsmustbeindulginginthelatterdelight.Atamomentwhenrealwantsarereducedtoaminimum,howelseaccountforthecongestionofthedepartmentstore? Even allowing for the immense, the perpetual buying of supplies forhospitalsandwork-rooms,theincessantstoking-upoftheinnumerablecentresofcharitableproduction,thereisnoexplanationofthecrowdingoftheotherdepartments except the fact that woman, however valiant, however tried,howeversufferingandhoweverself-denying,musteventually,inthelongrun,andatwhatevercosttoherpocketandherideals,begintoshopagain.Shehasrenounced the theatre, she denies herself the teo-rooms, she goesapologeticallyandfurtively(andeconomically)toconcerts—buttheswingingdoors of the department stores suck her irresistibly into their quicksand ofremnantsandreductions.

Noone,inthisrespect,wouldwishthelookofParistobechanged.Itisagood sign to see the crowds pouring into the shops again, even though thesightislessinterestingthanthatoftheothercrowdsstreamingdaily—andonSundayin immenselyaugmentednumbers—across thePontAlexandreIII tothegreatcourtoftheInvalideswheretheGermantrophiesaredisplayed.HeretheheartofFrancebeatswitharicherblood,andsomethingofitsglowpasses

intoforeignveinsasonewatchestheperpetuallyrenewedthrongsfacetofacewith the long triple rowofGermanguns.There are few in those throngs towhomoneofthedeadlypackhasnotdealtablow;therearepersonallosses,laceratingmemories, bound upwith the sight of all those evil engines. Butpersonal sorrow is the sentiment least visible in the look of Paris. It is notfancifultosaythattheParisianface,aftersixmonthsoftrial,hasacquiredanewcharacter.Thechangeseemstohaveaffectedtheverystuffitismouldedof, as though the long ordeal had hardened the poor human clay into somedensecommemorativesubstance.Ioftenpassinthestreetwomenwhosefaceslooklikememorialmedals—idealizedimagesofwhattheywereintheflesh.And the masks of some of the men—those queer tormented Gallic masks,crushed-in and squat and a little satyr-like—look like the bronzes of theNaplesMuseum, burnt and twisted from their baptism of fire. But none ofthesefacesrevealsapersonalpreoccupation:theyarelooking,oneandall,atFrance erect on her borders. Even the womenwho are comparing differentwidthsofValenciennesatthelace-counterallhavesomethingofthatvisionintheireyes—orelseonedoesnotseetheoneswhohaven't.

ItisstilltrueofParisthatshehasnottheairofacapitalinarms.Thereareas few troops to be seen as ever, and but for the coming and going of theorderlies attached to theWar Office and theMilitary Government, and thesprinklingofuniformsaboutthedoorsofbarracks,therewouldbenosignofwarinthestreets—nosign,thatis,exceptthepresenceofthewounded.Itisonlylatelythattheyhavebeguntoappear,forintheearlymonthsofthewarthey were not sent to Paris, and the splendidly appointed hospitals of thecapital stood almost empty, while others, all over the country, wereovercrowded.Themotives for thedisposalof thewoundedhavebeenmuchspeculateduponandvariouslyexplained:oneofitsresultsmayhavebeenthemaintaininginParisoftheextraordinarymoralhealthwhichhasgivenitstonetothewholecountry,andwhichisnowsoundandstrongenoughtofacethesightofanymisery.

Andmiseriesenoughithastoface.Daybydaythelimpingfiguresgrowmorenumerouson thepavement, thepalebandagedheadsmore frequent inpassing carriages. In the stalls at the theatres and concerts there are manyuniforms;andtheirwearersusuallyhavetowaittillthehallisemptiedbeforetheyhobbleoutonasupportingarm.Mostofthemareveryyoung,andit isthe expression of their faceswhich I should like to picture and interpret asbeingtheveryessenceofwhatIhavecalledthelookofParis.Theyaregrave,theseyoungfaces:onehearsagreatdealofthegaietyinthetrenches,butthewounded are not gay. Neither are they sad, however. They are calm,meditative, strangely purified and matured. It is as though their greatexperiencehadpurgedthemofpettiness,meannessandfrivolity,burningthemdown to thebare bonesof character, the fundamental substanceof the soul,

andshapingthatsubstanceintosomethingsostrongandfinelytemperedthatforalongtimetocomePariswillnotcaretowearanylookunworthyofthelookontheirfaces.

****

INARGONNE

I

Thepermissiontovisitafewambulancesandevacuationhospitalsbehindthelinesgaveme,attheendofFebruary,myfirstsightofWar.

Paris is no longer included in the military zone, either in fact or inappearance. Though it is still manifestly under the war-cloud, its air ofrevivingactivityproducestheillusionthatthemenacewhichcaststhatcloudisfaroffnotonlyindistancebutintime.Paris,afewmonthsagosoalivetothenearnessoftheenemy,seemstohavegrowncompletelyobliviousofthatnearness;anditisstartling,notmorethantwentymilesfromthegates,topassfromsuchanatmosphereofworkadaysecuritytotheimminentsenseofwar.

Going eastward, one begins to feel the change just beyond Meaux.Betweenthatquietepiscopalcityandthehill-townofMontmirail,somefortymiles farther east, there areno sensational evidencesof thegreat conflictofSeptember—only,hereandthere,inanunploughedfield,oramongthefreshbrown furrows, a little mound with a wooden cross and a wreath on it.Nevertheless, one begins to perceive, by certain negative signs, that one isalready in anotherworld.On the cold February daywhenwe turned out ofMeauxandtooktheroadtotheArgonne,thechangewaschieflyshownbythecuriousabsenceoflifeinthevillagesthroughwhichwepassed.Nowandthenalonelyploughmanandhisteamstoodoutagainstthesky,orachildandanoldwoman looked fromadoorway;butmanyof the fieldswere fallowandmostofthedoorwaysempty.Wepassedafewcartsdrivenbypeasants,astraywood-cutter inacopse, a road-menderhammeringathis stones;but alreadythe "civilianmotor" had disappeared, and all the dust-coloured cars dashingpastusweremarkedwiththeRedCrossorthenumberofanarmydivision.Atevery bridge and railway-crossing a sentinel, standing in the middle of theroad with lifted rifle, stopped the motor and examined our papers. In thisnegativespheretherewashardlyanyothertangibleproofofmilitaryrule;butwith the descent of the first hill beyondMontmirail there came the positivefeeling:Thisiswar!

Alongthewhiteroadripplingawayeastwardoverthedimpledcountrythearmymotorswere pouring by in endless lines, broken now and then by thedarkmassofa tramping regimentor theclatterof a trainofartillery. In theintervalsbetweenthesewavesofmilitarytrafficwehadtheroadtoourselves,except for the flashing past of despatch-bearers on motor-cycles and ofhideously hooting little motors carrying goggled officers in goat-skins andwoollenhelmets.

The villages along the road all seemed empty—not figuratively butliterallyempty.NoneofthemhassufferedfromtheGermaninvasion,savebythe destruction, here and there, of a single house on which some randommalicehaswreaked itself;but since thegeneral flight inSeptemberallhaveremained abandoned, or are provisionally occupied by troops, and the richcountrybetweenMontmirailandChalonsisadesert.

ThefirstsightofChameisextraordinarilyexhilarating.TheoldtownlyingsopleasantlybetweencanalandriveristheHead-quartersofanarmy—notofa corps or of a division, but of a whole army—and the network of greyprovincial streets about theRomanesque towers ofNotreDame rustleswiththe movement of war. The square before the principal hotel—theincomparablynamed"HauteMere-Dieu"—isasvividasightasanysceneofmodernwar can be.Rows of greymotor-lorries and omnibuses do not lendthemselvestoashappygroupingsasadetachmentofcavalry,andspittingandspurtingmotor-cyclesand"torpedo"racersarenosubstitutefor theglitterofhelmetsandthecurvettingofchargers;butoncetheeyehasadapteditselftothe ugly lines and the neutral tints of the new warfare, the scene in thatcrowdedclatteringsquarebecomespositivelybrilliant.Itisavisionofoneofthecentralfunctionsofagreatwar,inallitsconcentratedenergy,withoutthesaddening suggestionsofwhat, on thedistantperiphery, that energy isdailyandhourlyresultingin.Yetevenheresuchsuggestionsareneverlongoutofsight;foronecannotpassthroughChalonswithoutmeeting,ontheirwayfromthestation,a long lineof "eclopes"—theunwoundedbutbattered, shattered,frost-bitten, deafened and half-paralyzed wreckage of the awful struggle.Thesepoorwretches,intheirthousands,aredailyshippedbackfromthefronttorestandberestored;anditisagrimsighttowatchthemlimpingby,andtomeetthedazedstareofeyesthathaveseenwhatonedarenotpicture.

If one could thinkaway the "'eclopes" in the streets and thewounded intheirhospitals,Chalonswouldbean invigorating spectacle.Whenwedroveuptothehoteleventhegreymotorsandthesoberuniformsseemedtosparkleunder the cold sky. The continual coming and going of alert and busymessengers,theridingupofofficers(forsomestillride!),thearrivalofmuch-decoratedmilitarypersonagesinluxuriousmotors,thehurryingtoandfrooforderlies, theperpetualdepletingand refillingof the long rowsofgreyvans

acrossthesquare,themovementsofRedCrossambulancesandthepassingofdetachments for the front, all these are sights that thepacific stranger couldforevergapeat.Andinthehotel,whataclatterofswords,whatapilingupoffur coats andhaversacks,what a groupingof bronzed energetic heads aboutthepackedtablesintherestaurant!ItisnoteasyforcivilianstogettoChalons,andalmosteverytableisoccupiedbyofficersandsoldiers—for,onceoffduty,thereseemstobenorankdistinctioninthishappydemocraticarmy,andthesimpleprivate,ifhechoosestotreathimselftotheexcellentfareoftheHauteMere-Dieu,hasasgoodarighttoitashiscolonel.

Thesceneintherestaurant is inexhaustiblyinteresting.Themereattempttopuzzleoutthedifferentuniformsisabsorbing.Aweek'sexperiencenearthefrontconvincesmethatnotwouniformsintheFrencharmyarealikeeitherincolouror incut.Within the last twoyears thequestionofcolourhasgreatlypreoccupied the French military authorities, who have been seeking aninvisible blue; and the range of their experiments is proved by theextraordinaryvarietyofshadesofblue,rangingfromasortofgreyishrobin's-eggtothedarkestnavy,inwhichthearmyisclothed.Theresultattainedistheconvictionthatnoblueisreallyinconspicuous,andthatsomeoftheharshnewslaty tints are no less striking than the deeper shades they have superseded.But to this scale of experimental blues, other colours must be added: thepoppy-redoftheSpahis'tunics,andvariousotherlessfamiliarcolours—grey,andacertaingreenishkhaki—theuseofwhichisduetothefactthattheclothsupplyhasgivenoutandthatallavailablematerialsareemployed.Asforthedifferencesincut,theuniformsvaryfromtheoldtighttunictotheloosebeltedjacketcopiedfromtheEnglish,andtheemblemsofthevariousarmsandranksembroideredonthesediversifiedhabitsaddanewelementofperplexity.Theaviator's wings, the motorist's wheel, and many of the newer symbols, areeasilyrecognizable—buttherearealltheotherarms,andthedoctorsandthestretcher-bearers,thesappersandminers,andheavenknowshowmanymoreramificationsofthisgreathostwhichisreallyallthenation.

Themain interestof thescene,however, is that it showsalmostasmanytypes as uniforms, and that almost all the types are so good.One begins tounderstand(ifonehasfailedtobefore)whytheFrenchsayofthemselves:"LaFrance est une nation guerriere."War is the greatest of paradoxes: themostsenselessanddishearteningofhumanretrogressions,andyetthestimulantofqualitiesofsoulwhich, ineveryrace,canseeminglyfindnoothermeansofrenewal.Everythingdepends,therefore,onthecategoryofimpulsesthatwarexcitesinapeople.LookingatthefacesatChalons,oneseesatonceinwhich[Page54]sensetheFrenchare"unenationguerriere."Itisnottoomuchtosaythat war has given beauty to faces that were interesting, humorous, acute,malicious, a hundred vivid and expressive things, but last and least of allbeautiful. Almost all the faces about these crowded tables—young or old,

plain or handsome, distinguished or average—have the same look of quietauthority: it is as though all "nervosity," fussiness, little personal oddities,meannesses and vulgarities, had been burnt away in a great flame of self-dedication. It is a wonderful example of the rapidity with which purposemodels thehumancountenance.More thanhalfof thesemenwereprobablydoingdull or useless or unimportant things till the first of lastAugust; noweachoneofthem,howeversmallhisjob,issharinginagreattask,andknowsit,andhasbeenmadeoverbyknowingit.

Our road on leavingChalons continued to run northeastward toward thehillsoftheArgonne.

We passed throughmore deserted villages,with soldiers lounging in thedoorswhereoldwomenshouldhavesatwiththeirdistaffs,soldierswateringtheirhorsesinthevillagepond,soldierscookingovergypsyfiresinthefarm-yards.Inthepatchesofwoodlandalongtheroadwecameuponmoresoldiers,cuttingdownpinesaplings,choppingthemintoevenlengthsandloadingthemonhand-carts,withthegreenboughspiledontop.Wesoonsawtowhatusetheywereput,forateverycross-roadorrailwaybridgeawarmsentry-boxofmud and straw and plaited pine-branches was plastered against a bank ortucked like a swallow's nest into a sheltered corner. A little farther on webegantocomemoreandmorefrequentlyonbigcoloniesof"Seventy-fives."Drawn up nose to nose, usually against a curtain ofwoodland, in a field atsome distance from the road, and always attended by a cumbrous drove ofmotor-vans,theylookedlikegiantgazellesfeedingamongelephants;andthestablesofwovenpine-boughswhichstoodnearbymighthavebeenthehugehutsoftheirherdsmen.

The country betweenMarne andMeuse is one of the regions on whichGerman fury spent itself most bestially during the abominable Septemberdays.HalfwaybetweenChalonsandSainteMenehouldwecameonthefirstevidenceof the invasion: the lamentable ruinsof thevillageofAuve.Thesepleasantvillagesof theAisne,with theirone long street, theirhalf-timberedhousesandhigh-roofedgranarieswithespalieredgable-ends,areallmuchofonepattern,andonecaneasilypicturewhatAuvemusthavebeenasitlookedout,intheblueSeptemberweather,abovetheripeningpearsofitsgardenstothecropsinthevalleyandthelargelandscapebeyond.Nowitisamerewasteof rubble [Page 58] and cinders, not one threshold distinguishable fromanother.WesawmanyotherruinedvillagesafterAuve,butthiswasthefirst,andperhapsforthatreasononehadthere,mosthauntingly,thevisionofalltheseparate terrors, anguishes, uprootings and rendings apart involved in thedestructionof theobscurestofhumancommunities.Thephotographson thewalls,thetwigsofwitheredboxabovethecrucifixes,theoldwedding-dressesin brass-clamped trunks, the bundles of letters laboriously written and as

painfully deciphered, all the thousand and one bits of the past that givemeaning and continuity to the present—of all that accumulated warmthnothingwasleftbutabrick-heapandsometwistedstove-pipes!

AsweranontowardSainteMenehouldthenamesonourmapshowedusthat,justbeyondtheparallelrangeofhillssixorsevenmilestothenorth,thetwoarmieslayinterlocked.Butweheardnocannonyet,andthefirstvisibleevidenceof thenearnessof the strugglewas the encounter, at abendof theroad, of a long line of grey-coated figures tramping toward us between thebayonets of their captors. Theywere a sturdy lot, this fresh "bag" from thehills,ofa fine fightingage,andmuch less famishedandwar-worn thanonecouldhavewished.Their broadblond facesweremeaningless, guarded, butneitherdefiantnorunhappy:theyseemednonetoosorryfortheirfate.

OurpassfromtheGeneralHead-quarterscarriedustoSainteMenehouldontheedgeoftheArgonne,wherewehadtoapplytotheHead-quartersofthedivisionforafartherextension.TheStaffarelodgedinahouseconsiderablythe worse for German occupancy, where offices have been improvised bymeansofwoodenhoardings,andwhere,sittinginabarepassageonafrayeddamasksofasurmountedbytheatricalpostersandfacedbyabedwithaplum-colouredcounterpane,welistenedforawhiletothejingleoftelephones,therat-tatoftypewriters,thesteadyhumofdictationandthecomingandgoingofhurried despatch-bearers and orderlies. The extension to the permit waspresently delivered with the courteous request that we should push on toVerdunasfastaspossible,ascivilianmotorswerenotwantedontheroadthatafternoon;andthisrequest,coupledwiththeevidentstirofactivityatHead-quarters, gave us the impression that there must be a good deal happeningbeyondthelowlineofhillstothenorth.Howmuchtherewasweweresoontoknow.

We leftSainteMenehouldat abouteleven, andbefore twelveo'clockwewere nearing a large village on a ridge fromwhich the land swept away toright and left in ample reaches. The first glimpse of the outlying housesshowed nothing unusual; but presently the main street turned and dippeddownward,andbelowandbeyonduslayalongstretchofruins:thecalcinedremains of Clermont-en-Argonne, destroyed by the Germans on the 4th ofSeptember.Thefreeandloftysituationofthelittletown—foritwasreallyagooddealmore thanavillage—makes itspresentstate themore lamentable.One can see it from so far off, and through the torn traceries of its ruinedchurchtheeyetravelsoversolovelyastretchofcountry!Nodoubtitsbeautyenrichedthejoyofwreckingit.

Atthefartherendofwhatwasoncethemainstreetanothersmallknotofhouses has survived. Chief among them is theHospice for oldmen,whereSisterGabrielleRosnet,whentheauthoritiesofClermonttooktotheirheels,

stayedbehindtodefendhercharges,andwhere,eversince,shehasnursedanundiminishing stream of wounded from the eastern front. We found SoeurRosnet,withherSisters,preparingthemiddaymealofherpatientsinthelittlekitchenoftheHospice:thekitchenwhichisalsoherdining-roomandprivateoffice.Sheinsistedonourfindingtimetosharethefiletandfriedpotatoesthatwerejustbeingtakenoffthestove,andwhilewelunchedshetoldusthestoryof theinvasion—oftheHospicedoorsbrokendown"acoupsdecrosse"andthegreyofficersburstinginwithrevolvers,andfindinghertherebeforethem,in thebigvaultedvestibule,"alonewithmyoldmenandmySisters."SoeurGabrielleRosnetisasmallroundactivewoman,withashrewdandruddyfaceofthetypethatlooksoutcalmlyfromthedarkbackgroundofcertainFlemishpictures.Herblueeyesarefullofwarmthandhumour,andsheputsasmuchgaiety aswrath into her tale. She does not spare epithets in talking of "cessatanesAllemands"—theseSistersandnursesofthefronthaveseensightstodryup the lastdropof sentimentalpity—but throughall thehorrorof thosefierce September days, with Clermont blazing about her and the helplessremnantofitsinhabitantsundertheperpetualthreatofmassacre,sheretainedher senseof the little inevitable absurdities of life, such asher not knowinghowtoaddresstheofficerincommand"becausehewassotallthatIcouldn'tseeup tohisshoulder-straps."—"Et ilsetaient touscommeca,"sheadded,asortofreluctantadmirationinhereyes.

Asubordinate"goodSister"hadjustclearedthetableandpouredoutourcoffeewhenawomancameintosay,inamatter-of-facttone,thattherewashardfightinggoingonacrossthevalley.Sheaddedcalmly,asshedippedourplatesintoatub,thatanobushadjustfallenamileortwooff,andthatifwelikedwecouldseethefightingfromagardenovertheway.Itdidnottakeuslong to reach thatgarden!SoeurGabrielleshowed theway,bouncingup thestairsof ahouseacross the street, and flyingatherheelswecameoutonagrassyterracefullofsoldiers.

Thecannonwereboomingwithoutapause,andseeminglysonearthatitwasbewilderingtolookoutacrossemptyfieldsatahillsidethatseemedlikeany other.But luckily somebody had a field-glass, andwith its help a littlecornerofthebattleofVauquoiswassuddenlybroughtclosetous—therushofFrench infantryup the slopes, the featherydrift ofFrenchgun-smoke lowerdown,and,highup,onthewoodedcrestalongthesky,theredlightningsandwhitepuffsoftheGermanartillery.Rap,rap,rap,wenttheansweringguns,asthetroopssweptupanddisappearedintothefire-tonguedwood;andwestoodtheredumbfoundedattheaccidentofhavingstumbledonthisvisibleepisodeofthegreatsubterraneanstruggle.

ThoughSoeurRosnethadseen toomanysuchsights tobemuchmoved,shewasfullofalivelycuriosity,andstoodbesideus,squarelyplantedinthe

mud,holdingthefield-glasstohereyes,orpassingitlaughinglyaboutamongthe soldiers. But as we turned to go she said: "They've sent us word to bereadyforanotherfourhundredto-night";andthetwinklediedoutofhergoodeyes.

Her expectations were to be dreadfully surpassed; for, as we learned afortnightlaterfromathreecolumncommunique,thescenewehadassistedatwas no less than the first act of the successful assault on the high-perchedvillage ofVauquois, a point of the first importance to theGermans, since itmaskedtheiroperationstothenorthofVarennesandcommandedtherailwaybywhich,sinceSeptember,theyhavebeenrevictuallingandreinforcingtheirarmy in the Argonne. Vauquois had been taken by them at the end ofSeptemberand,thankstoitsstrongpositiononarockyspur,hadbeenalmostimpregnably fortified; but the attack we looked on at from the garden ofClermont, onSunday,February28th, carried thevictoriousFrench troops tothe topof the ridge, andmade themmastersof apartof thevillage.Drivenfrom it again that night, theywere to retake it after a five days' struggle ofexceptionalviolenceandprodigalheroism,andarenowsecurelyestablishedthere inapositiondescribedas"ofvital importance to theoperations.""Butwhatitcost!"SoeurGabriellesaid,whenwesawheragainafewdayslater.

II

The time had come to remember our promise and hurry away fromClermont;butafewmilesfartherourattentionwasarrestedbythesightoftheRedCrossoveravillagehouse.Thehousewas littlemore thanahovel, thevillage—Blercourt it was called—a mere hamlet of scattered cottages andcow-stables: a place so easily overlooked that it seemed likely our suppliesmightbeneededthere.

Anorderlywenttofindthemedecin-chef,andwewadedafterhimthroughthe mud to one after another of the cottages in which, with admirableingenuity,hehadmanagedtocreateoutofnext tonothing the indispensablerequirements of a second-line ambulance: sterilizing and disinfectingappliances,abandage-room,apharmacy,awell-filledwood-shed,andacleankitcheninwhich"tisanes"werebrewingoveracheerfulfire.Adetachmentofcavalrywasquarteredinthevillage,whichthetramplingofhoofshadturnedintoagreatmorass,andaswepickedourwayfromcottagetocottageinthedoctor'swakehetoldusoftheexpedientstowhichhehadbeenputtosecureeventhefewhovelsintowhichhispatientswerecrowded.Itwasacomplaintwewereoftentohearrepeatedalongthis lineof thefront,wheretroopsand

wounded are packed in thousands into villagesmeant to house four or fivehundred;andweadmiredtheskillanddevotionwithwhichhehaddealtwiththedifficulty,andmanagedtolodgehispatientsdecently.

Wecameback to thehigh-road,andheaskedus ifweshould like toseethe church. It was about three o'clock, and in the low porch the cure wasringingthebellforvespers.Wepushedopentheinnerdoorsandwentin.Thechurchwaswithoutaisles,anddownthenavestoodfourrowsofwoodencotswith brownblankets. In almost every one lay a soldier—thedoctor's "worstcases"—few of them wounded, the greater number stricken with fever,bronchitis, frost-bite, pleurisy, or some other form of trench-sickness tooseveretopermitoftheirbeingcarriedfartherfromthefront.Oneortwoheadsturned on the pillows aswe entered, but for themost part themen did notmove.

Thecure,meanwhile,passingaroundtothesacristy,hadcomeoutbeforethe altar in his vestments, followed by a little white acolyte. A handful ofwomen,probablytheonly"civil"inhabitantsleft,andsomeofthesoldierswehadseenaboutthevillage,hadenteredthechurchandstoodtogetherbetweenthe rowsof cots; and the service began. Itwas a sunless afternoon, and thepicturewasallinmonasticshadesofblackandwhiteandashengrey:thesickunder their earth-coloured blankets, their livid faces against the pillows, theblackdressesofthewomen(theyseemedalltobeinmourning)andthesilverhazefloatingoutfromthelittleacolyte'scenser.Theonlylightinthescene—thecandle-gleamsonthealtar,andtheirreflectionintheembroideriesofthecure'schasuble—werelikeafaintstreakofsunsetonthewinterdusk.

For awhile the longLatin cadences soundedon through the church;butpresently the cure took up in French the Canticle of the Sacred Heart,composed during the war of 1870, and the little congregation joined theirtremblingvoicesintherefrain:

"Sauvez,sauvezlaFrance,

Nel'abandonnezpas!"

Thereiteratedappealrose inasobabovetherowsofbodies in thenave:"Sauvez, sauvez laFrance," thewomenwailed it near the altar, the soldierstook it up from the door in stronger tones; but the bodies in the cots neverstirred,andmoreandmore,as thedayfaded, thechurch looked likeaquietgrave-yardinabattle-field.

After we had left Sainte Menehould the sense of the nearness and all-pervadingnessofthewarbecameevenmorevivid.Everyroadbranchingawaytoourleftwasafinger touchingaredwound:Varennes, leFourdeParis, leBoisde laGrurie,werenotmore thaneightor tenmiles to thenorth.Along

our own road the stream ofmotor-vans and the trains of ammunition grewlonger and more frequent. Once we passed a long line of "Seventy-fives"going single file up a hillside, farther on we watched a big detachment ofartillerygallopingacrossastretchofopencountry.Themovementofsupplieswas continuous, and every village through which we passed swarmed withsoldiers busy loading or unloading the big vans, or clustered about thecommissariatmotorswhilehamsandquartersofbeefwerehandedout.Asweapproached Verdun the cannonade had grown louder again; and when wereachedthewallsofthetownandpassedundertheironteethoftheportculliswefeltourselvesinoneofthelastoutpostsofamightylineofdefense.ThedesolationofVerdunisasimpressiveasthefeverishactivityofChalons.Thecivil population was evacuated in September, and only a small percentagehavereturned.Nine-tenthsoftheshopsareclosed,andasthetroopsarenearlyallinthetrenchesthereishardlyanymovementinthestreets.

Thefirstdutyofthetravellerwhohassuccessfullypassedthechallengeofthesentinelatthegatesistoclimbthesteephilltothecitadelatthetopofthetown.Herethemilitaryauthoritiesinspectone'spapers,anddelivera"permisde sejour" which must be verified by the police before lodgings can beobtained. We found the principal hotel much less crowded than the HauteMere-DieuatChalons,thoughmanyoftheofficersofthegarrisonmessthere.Thewholeatmosphereoftheplacewasdifferent:silent,concentrated,passive.To the chance observer,Verdun appears to live only in its hospitals; and ofthese there are fourteenwithin thewalls alone.As darkness fell, the streetsbecame completely deserted, and the cannonade seemed to grownearer andmore incessant. That first night the hush was so intense that everyreverberationfromthedarkhillsbeyondthewallsbroughtoutintheminditsseparatevisionofdestruction;andthen,justasthestrainedimaginationcouldbear no more, the thunder ceased. A moment later, in a court below mywindows,apigeonbegantocoo;andallnightlongthetwosoundsstrangelyalternated...

On entering the gates, the first sight to attract us had been a colony ofroughly-built bungalows scattered over the miry slopes of a little parkadjoining the railway station, and surmounted by the sign: "EvacuationHospitalNo.6."Thenextmorningwewent tovisit it.Apart of the stationbuildingshasbeenadapted tohospitaluse,andamong themagreat rooflesshall, which the surgeon in charge has covered in with canvas and divideddown its length into a double row of tents. Each tent contains twowoodencots, scrupulously clean and raised high above the floor; and the immenseward is warmed by a row of stoves down the central passage. In thebungalowsacross theroadarebedsfor thepatientswhoare tobekept foratimebeforebeingtransferredtothehospitalsinthetown.Inonebungalowanoperating-roomhasbeeninstalled,inanotherarethebathingarrangementsfor

thenewcomers fromthe trenches.Everypossibledevice for the reliefof thewounded has been carefully thought out and intelligently applied by thesurgeon in charge and the infirmieremajorwho indefatigably seconds him.Evacuation Hospital No. 6 sprang up in an hour, almost, on the dreadfulAugust day when four thousand wounded lay on stretchers between therailway station and the gate of the little park across the way; and it hasgraduallygrownintothemodelofwhatsuchahospitalmaybecomeinskilfulanddevotedhands.

Verdunhasotherexcellenthospitalsforthecareoftheseverelywoundedwhocannotbesentfartherfromthefront.AmongthemSt.Nicolas, inabigairybuildingontheMeuse,isanexampleofagreatFrenchMilitaryHospitalatitsbest;butIvisitedfewothers,forthemainobjectofmyjourneywastogettosomeofthesecond-lineambulancesbeyondthetown.ThefirstwewenttowasinasmallvillagetothenorthofVerdun,notfarfromtheenemy'slinesat Cosenvoye, and was fairly representative of all the others. The drearymuddy village was crammed with troops, and the ambulance had beeninstalledathaphazard in suchhousesas themilitaryauthoritiescould spare.Thearrangementswereprimitivebutclean,andeventhedentisthadsetuphisapparatusinoneoftherooms.Themenlayonmattressesorinwoodencots,andtheroomswereheatedbystoves.Thegreatneed,hereaseverywhere,wasforblanketsandcleanunderclothing;forthewoundedarebroughtinfromthefront encrusted with frozen mud, and usually without having washed orchanged for weeks. There are no women nurses in these second-lineambulances,butallthearmydoctorswesawseemedintelligent,andanxioustodothebesttheycouldfortheirmeninconditionsofunusualhardship.Theprincipal obstacle in their way is the over-crowded state of the villages.Thousandsofsoldiersarecamped inallof them, inhygienicconditions thatwouldbebadenoughformeninhealth;andthereisalsoagreatneedforlightdiet,sincethehospitalcommissariatofthefrontapparentlysuppliesnoinvalidfoods,andmenburningwithfeverhavetobefedonmeatandvegetables.

In the afternoon we started out again in a snow-storm, over a desolaterolling country to the south of Verdun. The wind blew fiercely across thewhitened slopes, and no onewas in sight but the sentriesmarching up anddown the railway lines, and an occasional cavalryman patrolling the lonelyroad.Nothingcanexceedthemournfulnessofthisdepopulatedland:wemighthave been wandering over the wilds of Poland.We ran some twentymilesdownthesteel-greyMeusetoavillageaboutfourmileswestofLesEparges,thespotwhere,forweekspast,adesperatestrugglehadbeengoingon.Theremusthavebeenalullinthefightingthatday,forthecannonhadceased;butthesceneatthepointwhereweleft themotorgaveusthesenseofbeingontheveryedgeoftheconflict.Thelongstragglingvillagelayontheriver,andthetramplingofcavalryandthehaulingofgunshadturnedthelandaboutit

into a mud-flat. Before the primitive cottage where the doctor's office hadbeeninstalledwerethemotorsofthesurgeonandthemedicalinspectorwhohadaccompaniedus.Nearbystoodtheusualflockofgreymotor-vans,andallaboutwasthecomingandgoingofcavalryremounts,theridingupofofficers,theunloadingofsupplies,theincessantactivityofmud-splashedsergeantsandmen.

Themainambulancewas inagrange,ofwhich the twostorieshadbeenpartitionedoffintowards.Underthecobwebbyraftersthemenlayinrowsonclean pallets, and big stoves made the rooms dry and warm. But the greatsuperiorityofthisambulancewasitsnearnesstoacanalboatwhichhadbeenfittedupwithhotdouches.Theboatwasspotlesslyclean,andeachcabinwasshut off by a gay curtain of red-flowered chintz. Those curtains must doalmost asmuch as the hotwater tomake over themorale of themen: theywerethemostcomfortingsightoftheday.

Farther north, and on the other bank of the Meuse, lies another largevillagewhichhasbeenturnedintoacolonyofeclopes.Fifteenhundredsickorexhausted men are housed there—and there are no hot douches or chintzcurtains tocheer them!Weweretakenfirst to thechurch,a largefeaturelessbuildingattheheadofthestreet.Inthedoorwayourpassagewasobstructedby a mountain of damp straw which a gang of hostler-soldiers were pitch-forkingoutoftheaisles.Theinteriorofthechurchwasdimandsuffocating.Betweenthepillarshungscreensofplaitedstraw,forminglittleenclosuresineachofwhichaboutadozensickmenlayonmorestraw,withoutmattressesor blankets. No beds, no tables, no chairs, nowashing appliances—in theirmuddy clothes, as they come from the front, they are bedded down on thestonefloorlikecattletilltheyarewellenoughtogobacktotheirjob.ItwasapitifulcontrasttothelittlechurchatBlercourt,withthealtarlightstwinklingabovethecleanbeds;andonewonderedifevensonearthefront,ithadtobe."TheAfricanvillage,wecallit,"oneofourcompanionssaidwithalaugh:buttheAfricanvillagehasblue skyover it, andaclear streamrunsbetween itsmudhuts.

WehadbeentoldatSainteMenehouldthat,formilitaryreasons,wemustfollowamoresoutherlydirectiononourreturntoChalons;andwhenweleftVerdun we took the road to Bar-le-Duc. It runs southwest over beautifulbrokencountry,untouchedbywarexceptforthefactthatitsvillages,likealltheothersinthisregion,areeitherdesertedoroccupiedbytroops.AsweleftVerdunbehindusthesoundofthecannongrewfainteranddiedout,andwehadthefeelingthatweweregraduallypassingbeyondtheflamingboundariesintoamorenormalworld;butsuddenly,atacross-road,asign-postsnatchedusback towar:St.Mihiel,18Kilometres.St.Mihiel, thedanger-spotof theregion, theweak joint in the armour!There it lay, up that harmless-looking

bye-road, not much more than ten miles away—a ten minutes' dash wouldhave brought us into the thick of the grey coats and spiked helmets! Theshadowof thatsign-post followedus formiles,darkening the landscape liketheshadowfromaracingstorm-cloud.

Bar-le-Ducseemedunawareof thecloud.Thecharmingold townwas initsnormalstateofprovincialapathy:fewsoldierswereabout,andhereatlastcivilianlifeagainpredominated.Afterafewdaysontheedgeof thewar, inthat intermediate region under its solemn spell, there is something strangelyloweringtothemoodinthefirstsightofabusyunconsciouscommunity.Onelooksinstinctively,intheeyesofthepassersby,forareflectionofthatothervision, and feels diminished by contact with people going so indifferentlyabouttheirbusiness.

A little way beyond Bar-le-Duc we came on another phase of the war-vision, for our route lay exactly in the track of the August invasion, andbetweenBar-le-Duc andVitry-le-Francois thehigh-road is linedwith ruinedtowns.The firstwe came towasLaimont, a large villagewiped out as if acyclonehadbeheaded it; thencomesRevigny, a townofover two thousandinhabitants, less completely levelled because its houses were more solidlybuilt,butaspectacleofmoretragicdesolation,with itswidestreetswindingbetween scorched and contorted fragments of masonry, bits of shop-fronts,handsomedoorways, thecolonnadedcourtofapublicbuilding.Afewmilesfarther lies themost piteous of the group: the village of Heiltz-le-Maurupt,oncepleasantlysetingardensandorchards,nowanuglywasteliketheothers,andwithalittlechurchsostrippedandwoundedanddishonouredthatitliestherebytheroadsidelikeahumanvictim.

Inthispartofthecountry,whichisoneofmanycross-roads,webegantohaveunexpecteddifficultyinfindingourway,forthenamesanddistancesonthe milestones have all been effaced, the sign-posts thrown down and theenamelledplaquesonthehousesattheentrancetothevillagesremoved.Onereporthasitthatthisprecautionwastakenbytheinhabitantsattheapproachof the invading army, another that the Germans themselves demolished thesign-posts and plastered over the mile-stones in order to paint on themmisleading and encouraging distances. The result is extremely bewildering,for, all the villages being either in ruins or uninhabited, there is no one toquestionbutthesoldiersonemeets,andtheiranswerisalmostinvariably"Wedon't know—we don't belong here." One is in luck if one comes across asentinelwhoknowsthenameofthevillageheisguarding.

Itwasthestrangestofsensationstofindourselvesinachartlesswildernesswithin sixty or seventymiles of Paris, and towander, aswe did, for hoursacrossahighheatherywaste,withwidebluedistancestonorthandsouth,andinallthescenenotalandmarkbymeansofwhichwecouldmakeaguessat

ourwhereabouts.Oneofourhaphazardturnsatlastbroughtusintoamuddybye-roadwith long linesof "Seventy-fives" rangedalong itsbanks likegreyant-eaters in some monstrous menagerie. A little farther on we came to abemired village swarmingwith artillery and cavalry, and foundourselves inthe thick of an encampment just on themove. It seems improbable thatwewere meant to be there, for our arrival caused such surprise that no sentryrememberedtochallengeus,andobsequiouslysalutingsous-officiersinstantlycleared away for themotor. So, by a happy accident,we caught onemorewar-picture,allofvehementmovement,aswepassedoutofthezoneofwar.

WewerestillverydistinctlyinitonreturningtoChalons,which,ifithadseemed packed on our previous visit,was nowquivering and crackingwithfreshcrowds.Thestiraboutthefountain,inthesquarebeforetheHauteMere-Dieu,wasmoremelodramaticthanever.Everyonewasinahurry,everyonebooted and mudsplashed, and spurred or sworded or despatch-bagged, orsomehowlabelledasamemberofthehugemilitarybeehive.Theprivilegeoftelephoningandtelegraphingbeingdeniedtociviliansinthewar-zone,itwasominous to arrive at night-fall on such a crowded scene, and we were notsurprisedtobetoldthattherewasnotaroomleftattheHauteMere-Dieu,andthat even the sofas in the reading-roomhadbeen let for thenight.At everyotherinninthetownwemetwiththesameanswer;andfinallywedecidedtoaskpermission togoonas farasEpernay,about twelvemilesoff.AtHead-quarterswewere told that our request could not be granted.Nomotors areallowedtocirculateafternight-fallinthezoneofwar,andtheofficerchargedwith thedistributionofmotor-permits pointedout that, even if an exceptionwere made in our favour, we should probably be turned back by the firstsentinel we met, only to find ourselves unable to re-enter Chalons withoutanother permit! This alternative was so alarming that we began to thinkourselves relatively lucky to be on the right side of the gates; andwewentback to the Haute Mere-Dieu to squeeze into a crowded corner of therestaurant for dinner. The hope that some onemight have suddenly left thehotel in the interval was not realized; but after dinner we learned from thelandlady that shehad certain roomspermanently reserved for theuseof theStaff, and that, as these rooms had not yet been called for that evening,wemightpossiblybeallowedtooccupythemforthenight.

At Chalons the Head-quarters are in the Prefecture, a coldly handsomebuilding of the eighteenth century, and there, in a majestic stone vestibule,beneath the gilded ramp of a great festal staircase, we waited in anxioussuspense, among the orderlies and estafettes,while our unusual requestwasconsidered.Theresultofthedeliberation,wasanexpressionofregret:nothingcouldbedoneforus,asofficersmightatanymomentarrivefromtheGeneralHead-quartersandrequiretherooms.Itwasthenpastnineo'clock,andbitterlycold—and we began to wonder. Finally the polite officer who had been

chargedtodismissus,movedtocompassionatourplight,offeredtogiveusalaissez-passer back toParis.But Pariswas about a hundred and twenty-fivemilesoff,thenightwasdark,thecoldwaspiercing—andateverycross-roadandrailwaycrossingasentinelwouldhavetobeconvincedofourrighttogofarther. We remembered the warning given us earlier in the evening, and,declining the offer,went out again into the cold.And just then chance tookpityonus.IntherestaurantwehadrunacrossafriendattachedtotheStaff,and now,meeting him again in the depth of our difficulty,wewere told oflodgings tobefoundnearby.Hecouldnot takeus there, for itwaspast thehourwhenhehadarighttobeout,orweeither,forthatmatter,sincecurfewsounds at nine atChalons.But he told us how to find ourway through themazeoflittleunlitstreetsabouttheCathedral;standingtherebesidethemotor,intheicydarknessofthedesertedsquare,andwhisperinghastily,asheturnedto leave us: "You ought not to be out so late; but theword tonight is Jena.Whenyougive it to thechauffeur,besurenosentineloverhearsyou."Withthathewasupthewidesteps,theglassdoorshadclosedonhim,andIstoodthere in the pitch-black night, suddenly unable to believe that I was I, orChalonsChalons,orthatayoungmanwhoinParisdropsintodinewithmeandtalkovernewbooksandplays,hadbeenwhisperingapasswordinmyeartocarrymeunchallengedtoahouseafewstreetsaway!Thesenseofunrealityproducedby thatonewordwassooverwhelming that forablissfulmomentthe whole fabric of what I had been experiencing, the whole huge andoppressiveandunescapablefactofthewar,slippedawaylikeatorncobweb,andIseemedtoseebehinditthereassuringfaceofthingsastheyusedtobe.

Thenextmorningdispelledthatvision.Wewoketoanoiseofgunscloserandmoreincessantthaneventhefirstnight'scannonadeatVerdun;andwhenwewentoutintothestreetsitseemedasif,overnight,anewarmyhadsprungout of the ground.Waylaid at one corner after another by the long tide oftroopsstreamingoutthroughthetowntothenorthernsuburbs,wesawinturnallthevariousdivisionsoftheunfoldingfrieze:firsttheinfantryandartillery,the sappersandminers, theendless trainsofgunsandammunition, then thelonglineofgreysupply-waggons,andfinally thestretcher-bearersfollowingtheRedCrossambulances.Allthestoryofaday'swarfarewaswritteninthespectacleofthatendlesssilentflowtothefront:andweweretoreaditagain,a few days later, in the terse announcement of "renewed activity" aboutSuippes, and of the bloody strip of ground gained between Perthes andBeausejour.

****

INLORRAINEANDTHEVOSGES

NANCY,May13th,1915

Besideme,onmywriting-table,standsabunchofpeonies,thejollyround-facedpinkpeoniesof thevillagegarden.Theywerepickedthisafternooninthe garden of a ruined house at Gerbeviller—a house so calcined andconvulsed that, for epithets dire enough to fit it, onewould have to borrowfromaHebrewprophetgloatingoverthefallofacityofidolaters.

SinceleavingParisyesterdaywehavepassedthroughstreetsandstreetsofsuch murdered houses, through town after town spread out in its lastwrithings;andbeforetheblackholesthatwerehomes,alongtheedgeofthechasms that were streets, everywhere we have seen flowers and vegetablesspringingupinfreshlyrakedandwateredgardens.Mypinkpeonieswerenotintroduced to point the stale allegory of unconscious Nature veiling Man'shavoc:theyareputonmyfirstpageasasymbolofconscioushumanenergycomingbacktoreplantandrebuildthewilderness...

LastMarch, in theArgonne, the townswe passed through seemed quitedead; but yesterday new life was budding everywhere. We were followinganother track of the invasion, one of the huge tiger-scratches that theBeastflungoverthelandlastSeptember,betweenVitry-le-FrancoisandBar-le-Duc.Etrepy,Pargny,Sermaize-les-Bains,Andernay,arethenamesofthisgroupofvictims: Sermaize a pretty watering-place along wooded slopes, the otherslargevillagesfringedwithfarms,andallnowmerescrofulousblotchesonthesoftspringscene.Butinmanyweheardthesoundofhammers,andsawbrick-layers and masons at work. Even in the most mortally stricken there weresignsofreturninglife:childrenplayingamongthestoneheaps,andnowandthenacautiousolderfacepeeringoutofashedproppedagainsttheruins.Inoneplaceanancienttram-carhadbeenconvertedintoacafeandlabelled:"AuRestaurant des Ruines"; and everywhere between the calcined walls thecarefullycombedgardensalignedtheirradishesandlettuce-tops.

From Bar-le-Duc we turned northeast, and as we entered the forest ofCommercywebegantohearagaintheVoiceoftheFront.ItwasthewarmestandstillestofMaydays,and in theclearingwherewestoppedfor luncheonthe familiarboombrokewithamagnified loudnesson thenoondayhush. Intheintervalsbetweenthecrashestherewasnotasoundbutthegnats'huminthemoistsunshineand thedryad-callof thecuckoofromgreenerdepths.Atthe end of the lane a few cavalrymen rode by in shabby blue, their horses'flanks glinting like ripe chestnuts. They stopped to chat and accept somecigarettes, andwhen theyhad trottedoff again thegnat, the cuckoo and thecannontookuptheirtrio...

ThetownofCommercylookedsoundisturbedthatthecannonaderocking

it might have been some unheeded echo of the hills. These frontier townsinured to the clashofwar go about their businesswithwhat onemight callstolidity if therewerenot finer, and truer,names for it. InCommercy, tobesure,thereislittlebusinesstogoaboutjustnowsavethatconnectedwiththemilitary occupation; but the peaceful look of the sunny sleepy streetsmadeonedoubt if the fighting linewas really less than fivemiles away...Yet theFrench, with an odd perversion of race-vanity, still persist in speaking ofthemselvesasa"nervousandimpressionable"people!

Thisafternoon,on the road toGerbeviller,wewereagain in the trackoftheSeptemberinvasion.Overall theslopesnowcoolwithspringfoliagethebattle rockedbackward and forwardduring thoseburning autumndays; andevery mile of the struggle has left its ghastly traces. The fields are full ofwoodencrosseswhichtheploughsharemakesacircuittoavoid;manyofthevillageshavebeenpartlywrecked,andhereandthereanisolatedruinmarksthenucleusofafiercerstruggle.Butthelandscape,initsfirstsweetleafiness,issoalivewithploughingandsowingandallthenaturaltasksofspring,thatthewarscarsseemliketracesofalong-pastwoe;anditwasnottillabendoftheroadbroughtusinsightofGerbevillerthatwebreathedagainthechokingairofpresenthorror.

Gerbeviller, stretched out at ease on its slopes above theMeurthe,musthavebeenahappyplace to live in.Thestreets slantedupbetweenscatteredhouses in gardens to the great Louis XIV chateau above the town and thechurch that balanced it. Somuchone can reconstruct from the first glimpseacrossthevalley;butwhenoneentersthetownallperspectiveislostinchaos.Gerbeviller has taken to herself the title of "themartyr town"; anhonour towhichmanysistervictimsmightdisputeherclaim!Butasasensationalimageofhavocitseemsimprobablethatanycansurpassher.Herruinsseemtohavebeen simultaneously vomited up from the depths and hurled down from theskies,asthoughshehadperishedinsomemonstrousclashofearthquakeandtornado; and it fills one with a cold despair to know that this doubledestructionwasnoaccidentofnaturebutapiouslyplannedandmethodicallyexecuted human deed. From the opposite heights the poor little garden-girttownwasshelledlikeasteelfortress;then,whentheGermansentered,afirewas built in every house, and at the nicely-timed right moment one of theexplosive tabloids which the fearless Teuton carries about for his land-Lusitaniaswastossedoneachhearth.Itwasallsowelldonethatonewonders—almostapologeticallyforGermanthoroughness—thatanyofthehumanratsescaped from their holes; but some did, and were neatly spitted on lurkingbayonets.

Oneoldwoman,hearingherson'sdeathcry,rashlylookedoutofherdoor.Abulletinstantlylaidherlowamongherphloxesandlilies;andthere,inher

little garden, her dead body was dishonoured. It seemed singularlyappropriate, in such a scene, to read above a blackened doorway the sign:"Monuments Funebres," and to observe that the house the doorway oncebelongedtohadformedtheangleofalanecalled"LaRuelledesOrphelines."

AtoneendofthemainstreetofGerbeviller thereoncestoodacharminghouse,ofthesoberoldLorrainepattern,withlowdoor,deeproofandamplegables:itwasinthegardenofthishousethatmypinkpeonieswerepickedformebyitsowner,Mr.Liegeay,aformerMayorofGerbeviller,whowitnessedallthehorrorsoftheinvasion.

Mr. Liegeay is now living in a neighbour's cellar, his own being fullyoccupiedbythedebrisofhischarminghouse.HetoldusthestoryofthethreedaysoftheGermanoccupation;howheandhiswifeandniece,andtheniece'sbabies,tooktotheircellarwhiletheGermanssetthehouseonfire,andhow,peering through a door into the stable-yard, they saw that the soldierssuspected they were within and were trying to get at them. Luckily theincendiaries had heapedwood and straw all round the outside of the house,andtheblazewassohotthattheycouldnotreachthedoor.Betweenthearchofthedoorwayandthedooritselfwasahalf-moonopening;andMr.Liegeayandhisfamily,duringthreedaysandthreenights,brokeupallthebarrelsinthe cellar and threw the bits out through the opening to feed the fire in theyard.

Finally,onthethirdday,whentheybegantobeafraidthattheruinsofthehousewouldfall inonthem,theymadeadashforsafety.Thehousewasontheedgeofthetown,andthewomenandchildrenmanagedtogetawayintothecountry;butMr.LiegeaywassurprisedinhisgardenbyaGermansoldier.Hemadea rush for thehighwallof theadjoiningcemetery,andscramblingoveritslippeddownbetweenthewallandabiggranitecross.ThecrosswascoveredwiththehideouswireandglasswreathsdeartoFrenchmourners;andwiththeseopportunemementoesMr.Liegeayroofedhimselfin,lyingwedgedinhisnarrowhiding-placefromthreeintheafternoontillnight,andlisteningto the voices of the soldiers who were hunting for him among the grave-stones. Luckily it was their last day at Gerbeviller, and the German retreatsavedhislife.

Even in Gerbeviller we saw no worse scene of destruction than theparticularspotinwhichtheex-mayorstoodwhilehetoldhisstory.Helookedabouthimat theheapsofblackenedbrickandcontorted iron."Thiswasmydining-room,"hesaid."Thereweresomegoodoldpanelingonthewalls,andsomefineprintsthathadbeenawedding-presenttomygrand-father."Heledusintoanotherblackpit."Thiswasoursitting-room:youseewhataviewwehad."Hesighed,andaddedphilosophically:"Isupposeweweretoowelloff.Ieven had an electric light out there on the terrace, to readmy paper by on

summerevenings.Yes,weweretoowelloff..."Thatwasall.

Meanwhile all the town had been red with horror—flame and shot andtorturesunnameable;andattheotherendofthelongstreet,awoman,aSisterof Charity, had held her own like SoeurGabrielle at Clermont-en-Argonne,gathering her flock of old men and children about her and interposing hershortstoutfigurebetweenthemandthefuryoftheGermans.WefoundherinherHospice,aruddy,indomitablewomanwhorelatedwithaquietindignationmorethrillingthaninvectivethehideousdetailsofthebloodythreedays;butthat alreadybelongs to thepast, andatpresent she ismuchmoreconcernedwith the task of clothing and feeding Gerbeviller. For two thirds of thepopulationhavealready"comehome"—thatiswhattheycallthereturntothisdesert! "You see," Soeur Julie explained, "there are the crops to sow, thegardenstotend.Theyhadtocomeback.Thegovernmentisbuildingwoodensheltersforthem;andpeoplewillsurelysendusbedsandlinen."(Ofcoursethey would, one felt as one listened!) "Heavy boots, too—boots for field-labourers.Wewantthemforwomenaswellasmen—likethese."SoeurJulie,smiling, turned up a hob-nailed sole. "I have directed all the work on ourHospicefarmmyself.Allthewomenareworkinginthefields—wemusttaketheplaceofthemen."AndIseemedtoseemypinkpeoniesfloweringintheveryprintsofhersturdyboots!

May14th.

Nancy, themostbeautiful town inFrance,hasneverbeenasbeautifulasnow.Comingback to it lastevening froma roundof ruinsone feltas if thehumblerSisterssacrificedtospareitwerepleadingwithonenottoforgettheminthecontemplationofitsdearly-boughtperfection.

The last time I looked out on the great architectural setting of the PlaceStanislaswas on a hot July evening, the evening of theNational Fete. Thesquareandtheavenuesleadingtoitswarmedwithpeople,andasdarknessfellthe balanced lines of arches and palaces sprang out inmany coloured light.Garlands of lamps looped the arcades leading into the Place de laCarriere,peacock-coloured fires flared from the Arch of Triumph, long curves ofradiance beat likewings over the thickets of the park, the sculptures of thefountains, the brown-and-gold foliation of Jean Damour's great gates; andunder this roofing of light was the murmur of a happy crowd carelesslycelebratingthetraditionofhalf-forgottenvictories.

Now,atsunset,alllifeceasesinNancyandveilafterveilofsilencecomesdownonthedesertedPlaceanditsemptyperspectives.Lastnightbyninethefewlingeringlightsinthestreetshadbeenputout,everywindowwasblind,andthemoonlessnight layoverthecitylikeacanopyofvelvet.Then,fromsome remote point, the arc of a search-light swept the sky, laid a fugitive

pallorondarkenedpalace-fronts,agleamofgoldoninvisiblegates,trembledacrosstheblackvaultandvanished,leavingitstillblacker.Whenwecameoutofthedarkenedrestaurantonthecornerofthesquare,andtheironcurtainoftheentrancehadbeenhastilydroppedonus,westoodinsuchcompletenightthatittookawaiter'sfriendlyhandtoguideustothecurbstone.Then,aswegrew used to the darkness, we saw it lying still more densely under thecolonnade of the Place de la Carriere and the clipped trees beyond. Theordered masses of architecture became august, the spaces between themimmense, and theblack sky faintly strewnwith stars seemed tooverarchanenchantedcity.Notafootstepsounded,nota leafrustled,notabreathofairdrewunder the arches.And suddenly, through thedumbnight, the soundofthecannonbegan.

May14th.

LuncheonwiththeGeneralStaffinanoldbourgeoishouseofalittletownassleepyas"Cranford."Inthewarmwalledgardenseverythingwasbloomingat once: laburnums, lilacs, red hawthorn, Banksia roses and all the pleasantborder plants that go with box and lavender. Never before did the flowersanswerthespringroll-callwithsucharush!Upstairs,intheEmpirebedroomwhichtheGeneralhasturnedintohisstudy,itwasamusinglyincongruoustosee the sturdy provincial furniture littered with war-maps, trench-plans,aeroplanephotographsandallthedocumentationofmodernwar.Throughthewindowsbeeshummed,thegardenrustled,andonefelt,closeby,behindthewalls of other gardens, the untroubled continuance of a placid and orderlybourgeoislife.

WestartedearlyforMoussonontheMoselle, theruinedhill-fortress thatgives its name to thebetter-known townat its foot.Our road ranbelow thelongrangeofthe"GrandCouronne,"thelineofhillscurvingsoutheastfromPont-a-Mousson to St. Nicolas du Port. All through this pleasant brokencountrythebattleshookandswayedlastautumn;butfewsignsofthosedaysareleftexceptthewoodencrossesinthefields.Notroopsarevisible,andthepictures ofwar thatmade theArgonne so tragic lastMarch are replaced bypeaceful rustic scenes.On theway toMousson the road is overhung by anItalian-looking village clustered about a hill-top. It marks the exact spot atwhich,lastAugust,theGermaninvasionwasfinallycheckedandflungback;and theMuse of History points out that on this very hill has long stood amemorialshaftinscribed:Here,intheyear362,JovinusdefeatedtheTeutonichordes.

A littleway up the ascent toMoussonwe left themotor behind a bit ofrising ground.The road is rakedby theGerman lines, and stray pedestrians(unlessinagroup)arelessliablethanamotortohaveashellspentonthem.We climbed under a driving grey skywhich swept gusts of rain across our

road. In the lee of the castle we stopped to look down at the valley of theMoselle,theslateroofsofPont-a-Moussonandthebrokenbridgewhichoncelinkedtogetherthetwosidesofthetown.Nothingbutthewreckofthebridgeshowedthatwewereontheedgeofwar.Thewindwastoohighforfiring,andwesawnoreasonforbelievingthatthewoodjustbehindtheHospiceroofatour feet was seamedwithGerman trenches and bristlingwith guns, or thatfromevery slope across thevalley the eyeof the cannon sleeplesslyglared.But there the Germans were, drawing an iron ring about three sides of thewatch-tower;andasonepeeredthroughanembrasureoftheancientwallsonegraduallyfoundone'sselfre-livingthesensationsofthelittlemediaevalburghasitlookedoutonsomeearliercircleofbesiegers.Thelongeronelooked,themoreoppressiveandmenacingtheinvisibilityofthefoebecame."Theretheyare—and there—and there."We strained our eyes obediently, but saw onlycalmhillsides,dozingfarms.Itwasasiftheearthitselfweretheenemy,asifthe hordes of evilwere in the clods and grass-blades.Only one conical hillclosebyshowedanoddartificialpatterning, like theworkofhugeantswhohad scarred it with criss-cross ridges.Wewere told that these were Frenchtrenches,buttheylookedmuchmoreliketheharmlesstracesofaprehistoriccamp.

Suddenlyanofficer,pointingtothewestofthetrenchedhillsaid:"Doyousee that farm?" It lay justbelow,near the river, and soclose thatgoodeyescouldeasilyhavediscernedpeopleor animals in the farm-yard, if therehadbeen any; but the whole place seemed to be sleeping the sleep of bucolicpeace."Theyarethere,"theofficersaid;andtheinnocentvignetteframedbymy field-glass suddenly glared back atme like a humanmask of hate. Theloudestcannonadehadnotmade"them"seemasrealasthat!...

At this point themilitary lines and the old political frontier everywhereoverlap,and inacleftof thewoodedhills thatconceal theGermanbatterieswesawadarkgreybluronthegreyhorizon.ItwasMetz,thePromisedCity,lying there with its fair steeples and towers, like the mystic banner thatConstantinesawuponthesky...

Throughwet vineyards and orchardswe scrambled down the hill to theriverandenteredPont-a-Mousson. Itwasbymeremeteorologicalgood luckthatwegotthere,forifthewindshadbeenasleepthegunswouldhavebeenawake,andwhentheywakepoorPont-a-Moussonisnotathometovisitors.One understood why as one stood in the riverside garden of the greatPremonstratensian Monastery which is now the hospital and the generalasylumofthetown.BetweentheclippedlimesandformalborderstheGermanshellshadscoopedoutthreeorfour"dreadfulhollows,"inoneofwhich,onlylastweek,alittlegirlfoundherdeath;andthefacadeofthebuildingispock-markedbyshotanddisfiguredwithgapingholes.Yetinthisprecariousshelter

SisterTheresia,ofthesameindomitablebreedastheSistersofClermontandGerbeviller, has gathered a miscellaneous flock of soldiers wounded in thetrenches, civilians shattered by the bombardment, eclopes, old women andchildren:allthehumanwreckageofthisstorm-beatenpointofthefront.SisterTheresiaseemsinnowisedisconcertedbythefactthattheshellscontinuallyplay over her roof. The building is immense and spreading, and when onewing is damaged she picks up her proteges and trots them off, bed andbaggage,toanother."Jepromenemesmalades,"shesaidcalmly,asifboastingof the varied accommodation of an ultra-modern hospital, as she led usthrough vaulted and stuccoed galleries where caryatid-saints look down inplaster pomp on the rows of brown-blanketed pallets and the long tables atwhichhaggardeclopeswereenjoyingtheireveningsoup.

May15th.

Ihaveseenthehappiestbeingonearth:amanwhohasfoundhisjob.

This afternoon we motored southwest of Nancy to a little place calledMenil-sur-Belvitte.Thenameisnotyetintimatelyknowntohistory,buttherearereasonswhyitdeservestobe,andinoneman'sminditalreadyis.Menil-sur-Belvitte is a village on the edge of theVosges. It is badly battered, forawfulfightingtookplacethereinthefirstmonthofthewar.Thehouseslieinahollow,andjustbeyonditthegroundrisesandspreadsintoaplateauwavingwith wheat and backed by wooded slopes—the ideal "battleground" of thehistory-books.And here a real above-ground battle of the old obsolete kindtook place, and the French, driving the Germans back victoriously, fell bythousandsinthetrampledwheat.

ThechurchofMenilisaruin,buttheparsonagestillstands—aplainlittlehouseattheendofthestreet;andherethecurereceivedus,andledusintoaroomwhichhehasturnedintoachapel.Thechapelisalsoawarmuseum,andeverythinginithassomethingtodowiththebattlethattookplaceamongthewheat-fields.The candelabra on the altar aremade of "Seventy-five" shells,theVirgin'shalo is composedof radiatingbayonets, thewalls are intricatelyadornedwithGerman trophiesandFrenchrelics,andon theceiling thecurehashadpaintedakindofzodiacalchartofthewholeregion,inwhichMenil-sur-Belvitte'shandfulofhouses figuresas thecentralorbof thesystem,andVerdun, Nancy, Metz, and Belfort as its humble satellites. But the chapel-museumisonlyasurplusexpressionof thecure's impassioneddedication tothedead.Hisrealworkhasbeendoneonthebattle-field,whererowafterrowof graves, marked and listed as soon as the struggle was over, have beenfenced about, symmetrically disposed, planted with flowers and young firs,andmarkedbythenamesanddeath-datesofthefallen.Asheledusfromoneof these enclosures to another his facewas litwith the flame of a gratifiedvocation.Thisparticularmanwasmadetodothisparticularthing:heisaborn

collector,classifier,andhero-worshipper.Inthehallofthe"presbytere"hangsa case of carefully-mounted butterflies, the result, no doubt, of an earlierpassionforcollecting.His"specimens"havechanged,thatisall:hehaspassedfrombutterfliestomen,fromtheactualtothevisionaryPsyche.

On theway toMenilwe stopped at the village ofCrevic. TheGermanswerethereinAugust,buttheplaceisuntouched—exceptforonehouse.Thathouse,alargeone,standinginaparkatoneendofthevillage,wasthebirth-place and home of General Lyautey, one of France's best soldiers, andGermany'sworstenemyinAfrica.ItisnoexaggerationtosaythatlastAugustGeneralLyautey,byhispromptnessandaudacity,savedMoroccoforFrance.TheGermansknowit,andhatehim;andassoonasthefirstsoldiersreachedCrevic—soobscureand imperceptiblea spot thatevenGermanomnisciencemight havemissed it—the officer in command asked forGeneral Lyautey'shouse,went straight to it, had all the papers, portraits, furniture and familyrelicspiledinabonfireinthecourt,andthenburntdownthehouse.Aswesatin the neglected park with the plaintive ruin before us we heard from thegardenerthistypicaltaleofGermanthoroughnessandGermanchivalry.It iscorroboratedbythefactthatnotanotherhouseinCrevicwasdestroyed.

May16th.

About twomiles from theGerman frontier (frontier just here aswell asfront)anisolatedhillrisesoutoftheLorrainemeadows.Eastofit,aribbonofriverwindsamongpoplars,and that ribbon is theboundarybetweenEmpireand Republic. On such a clear day as this the view from the hill isextraordinarilyinteresting.Fromitsgrassytopalittleaeroplanecannonstarestoheaven,watching theeast for thedanger speck; and thecircumferenceofthe hill is furrowedby a deep trench—a "bowel," rather—winding invisiblyfrom one subterranean observation post to another. In each of these earthlywarrens (ingeniously wattled, roofed and iron-sheeted) stand two or threeartillery officers with keen quiet faces, directing by telephone the fire ofbatteriesnestlingsomewhereinthewoodsfourorfivemilesaway.Interestingas the place was, the men who lived there interested me far more. Theyobviously belonged to different classes, and had received a different socialeducation;buttheirmentalandmoralfraternitywascomplete.Theywereallfairlyyoung,andtheirfaceshadthelookthatwarhasgiventoFrenchfaces:alookofsharpenedintelligence,strengthenedwillandsoberedjudgment,asifevery faculty, trebly vivified, were so bent on the one end that personalproblemshadbeenpushedbacktothevanishingpointofthegreatperspective.

Fromthisvigilantheight—oneoftheintentesteyesopenonthefrontier—wewent a short distance down the hillside to a village out of range of theguns,wherethecommandingofficergaveusteainacharmingoldhousewithaterracedgardenfullofflowersandpuppies.Belowtheterrace,lostLorraine

stretchedawaytoherblueheights,avisionofsummerpeace:andjustaboveustheunsleepinghillkeptwatch,itssignal-wirestremblingnightandday.Itwasoneoftheintervalsofrestandsweetnesswhenthewholehorribleblackbusinessseemstopressmostintolerablyonthenerves.

Belowthevillagetheroadwounddowntoaforestthathadformedadarkblurinourbird's-eyeviewoftheplain.Wepassedintotheforestandhaltedontheedgeofacolonyofqueerexotichuts.Onallsidestheypeepedthroughthebranches,themselvessobranchedandsoddedandleafythattheyseemedlikesometransitionformbetweentreeandhouse.Wewereinoneoftheso-called"villages negres" of the second-line trenches, the jolly little settlements towhichthetroopsretireafterdoingtheirshiftunderfire.Thisparticularcolonyhasbeendeveloped toanextremedegreeofcomfort and safety.Thehousesarepartlyunderground,connectedbydeepwinding"bowels"overwhichlightrusticbridgeshavebeen thrown,andsoprofoundly roofedwithsods thatasmuchofthemasshowsabovegroundisshell-proof.Yettheyarerealhouses,withrealdoorsandwindowsundertheirgrass-eaves,realfurnitureinside,andrealbedsofdaisiesandpansiesattheirdoors.IntheColonel'sbungalowabigbunch of spring flowers bloomed on the table, and everywherewe saw thesame neatness and order, the same amused pride in the look of things. Themenwerediningatlongtrestle-tablesunderthetrees;tired,unshavenmeninshabby uniforms of all cuts and almost every colour. They were off duty,relaxed,inagoodhumour;buteveryfacehadthelookofthefaceswatchingonthehill-top.WhereverIgoamongthesemenofthefrontIhavethesameimpression: the impression that the absorbing undivided thought of theDefenseofFrancelivesintheheartandbrainofeachsoldierasintenselyasintheheartandbrainoftheirchief.

Wewalkedadozenyardsdowntheroadandcametotheedgeoftheforest.Awattledpalisadeboundedit,andthroughagapinthepalisadewelookedoutacrossafieldtotheroofsofaquietvillageamileaway.Iwentoutafewstepsinto the field and was abruptly pulled back. "Take care—those are thetrenches!"What looked likea ridge thrownupbyaploughwas theenemy'sline;and in thequietvillageFrenchcannonwatched.Suddenly,aswestoodthere,theywoke,andatthesamemomentweheardtheunmistakableGr-r-rofanaeroplaneandsawaBirdofEvilhighupagainsttheblue.Snap,snap,snapbarked themitrailleuse on the hill, the soldiers jumped from theirwine andstrainedtheireyesthroughthetrees,andtheTaube,findingitselfthecentreofsomuchattention,turnedgreytailandswishedawaytotheconcealingclouds.

May17th.

Today we started with an intenser sense of adventure. Hitherto we hadalwaysbeentoldbeforehandwhereweweregoingandhowmuchweweretobeallowedtosee;butnowwewerebeinglaunchedintotheunknown.Beyond

a certain point all was conjecture—we knew only that what happened afterthatwoulddependon thegood-willofaColonelofChasseurs-a-piedwhomwewere togoa longwaytofind,upinto thefoldsof themountainsonoursoutheasthorizon.

We picked up a staff-officer at Head-quarters and flew on to a batteredtownontheedgeof thehills.Fromtherewewoundupthroughanarrowingvalley, under wooded cliffs, to a little settlement where the Colonel of theBrigadewastobefound.TherewasashortconferencebetweentheColonelandour staff-officer, and thenweannexedaCaptainofChasseurs and spunawayagain.OurroadlaythroughatownsoexposedthatourcompanionfromHead-quarters suggested the advisabilityof avoiding it; butourguidehadn'tthehearttoinflictsuchadisappointmentonhisnewacquaintances."Oh,wewon'tstopthemotor—we'lljustdashthrough,"hesaidindulgently;andintheexcessofhisindulgenceheevenpermittedustodashslowly.

Oh,thatpoortown—whenwereachedit,alongaroadploughedwithfreshobus-holes,Ididn'twanttostopthemotor;Iwantedtohurryonandblotthepicturefrommymemory!Itwasdoublysadtolookatbecauseofthefactthatit wasn't quite dead; faint spasms of life still quivered through it. A fewchildrenplayedintheravagedstreets;afewpalemotherswatchedthemfromcellardoorways."Theyoughtn'ttobehere,"ourguideexplained;"butaboutahundredandfiftybeggedsohardtostaythattheGeneralgavethemleave.Theofficerincommandhasaneyeonthem,andwheneverhegivesthesignaltheydivedowninto theirburrows.Hesays theyareperfectlyobedient. Itwashewhoaskedthattheymightstay..."

Up andup into the hills.Thevisionof humanpain and ruinwas lost inbeauty.Wewereamongthefirs,andtheairwasfullofbalm.Themossybanksgaveoutascentofrain,andlittlewater-fallsfromtheheightssetthebranchestremblingoversecretpools.Ateachturnoftheroad,forest,andalwaysmoreforest,climbingwithusasweclimbed,anddroppedawayfromustonarrowvalleys that converged on slate-blue distances. At one of these turns weovertooka companyof soldiers, spadeon shoulder andbagsof tools acrosstheirbacks—"trench-workers" swingingup to theheights towhichwewerebound.Lifemustbeabetterthinginthiscrystalairthaninthemud-welteroftheArgonneandthefogsoftheNorth;andthesemen'sfaceswerefreshwithwindandweather.

Higher still ... andpresentlyahaltona ridge, inanother"blackvillage,"thistimealmostatown!Thesoldiersgatheredroundusasthemotorstopped—throngs of chasseurs-a-pied in faded, trench-stained uniforms—for fewvisitors climb to this point, and their pleasure at the sight of new faceswaspresentlyexpressedinalarge"Vivel'Amerique!"scrawledonthedoorofthecar. L'Ameriquewas glad and proud to be there, and instantly conscious of

breathing an air saturated with courage and the dogged determination toendure. Themenwere all reservists: that is to say, mostlymarried, and allbeyondthefirstfightingage.Formanymonthstherehasnotbeenmuchactivework along this front, no great adventure to rouse the blood and wing theimagination:ithasjustbeenmonthaftermonthofmonotonouswatchingandholding on. And the soldiers' faces showed it: there was no light of headyenterpriseintheireyes,butthelookofmenwhoknewtheirjob,hadthoughtitover, and were there to hold their bit of France till the day of victory orextermination.

Meanwhile, they had made the best of the situation and turned theirquartersintoaforestcolonythatwouldenchantanynormalboy.Theirvillagearchitecturewasmore elaborate than anywe had yet seen. In theColonel's"dugout"alongtabledeckedwithlilacsandtulipswasspreadfortea.Inothercheerycatacombswefoundneat rowsofbunks,mess-tables, sizzlingsauce-pans over kitchen-fires. Everywherewere endless ingenuities in theway ofcamp-furniture and household decoration. Farther down the road a pathbetween fir-boughs led to a hidden hospital, a marvel of undergroundcompactness.Whilewechattedwith the surgeona soldiercame in from thetrenches:anelderly,beardedman,withagoodaveragecivilianface—thekindthatonerunsagainstbyhundredsinanyFrenchcrowd.Hehadascalp-woundwhichhadjustbeendressed,andwasverypale.TheColonelstoppedtoaskafewquestions,andthen,turningtohim,said:"Feelingratherbetternow?"

"Yes,sir."

"Good.Inadayortwoyou'llbethinkingaboutgoingbacktothetrenches,eh?"

"I'm going now, sir." Itwas said quite simply, and received in the sameway."Oh,allright,"theColonelmerelyrejoined;buthelaidhishandontheman'sshoulderaswewentout.

Our next visit was to a sod-thatched hut, "At the sign of the AmbulantArtisans,"wheretwoorthreesoldiersweremodellingandchisellingallkindsoftrinketsfromthealuminumofenemyshells.Oneoftheambulantartisanswas just finishing a ring with beautifully modelled fauns' heads, anotheroffered me a "Pickelhaube" small enough for Mustard-seed's wear, butcomplete in every detail, and inlaidwith the bronze eagle from an Imperialpfennig.Therearemanysuchringsmithsamongtheprivatesatthefront,andthesevere,somewhatarchaicdesignoftheirringsisaproofofthesurenessofFrenchtaste;butthetwowevisitedhappenedtobeParisjewellers,forwhom"artisan" was really too modest a pseudonym. Officers and men wereevidently proud of their work, and as they stood hammering away in theircramped smithy, a red gleam lighting up the intentness of their faces, they

seemedtobebeatingoutthecheerfulrhythmof"Itoowillsomethingmake,andjoyinthemaking."...

Up thehillside, indeeper shadow,was another little structure; awoodenshedwith an open gable sheltering an altar with candles and flowers. Heremass is said by one of the conscript priests of the regiment, while hiscongregationkneelbetween thefir-trunks,giving life to theoldmetaphorofthecathedral-forest.Nearbywasthegrave-yard,wheredaybydaythesequietelderlymenlaytheircomrades, theperesdefamillewhodon'tgoback.Thecareof thiswoodlandcemetery is leftentirely to thesoldiers,and theyhavespenttreasuresofpietyontheinscriptionsanddecorationsofthegraves.Freshflowers are brought up from the valleys to cover them, and when somefavouritecomradegoes,themenscorningephemeraltributes,clubtogethertobuyamonstrousindestructiblewreathwithemblazonedstreamers.Itwasnearthe end of the afternoon, and many soldiers were strolling along the pathsbetween thegraves. "It's their favouritewalkat thishour," theColonel said.Hestoppedtolookdownonagravesmotheredinbeadytokens,thegraveofthelastpaltofall."HewasmentionedintheOrderoftheDay,"theColonelexplained;andthegroupofsoldiersstandingnearlookedatusproudly,asifsharingtheircomrade'shonour,andwantingtobesurethatweunderstoodthereasonoftheirpride...

"Andnow,"saidourCaptainofChasseurs, "thatyou'veseen thesecond-linetrenches,whatdoyousaytotakingalookatthefirst?"

We followedhim to a point higher up the hill,whereweplunged into adeepditchofredearth—the"bowel"leadingtothefirstlines.Itclimbedstillhigher,underthewetfirs,andthen,turning,dippedovertheedgeandbegantowind in sharp loops down the other side of the ridge.Downwe scrambled,single file, our chinson a levelwith the topof thepassage, the closegreencovertaboveus.The"bowel"wenttwistingdownmoreandmoresharplyintoa deep ravine; and presently, at a bend, we came to a fir-thatched outlook,whereasoldierstoodwithhisbacktous,hiseyegluedtoapeep-holeinthewattled wall. Another turn, and another outlook; but here it was the iron-rimmedeyeofthemitrailleusethatstaredacrosstheravine.Bythis timewewerewithinahundredyardsorsooftheGermanlines,hidden,likeours,ontheothersideof thenarrowinghollow;andaswestoledownanddown, thehushandsecrecyofthescene,andthesenseofthatimminentlurkinghatredonly a few branch-lengths away, seemed to fill the silencewithmysteriouspulsations. Suddenly a sharp noise broke on them: the rap of a rifle-shotagainstatree-trunkafewyardsahead.

"Ah, the sharp-shooter," said our guide. "No more talking, please—he'soverthere,inatreesomewhere,andwheneverhehearsvoiceshefires.Somedayweshallspothistree."

Wewent on in silence to a pointwhere a few soldierswere sitting on aledgeofrockinawideningofthe"bowel."TheylookedasquietasiftheyhadbeenwaitingfortheirbocksbeforeaBoulevardcafe.

"Notbeyond,please,"saidtheofficer,holdingmeback;andIstopped.

Herewewere,then,actuallyandliterallyinthefirstlines!Theknowledgemade one's heart tick a little; but, except for another shot or two from ourarboreal listener, and the motionless intentness of the soldier's back at thepeep-hole,therewasnothingtoshowthatwewerenotadozenmilesaway.

PerhapsthethoughtoccurredtoourCaptainofChasseurs;forjustasIwasturningbackhesaidwithhisfriendliesttwinkle:"Doyouwantawfullytogoalittlefarther?Well,then,comeon."

Wewentpastthesoldierssittingontheledgeandstoledownanddown,towhere the trees ended at the bottom of the ravine. The sharp-shooter hadstoppedfiring,andnothingdisturbedtheleafysilencebutanintermittentdripofrain.Wewereattheendoftheburrow,andtheCaptainsignedtomethatImight takea cautiouspeep round its corner. I lookedout and sawa stripofintenselygreenmeadowjustunderme,andawoodedcliffrisingabruptlyonitsotherside.Thatwasall.Thewoodedcliffswarmedwith"them,"andafewstepswouldhavecarriedusacross the interval;yetallaboutuswassilence,and the peace of the forest. Again, for aminute, I had the sense of an all-pervading, invisible power of evil, a saturation of thewhole landscapewithsomehiddenvitriolofhate.Thenthereactionoftheunbeliefsetin,andIfeltmyself in a harmless ordinary glen, like a million others on an untroubledearth.Weturnedandbegantoclimbagain,loopbyloop,upthe"bowel"—wepassed the lolling soldiers, the silent mitrailleuse, we came again to thewatcherathispeep-hole.Heheardus,lettheofficerpass,andturnedhisheadwithalittlesignofunderstanding.

"Doyouwanttolookdown?"

Hemovedastepawayfromhiswindow.Thelook-outprojectedovertheravine,rakingitsdepths;andhere,withone'seyetotheleaf-lashedhole,onesawatlast...saw,atthebottomoftheharmlessglen,halfwaybetweencliffandcliff, agreyuniformhuddled inadeadheap. "He'sbeen there fordays:theycan'tfetchhimaway,"saidthewatcher,regluinghiseyetothehole;anditwasalmostarelieftofinditwasafterallatangibleenemyhiddenoverthereacrossthemeadow...

Thesunhadsetwhenwegotbacktoourstarting-pointintheundergroundvillage.Thechasseurs-a-piedwere loungingalong the roadsideandstandingin gossiping groups about themotor. It was long since they had seen facesfromtheotherlife,thelifetheyhadleftnearlyayearearlierandhadnotbeen

allowed togoback to for aday; andunderall their jokesandgood-humourtheir farewell had a tinge of wistfulness. But one felt that this fugitivereminderofaworld theyhadputbehind themwouldpass likeadream,andtheir minds revert without effort to the one reality: the business of holdingtheirbitofFrance.

ItishardtosaywhythissenseoftheFrenchsoldier'ssingle-mindednessisso strong in all who have had even a glimpse of the front; perhaps it isgathered less fromwhat themensay than from the look in their eyes.Evenwhile they are accepting cigarettes and exchanging trench-jokes, the look isthere;andwhenonecomesonthemunawareitistherealso.Intheduskoftheforestthatlookfollowedusdownthemountain;andasweskirtedtheedgeoftheravinebetweenthearmies,wefeltthatonthefarsideofthatdividinglinewerethemenwhohadmadethewar,andonthenearsidethemenwhohadbeenmadebyit.

****

INTHENORTH

June19th,1915.

On the way from Doullens to Montreuil-sur-Mer, on a shining summerafternoon. A road between dusty hedges, choked, literally strangled, by atorrent of westward-streaming troops of all arms. Every few minutes therewould come a break in the flow, and our motor would wriggle through,advancea fewyards,andbestoppedagainbyawideningof the torrent thatjammedusintotheditchandsplashedadazzleofdustintooureyes.Thedustwasstifling—butthroughit,whatasight!

Standingupinthecarandlookingback,wewatchedtheriverofwarwindtoward us. Cavalry, artillery, lancers, infantry, sappers and miners, trench-diggers, road-makers, stretcher-bearers, they swept on as smoothly as if inholidayorder.Throughthedust,thesunpickedouttheflashoflancesandtheglossofchargers'flanks,flushedrowsandrowsofdeterminedfaces,foundtheleast touchofgoldon fadeduniforms, silvered the sadgreyofmitrailleusesand munition waggons. Close as the men were, they seemed allegoricallysplendid:asif,underthearchofthesunset,wehadbeenwatchingthewholeFrencharmyridestraightintoglory...

Finally we left the last detachment behind, and had the country toourselves.ThedisfigurementofwarhasnottouchedthefieldsofArtois.Thethatched farmhouses dozed in gardens full of roses and hollyhocks, and the

hedges above the duck-ponds were weighed down with layers of elder-blossom.Onallsideswheat-fieldsskirtedwithwoodlandwentbillowingawayunder the breezy light that seemed to carry a breath of the Atlantic on itsbeams.Theroadranupanddownasifourmotorwereashiponadeep-seaswell;andsuchasenseofspaceandlightwasinthedistances,suchaveilofbeautyover thewholeworld, that thevisionof thatarmyon themovegrewmoreandmorefabulousandepic.

Thesunhadsetandthesea-twilightwasrollinginwhenwedippeddownfromthetownofMontreuiltothevalleybelow,wherethetowersofanancientabbey-churchriseaboveterracedorchards.Thegatesattheendoftheavenuewerethrownopen,andthemotordroveintoamonasterycourtfullofboxandroses.Everythingwassweetandsecluded in thismediaevalplace;and fromtheshadowofcloistersandarchedpassagesgroupsofnunsflutteredout,nunsallblackorallwhite,gliding,peeringandstandingatgaze.Itwasasifwehadplungedbackintoacenturytowhichmotorswereunknownandourcarhadbeen some monster cast up from a Barbary shipwreck; and the startledattitudesoftheseholywomendidcredittotheirsenseofthepicturesque;fortheAbbeyofNeuvilleisnowagreatBelgianhospital,andsuchmonstersmustfrequentlyintrudeonitsseclusion...

Sunset,andsummerdusk,andthemoon.Underthemonasterywindowsawalled gardenwith stone pavilions at the angles and the drip of a fountain.Belowit,tiersoforchard-terracesfadingintoagreatmoon-confusedplainthatmightbeeitherfieldsorsea...

June20th.

Todayourwayrannortheast,throughalandscapesoEnglishthattherewasnoincongruityinthesprinklingofkhakialongtheroad.EventhevillageslookEnglish:thesameplum-redbrickoftidyself-respectinghouses,neat,demureand freshly painted, the gardens all bursting with flowers, the landscapehedgerowed and willowed and fed with water-courses, the people's facessquareandpinkandhonest, and the signsover the shops ina languagehalfway between English and German. Only the architecture of the towns isFrench,ofareservedandrobustnortherntype,butunmistakablyinthesamegreattradition.

Warstill seemedso faroff thatonehad timefor thesedigressionsas themotor flew on over the undulating miles. But presently we came on anaviationcampspreadingitsshedsoverawideplateau.Herethekhakithrongwasthickerandthefamiliarmilitarystirenlivenedthelandscape.Afewmilesfarther, andwe found ourselves inwhatwas seemingly a big English townoddlygroupedaboutanucleusofFrenchchurches.ThiswasSt.Omer,grey,spacious,coldlycleaninitsSundayemptiness.AtthestreetcrossingsEnglish

sentriesstoodmechanicallydirectingtheabsent trafficwithgesturesfamiliartoPiccadilly;andthesignsoftheBritishRedCrossandSt.John'sAmbulancehungonclub-likefacadesthatmightalmosthaveclaimedahomeinPallMall.

TheEnglishnessof thingswasemphasized,aswepassedout throughthesuburbs,by the lookof thecrowdon thecanalbridgesandalong the roads.Everynationhas itsownwayof loitering,andthere isnothingsounliketheFrenchwayastheEnglish.Evenifallthesetallyouthshadnotbeeninkhaki,and the girls with them so pink and countrified, one would instantly haverecognized the passive northernway of letting a holiday soak in instead ofsqueezingoutitsjuiceswithfeverishfingers.

Whenwe turnedwestward fromSt.Omer, across the same pastures andwatercourses,wewerefacedbytwohillsstandingupabruptlyoutoftheplain;andonthetopofonerosethewallsandtowersofacompactlittlemediaevaltown. As we took the windings that led up to it a sense of Italy began topenetrate the persistent impression of being somewhere near the EnglishChannel. The town we were approaching might have been a queer dream-blendofWinchelsea andSanGimignano; butwhenwe entered thegates ofCasselwewereinaplacesointenselyitselfthatallanalogiesdroppedoutofmind.

Itwasnotsurprisingtolearnfromtheguide-bookthatCasselhasthemostextensiveviewofany town inEurope:one feltatonce that itdiffered inallsortsofmarkedandself-assertivewaysfromeveryothertown,andwouldbealmost sure to have the best things going in every line. And the line of anillimitablehorizonisexactlythebesttosetoffitsownquaintcompactness.

We found our hotel in the most perfect of little market squares, with aRenaissance town-hall on one side, and on the other a miniature Spanishpalacewith a front of rosybrick adornedbygrey carvings.The squarewascrowdedwithEnglisharmymotors andbeautifulprancingchargers; and therestaurant of the inn (which has the luck to face the pink and grey palace)swarmedwith khaki tea-drinkers turning indifferent shoulders to thewidestview in Europe. It is one of the most detestable things about war thateverythingconnectedwith it, except thedeathand ruin that result, is suchaheightening of life, so visually stimulating and absorbing. "It was gay andterrible,"isthephraseforeverrecurringin"WarandPeace";andthegaietyofwar was everywhere in Cassel, transforming the lifeless little town into aromantic stage-setting full of the flash of arms and the virile animation ofyoungfaces.

Fromtheparkon topof thehillwe lookeddownonanotherpicture.Allabout us was the plain, its distant rim merged in northern sea-mist; andthroughthemist,intheglitteroftheafternoonsun,far-offtownsandshadowy

towers lay steeped, as it seemed, in summerquiet.For amoment,whilewelooked,thevisionofwarshrivelleduplikeapaintedveil;thenwecaughtthenamespronouncedbyagroupofEnglishsoldiersleaningovertheparapetatourside."That'sDunkerque"—oneofthempointeditoutwithhispipe—"andthere's Poperinghe, just under us; that's Furnes beyond, and Ypres andDixmude,andNieuport..."Andatthementionofthosenamesthescenegrewdarkagain,andwefeltthepassingoftheAngeltowhomwasgiventheKeyoftheBottomlessPit.

ThatnightwewentuponcemoretotherockofCassel.Themoonwasfull,andasciviliansarenotallowedoutaloneafterdarkastaff-officerwentwithustoshowustheviewfromtheroofofthedisusedCasinoontopoftherock.Itwasthequeerestofsensationstopushopenaglazeddoorandfindourselvesinaspectralpaintedroomwithsoldiersdozingin themoonlightonpolishedfloors, their kits stacked on the gaming tables. We passed through a bigvestibule among more soldiers lounging in the half-light, and up a longstaircase to theroofwhereawatcherchallengedusandthenletusgoto theedge of the parapet. Directly below lay the unlit mass of the town. To thenorthwestasinglesharphill, the"MontdesCats,"stoodoutagainstthesky;the rest of the horizonwas unbroken, and floating inmistymoonlight. Theoutlineoftheruinedtownshadvanishedandpeaceseemedtohavewonbacktheworld.Butaswestoodtherearedflashstartedoutofthemistfarofftothenorthwest;thenanotherandanotherflickeredupatdifferentpointsofthelongcurve."Luminousbombsthrownupalongthelines,"ourguideexplained;andjust then, at still another point a white light opened like a tropical flower,spread to full bloomanddrew itselfback into thenight. "A flare,"weweretold;andanotherwhiteflowerbloomedoutfartherdown.Belowus,theroofsofCasselslepttheirprovincialsleep,themoonlightpickingouteveryleafinthegardens;whilebeyond,thoseinfernalflowerscontinuedtoopenandshutalongthecurveofdeath.

June21st.

OntheroadfromCasseltoPoperinghe.Heat,dust,crowds,confusion,allthesordidshabbyrear-viewofwar.Theroadrunningacrosstheplainbetweenwhite-powderedhedgeswasploughedupbynumberlessmotor-vans,supply-waggonsandRedCrossambulances.Labouringthroughbetweenthemcamedetachments of British artillery, clattering gun-carriages, straight youngfiguresonglossyhorses,longPhidianlinesofyouthssoingenuouslyfairthatonewondered how they could have looked on theMedusa face ofwar andlived.Menandbeasts,inspiteofthedust,wereasfreshandsleekasiftheyhad come from a bath; and everywhere along thewaysidewere improvisedcamps, with tentsmade ofwaggon-covers, where the ceaseless indomitableworkofcleaningwasbeingcarriedoutinallitssearchingdetails.Shirtswere

dryingonelder-bushes,kettlesboilingovergypsyfires,menshaving,blackingtheir boots, cleaning their guns, rubbing down their horses, greasing theirsaddles,polishingtheirstirrupsandbits:onallsidesageneralcheerystruggleagainst theprevailingdust,discomfort anddisorder.Hereand thereayoungsoldierleanedagainstagardenpalingtotalktoagirlamongthehollyhocks,oranoldersoldierinitiatedagroupofchildrenintosomemysteryofmilitaryhousekeeping; and everywhere were the same signs of friendly inarticulateunderstandingwiththeownersofthefieldsandgardens.

From the thronged high-road we passed into the emptiness of desertedPoperinghe, andout againon theway toYpres.Beyond the flats andwind-millstoourleftweretheinvisibleGermanlines,andthestaff-officerwhowaswithusleanedforwardtocautionourchauffeur:"NotootingbetweenhereandYpres."Therewasstillagooddealofmovementon the road, though itwaslesscrowdedwithtroopsthannearPoperinghe;butaswepassedthroughthelast village and approached the low line of houses ahead, the silence andemptinesswidenedaboutus.That low linewasYpres;everymonument thatmarked it, that gave it an individual outline, is gone. It is a townwithout aprofile.

The motor slipped through a suburb of small brick houses and stoppedundercoverof someslightly tallerbuildings.Anothermilitarymotorwaitedthere,thechauffeurrelic-huntingintheguttedhouses.

WegotoutandwalkedtowardthecentreoftheClothMarket.Wehadseenevacuated towns—Verdun, Badonviller, Raon-l'Etape—but we had seen noemptiness like this. Not a human beingwas in the streets. Endless lines ofhouses lookeddownonus fromvacantwindows.Our footsteps echoed likethe trampofa crowd,our loweredvoices seemed to shout. Inone streetwecameonthreeEnglishsoldierswhowerecarryingapianooutofahouseandliftingitontoahand-cart.Theystoppedtostareatus,andwestaredback.Itseemedanagesincewehadseenalivingbeing!Oneofthesoldiersscrambledinto the cart and tapped out a tune on the cracked key-board, and we alllaughedwithreliefatthefoolishnoise...Thenwewalkedonandwerealoneagain.

Wehadseenotherruinedtowns,butnonelikethis.ThetownsofLorrainewereblownup,burntdown,deliberatelyerasedfromtheearth.Atworsttheyare like stone-yards, atbest likePompeii.ButYpreshasbeenbombarded todeath,andtheouterwallsofitshousesarestillstanding,sothatitpresentsthedistant semblance of a living city, while near by it is seen to be adisembowelledcorpse.Everywindow-paneissmashed,nearlyeverybuildingunroofed,andsomehouse-frontsareslicedcleanoff,withthedifferentstoriesexposed, as if for the stage-setting of a farce. In these exposed interiors thepoor little household gods shiver and blink like owls surprised in a hollow

tree.Ahundredsignsofintimateandhumbletastes,ofhumdrumpursuits,offamilyassociation,clingtotheunmaskedwalls.Whiskeredphotographsfadeon morning-glory wallpapers, plaster saints pine under glass bells,antimacassarsdroopfromplushsofas,yellowingdiplomasdisplaytheirsealsonofficewalls.Itwasallsostillandfamiliarthatitseemedasif thepeopleforwhom these thingshadameaningmight at anymoment comebackandtakeuptheirdailybusiness.Andthen—crash!thegunsbegan,slammingoutvolleyaftervolleyallalongtheEnglishlines,andthepoorfrailwebofthingsthathadmadeupthelivesofavanishedcity-fullhungdanglingbeforeusinthatdeathlyblast.

WehadjustreachedthesquarebeforetheCathedralwhenthecannonadebegan, and its roar seemed tobuilda roofof ironover theglorious ruinsofYpres.Thesingulardistinctionofthecityisthatitisdestroyedbutnotabased.The walls of the Cathedral, the long bulk of the Cloth Market, still liftthemselves above the market place with a majesty that seems to silencecompassion.Thesightof those facades, soproud indeath, recalledaphraseusedsoonafterthefallofLiegebyBelgium'sForeignMinister—"LaBelgiquene regrette rien "—which ought some day to serve as the motto of therenovatedcity.

Wewere turning to gowhenwe heard awhirr overhead, followed by avolleyofmitrailleuse.Highup in theblue, over the centre of thedead city,flew aGerman aeroplane; and all about it hundreds ofwhite shrapnel tuftsburstoutinthesummerskylikethemiraculoussnow-fallofItalianlegend.Upanduptheyflew,onthetrailoftheTaube,andonflewtheTaube,fasterstill,tillquarryandpackwerelostinmist,andthebarkingofthemitrailleusediedout.SoweleftYprestothedeath-silenceinwhichwehadfoundher.

TheafternooncarriedusbacktoPoperinghe,whereIwasboundonaquestfor lace-cushions of the special kind required by our Flemish refugees. Themodel is unobtainable in France, and I had been told—with few and vagueindications—thatImightfindthecushionsinacertainconventofthecity.Butinwhich?

Poperinghe,thoughlittleinjured,isalmostempty.Initstidydesolationitlooks likea townonwhichawickedenchanterhas laida spell.We roamedfrom quarter to quarter, hunting for some one to show us the way to theconventIwaslookingfor,tillatlastapasser-byledustoadoorwhichseemedtherightone.Atourknockthebarsweredrawnandacloisteredfacelookedout. No, there were no cushions there; and the nun had never heard of theorderwe named. But therewere the Penitents, the Benedictines—wemighttry.Ourguideofferedtoshowusthewayandwewenton.Fromoneortwowindows, wondering heads looked out and vanished; but the streets werelifeless. At last we came to a convent where there were no nuns left, but

where, the caretaker told us, therewere cushions—a greatmany.He led usthroughpalebluepassages,upcoldstairs, throughroomsthatsmeltof linenand lavender.We passed a chapelwith plaster saints inwhite niches abovepaper flowers. Everything was cold and bare and blank: like a mind fromwhich memory has gone. We came to a class room with lines of emptybenches facing a blue-mantled Virgin; and here, on the floor, lay rows androwsoflace-cushions.Oneachabitoflacehadbeenbegun—andtheretheyhad been dropped when nuns and pupils fled. They had not been left indisorder:therowshadbeenlaidoutevenly,ahandkerchiefthrownovereachcushion. And that orderly arrest of life seemed sadder than any scene ofdisarray. It symbolized the senseless paralysis of awhole nation's activities.Herewereahousefulofwomenandchildren,yesterdayengaged inausefultaskandnowaimlesslyastrayovertheearth.Andinhundredsofsuchhouses,indozens,inhundredsofopentowns,thehandoftimehadbeenstopped,theheart of life had ceased to beat, all the currents of hope and happiness andindustrybeenchoked—not that somegreatmilitaryendmightbegained,orthe length of the war curtailed, but that, wherever the shadow of Germanyfalls,allthingsshouldwitherattheroot.

The same sight met us everywhere that afternoon. Over Furnes andBergues,andallthelittleintermediatevillages,theevilshadowlay.Germanyhadwilled that these places should die, andwherever her bombs could notreach her malediction had carried. Only Biblical lamentation can convey avision of this life-drained land. "Your country is desolate; your cities areburned with fire; your land, strangers devour it in your presence, and it isdesolate,asoverthrownbystrangers."

LateintheafternoonwecametoDunkerque,lyingpeacefullybetweenitsharbourandcanals.Thebombardmentofthepreviousmonthhademptiedit,andthoughnosignsofdamagewerevisiblethesamespellboundairlayovereverything.Aswe sat aloneat tea in thehall of thehotelon thePlace JeanBart,andlookedoutonthesilentsquareanditslifelessshopsandcafes,someonesuggestedthat thehotelwouldbeaconvenientcentrefor theexcursionswe had planned, andwe decided to return there the next evening. ThenwemotoredbacktoCassel.

June22nd.

Myfirstwakingthoughtwas:"Howtimeflies!ItmustbetheFourteenthofJuly!" I knew it could not be the Fourth of that specially commemorativemonth,becauseIwasjustawakeenoughtobesureIwasnotinAmerica;andtheonlyother event to justify sucha terrific clatterwas theFrenchnationalanniversary.Isatupandlistenedtothepoppingofgunstillacompletedsenseofrealitystoleoverme,andIrealizedthatIwasintheinnoftheWildManatCassel, and that it was not the fourteenth of July but the twenty-second of

June.

Then, what—? A Taube, of course! And all the guns in the place werecrackingatit!Bythetimethismentalprocesswascomplete,Ihadscrambledupandhurrieddownstairsand,unboltingtheheavydoors,hadrushedoutintothe square. It was about four in the morning, the heavenliest moment of asummerdawn,andinspiteofthetumultCasselstillapparentlyslept.Onlyafewsoldiers stood in thesquare, lookingupatadriftofwhitecloudbehindwhich—they averred—a Taube had just slipped out of sight. Cassel wasevidently used to Taubes, and I had the sense of having overdone myexcitement and not being exactly in tune; so after gazing a moment at thewhitecloud I slunkback into thehotel,barred thedoorandmounted tomyroom.AtawindowonthestairsIpausedtolookoutovertheslopingroofsofthetown, thegardens, theplain;andsuddenlytherewasanothercrashandadriftofwhitesmokeblewupfromthefruit-treesjustunderthewindow.Itwasalastshotatthefugitive,fromagunhiddeninoneofthosequietprovincialgardensbetweenthehouses;anditssecretpresence therewasmorestartlingthanalltheclatterofmitrailleusesfromtherock.

SilenceandsleepcamedownagainonCassel;butanhourortwolaterthehushwasbrokenbyaroarlikethelasttrump.Thistimeitwasnoquestionofmitrailleuses. The Wild Man rocked on its base, and every pane in mywindowsbeata tattoo.Whatwas that incredibleunimaginedsound?Why, itcouldbenothing,ofcourse,but thevoiceof thebigsiege-gunofDixmude!Fivetimes,whileIwasdressing,thethundershookmywindows,andtheairwasfilledwithanoisethatmaybecompared—ifthehumanimaginationcanstand the strain—to the simultaneous closingof all the iron shop-shutters intheworld.Theoddpartwas that,as faras theWildManand its inhabitantswereconcerned,novisibleeffectsresulted,anddressing,packingandcoffee-drinkingwentoncomfortablyinthestrangeparenthesesbetweentheroars.

Wesetoffearly foraneighbouringHead-quarters,and itwasnot tillweturnedoutofthegatesofCasselthatwecameonsignsofthebombardment:thesmashingofagas-houseandtheconvertingofacabbage-fieldintoacraterwhich, for some time to come, will spare photographers the trouble ofclimbing Vesuvius. There was a certain consolation in the discrepancybetweenthenoiseandthedamagedone.

AtHead-quarterswelearnedmoreofthemorning'sincidents.Dunkerque,itappeared,hadfirstbeenvisitedbytheTaubewhichafterwardcametotaketherangeofCassel;andthebiggunofDixmudehadthenturnedallitsfuryontheFrenchsea-port.ThebombardmentofDunkuerquewasstillgoingon;andwewereasked,andinfactbidden,togiveupourplanofgoingthereforthenight.

Afterluncheonweturnednorth,towardthedunes.Thevillageswedrovethrough were all evacuated, some quite lifeless, others occupied by troops.Presentlywe came to a groupofmilitarymotors drawnupby the roadside,anda fieldblackwithwheeling troops. "AdmiralRonarc'h!"our companionfromHead-quartersexclaimed;andweunderstoodthatwehadhadthegoodluck to come on the hero of Dixmude in the act of reviewing the marinefusiliersand territorialswhosemagnificentdefenseof lastOctobergave thatmuch-besiegedtownanotherleaseofglory.

Westoppedthemotorandclimbedtoaridgeabovethefield.Ahighwindwasblowing,bringingwithittheboomingofthegunsalongthefront.Asunhalf-veiledinsand-dustshoneonpalemeadows,sandyflats,greywind-mills.Thescenewasdeserted,exceptforthehandfuloftroopsdeployingbeforetheofficersontheedgeofthefield.AdmiralRonarc'h,white-glovedandinfull-dressuniform,stoodalittleinadvance,ayoungnavalofficerathisside.Hehadjustbeendistributingdecorationstohisfusiliersandterritorials,andtheyweremarchingpasthim,flagsflyingandbuglesplaying.Everyoneofthosemen had a record of heroism, and every face in those ranks had looked onhorrors unnameable. They had lost Dixmude—for a while—but they hadgainedgreatglory,andtheinspirationoftheirepicresistancehadcomefromthequietofficerwhostoodthere,straightandgrave, inhiswhiteglovesandgalauniform.

OnemusthavebeenintheNorthtoknowsomethingofthetiethatexists,inthisregionofbitterandcontinuousfighting,betweenofficersandsoldiers.Thefeelingofthechiefsisalmostoneofvenerationfortheirmen;thatofthesoldiers,akindofhalf-humorous tenderness for theofficerswhohavefacedsuch odds with them. This mutual regard reveals itself in a hundredundefinable ways; but its fullest expression is in the tone with which thecommandingofficersspeakthetwowordsoftenestontheirlips:"Mymen."

The little reviewover,wewent on toAdmiralRonarc'h's quarters in thedunes, and thence, after a brief visit, to another brigade Head-quarters.Wewereinaregionofsandyhillocksfeatheredbytamarisk,andinterspersedwithpoplargrovesslantinglikewheatinthewind.Betweenthesemeagrethicketsthe roofs of seaside bungalows showed above the dunes; and before one ofthesewestopped,andwereledintoasitting-roomfullofmapsandaeroplanephotographs.Oneof theofficersof thebrigade telephoned toask if thewaywascleartoNieuport;andtheanswerwasthatwemightgoon.

Ourroadranthroughthe"BoisTriangulaire,"abitofwoodlandexposedtoconstant shelling. Half the poor spindling trees were down, and patches ofblackenedundergrowthand raggedhollowsmarked thepathof theshells. Ifthetreesofacannonadedwoodareofstronginlandgrowththeirfallentrunkshavethemajestyofaruinedtemple;buttherewassomethinghumanlypitiful

inthefrailtrunksoftheBoisTriangulaire,lyingtherelikeslaughteredrowsofimmaturetroops.

Afewmilesmorebroughtus toNieuport,most lamentableof thevictimtowns. It isnotemptyasYpres isempty: troopsarequartered in thecellars,andat the approachofourmotorknotsof cheerful zouaves came swarmingout of the ground like ants. But Ypres is majestic in death, poor Nieuportgruesomely comic. About its splendid nucleus of mediaeval architecture amodern town had grown up; and nothing stranger can be pictured than thecontrastbetweenthestreetsofflimsyhouses,twistedlikecurl-papers,andtheruinsof theGothicCathedralandtheClothMarket.It is likepassingfromasmashedtoytothesurvivalofaprehistoriccataclysm.

Modern Nieuport seems to have died in a colic. No less homely imageexpresses the contractions and contortions of the houses reaching out theappeal of their desperate chimney-pots and agonized girders. There is oneviewalongtheexteriorofthetownlikenothingelseonthewarfront.Ontheleft,alineofpalsiedhousesleadsuplikeastringofcrutch-proppedbeggarstothemightyruinoftheTemplars'Tower;ontherighttheflatsreachawaytothealmost imperceptible humps of masonry that were once the villages of St.Georges, Ramscappelle, Pervyse. And over it all the incessant crash of thegunsstretchesasounding-boardofsteel.

InfrontofthecathedralaGermanshellhasdugacraterthirtyfeetacross,overhung by splintered tree-trunks, burnt shrubs, vaguemounds of rubbish;andafewstepsbeyondliesthepeacefullestspotinNieuport, thegrave-yardwhere the zouaves have buried their comrades. The dead are laid in rowsunder theflankof thecathedral,andon theircarefullysetgrave-stoneshavebeen placed collections of pious images gathered from the ruined houses.Some of the most privileged are guarded by colonies of plaster saints andVirgins that cover thewhole slab; and over the handsomestVirgins and themost gaily coloured saints the soldiers have placed the glass bells that onceprotectedtheparlourclocksandwedding-wreathsinthesamehouses.

FromsadNieuportwemotoredontoa littleseasidecolonywheregaietyprevails.Herethebighotelsandtheadjoiningvillasalongthebeacharefilledwith troops just back from the trenches: it is one of the "rest cures" of thefront.Whenwedroveup,theregiment"aurepos"wasassembledinthewidesandyspacebetweentheprincipalhotels,andinthecentreofthejollycrowdthe band was playing. The Colonel and his officers stood listening to themusic,andpresentlythesoldiersbrokeintothewild"chansondeszouaves"ofthe—thzouaves.Itwasthestrangestofsightstowatchthatthrongofduskymerryfacesunder their redfezesagainst thebackgroundofsunlessnorthernsea.Whenthemusicwasoversomeonewithakodaksuggested"agroup":westruckacollectiveattitudeononeofthehotelterraces,andjustasthecamera

wasbeingaimedatustheColonelturnedanddrewintotheforegroundalittlegrinningpock-markedsoldier."He'sjustbeendecorated—he'sgottobeinthegroup."Ageneralexclamationofassentfromtheotherofficers,andaprotestfromthehero:"Me?Why,myuglymugwillsmashtheplate!"Butitdidn't—

Reluctantlywe turned fromthis interval in theday's sad round,and tookthe road to La Panne.Dust, dunes, deserted villages:mymemory keeps nomoredefinitevisionoftherun.Butatsunsetwecameonabigseasidecolonystretched out above the longest beach I ever saw: along the sea-front, anesplanade bordered by the usual foolish villas, and behind it a single streetfilledwithhotelsandshops.AllthelifeofthedesertregionwehadtraversedseemedtohavetakenrefugeatLaPanne.Thelongstreetwasswarmingwiththrongsofdark-uniformedBelgiansoldiers,everyshopseemedtobedoingathrivingtrade,andthehotelslookedasfullasbeehives.

June23rdLAPANNE.

The particular hive that has taken us in is at the extreme end of theesplanade,where asphalt and iron railings lapse abruptly into sand and sea-grass.WhenIlookedoutofmywindowthismorningIsawonlytheendlessstretchofbrownsandagainst thegrey rollof theNorthernOceanand,onacrestofthedunes,thefigureofasolitarysentinel.Butpresentlytherewasasound of martial music, and long lines of troops came marching along theesplanadeanddowntothebeach.Thesandsstretchedawaytoeastandwest,agreat "field of Mars" on which an army could have manoeuvred; and themorningexercisesofcavalryandinfantrybegan.Againstthebrownbeachtheregiments in their dark uniforms looked as black as silhouettes; and thecavalry galloping by in single file suggested a black frieze of warriorsencirclingthedun-colouredflanksofanEtruscanvase.Forhourstheselong-drawn-outmovementsoftroopswenton,tothewailofbugles,andundertheeyeofthelonelysentinelonthesand-crest;thenthesoldierspouredbackintothe town, andLa Pannewas oncemore a busy common-place bain-de-mer.Thecommon-placeness,however,wasonlyonthesurface;forasonewalkedalong theesplanadeonediscovered that the townhadbecomeacitadel, andthat all the doll's-house villas with their silly gables and sillier names—"Seaweed," "The Sea-gull," "Mon Repos," and the rest—were really acontinuouslineofbarracksswarmingwithBelgiantroops.Inthemainstreettherewerehundredsofsoldiers,potteringalongincouples,chattingingroups,rompingandwrestlinglikeacrowdofschool-boys,orbargainingintheshopsfor shell-work souvenirs and sets of post-cards; and between the dark-greenandcrimsonuniformswasafrequentsprinklingofkhaki,withtheoccasionalpaleblueofaFrenchofficer'stunic.

BeforeluncheonwemotoredovertoDunkerque.Theroadrunsalongthecanal, between grass-flats and prosperous villages. No signs of war were

noticeable except on the road, which was crowded with motor vans,ambulancesand troops.ThewallsandgatesofDunkerque rosebeforeusascalmandundisturbedaswhenweenteredthetownthedaybeforeyesterday.Butwithin the gateswewere in a desert.Thebombardment had ceased thepreviousevening,butadeath-hushlayonthetown,Everyhousewasshutteredandthestreetswereempty.WedrovetothePlaceJeanBart,wheretwodaysagowesatatteainthehallofthehotel.Nowtherewasnotawholepaneofglass in thewindows of the square, the doors of the hotelwere closed, andeverynowand thensomeonecameoutcarryingabasketfulofplaster fromfallenceilings.Thewholesurfaceofthesquarewasliterallypavedwithbitsofglassfromthehundredsofbrokenwindows,andatthefootofDavid'sstatueofJeanBart,justwhereourmotorhadstoodwhilewehadtea,thesiege-gunofDixmudehadscoopedoutahollowasbigasthecrateratNieuport.

Though not a house on the square was touched, the scene was one ofunmitigateddesolation.Itwasthefirsttimewehadseentherawwoundsofabombardment,andthefreshnessofthehavocseemedtoaccentuateitscruelty.WewandereddownthestreetbehindthehoteltothegracefulGothicchurchofSt.Eloi,ofwhichoneaislehadbeenshattered; then, turninganothercorner,wecameonapoorbourgeoishouse thathadhad itswhole front torn away.The squalid revelation of caved-in floors, smashed wardrobes, danglingbedsteads,heaped-upblankets,topsy-turvychairsandstovesandwash-standswas far more painful than the sight of the wounded church. St. Eloi wasdrapedinthedignityofmartyrdom,butthepoorlittlehouseremindedoneofsome shy humdrum person suddenly exposed in the glare of a greatmisfortune.

Afewpeoplestoodinclusterslookingupattheruins,orstrayedaimlesslyaboutthestreets.Notaloudwordwasheard.Theairseemedheavywiththesuspendedbreathofagreatcity'sactivities:themournfulhushofDunkerquewasevenmoreoppressivethanthedeath-silenceofYpres.ButwhenwecamebacktothePlaceJeanBarttheunbreakablehumanspirithadbeguntoreassertitself.Ahandfulofchildrenwereplayinginthebottomofthecrater,collecting"specimens"ofglassandsplinteredbrick;andaboutitsrimthemarket-people,quietlyandasamatterofcourse,weresettinguptheirwoodenstalls.InafewminutesthesignsofGermanhavocwouldbehiddenbehindstacksofcrockeryandhouseholdutensils,andsomeofthepalewomenwehadleftinmournfulcontemplationoftheruinswouldbebargainingassharplyaseverforasauce-pan or a butter-tub. Not once but a hundred times has the attitude of theaverage French civilian near the front reminded me of the gallant cry ofCalantheainTheBrokenHeart:"Letmediesmiling!"IshouldhavelikedtostopandspendallIhadinthemarketofDunkerque...

AlltheafternoonwewanderedaboutLaPanne.Theexercisesofthetroops

had begun again, and the deploying of those endless black lines along thebeach was a sight of the strangest beauty. The sun was veiled, and heavysurgesrolledinunderanortherlygale.Towardeveningtheseaturnedtocoldtintsof jadeandpearlandtarnishedsilver.Fardownthebeachamysteriousfleetoffishingboatswasdrawnuponthesand,withblacksailsbellyinginthewind; and the black riders galloping bymight have landed from them, andbeenridingintothesunsetoutofsomewildnorthernlegend.Presentlyaknotofbuglerstookuptheirstandontheedgeofthesea,facinginward,theirfeetinthesurf,andbegantoplay;andtheircallwaslikethecallofRoland'shorn,whenheblewitdownthepassagainsttheheathen.Onthesandcrestbelowmywindowthelonelysentinelstillwatched...

June24th.

Itislikecomingdownfromthemountainstoleavethefront.IneverhadthefeelingmorestronglythanwhenwepassedoutofBelgiumthisafternoon.I had itmost strongly aswedrove by a cluster of villas standing apart in asterile regionof sea-grass and sand. Inoneof thosevillas fornearly ayear,twoheartsatthehighestpitchofhumanconstancyhaveheldupalighttotheworld.Itisimpossibletopassthathousewithoutasenseofawe.Becauseofthe light thatcomesfromit,deadfaithshavecometo life,weakconvictionshave grown strong, fiery impulses have turned to long endurance, and longendurancehaskeptthefireofimpulse.IntheharbourofNewYorkthereisapompousstatueofagoddesswithatorch,designatedas"LibertyenlighteningtheWorld." It seems as though the title on her pedestalmightwell, for thetime,betransferredtothelintelofthatvillainthedunes.

OnleavingSt.Omerwetookashortcutsouthwardacrossrollingcountry.Itwasahappyaccident thatcausedus to leave themain road, forpresently,over the crest of a hill, we saw surging toward us a mighty movement ofBritish and Indian troops. A great bath of silver sunlight lay on thewheat-fields,theclumpsofwoodlandandthehillybluehorizon,andinthatslantingradiancethecavalryrodetowardus,regimentafterregimentofslimturbanedIndians, with delicate proud faces like the faces of Princes in Persianminiatures.Thencamealongtrainofartillery;splendidhorses,clatteringgun-carriages,clear-facedEnglishyouthsgallopingbyallaglowinthesunset.Thestreamofthemseemednever-ending.Nowandthenitwascheckedbyatrainofambulancesandsupply-waggons,orcaughtandcongested in thecrookedstreets of a villagewhere children and girls had come out with bunches offlowers, andbakerswere sellinghot loaves to the sutlers; andwhenwehadextricatedourmotor from the crowd, and climbed another hill,we cameonanother cavalcade surging toward us through the wheat-fields. For over anhour theprocessionpouredby, so likeandyet sounlike theFrenchdivisionwehadmetonthemoveaswewentnorthafewdaysago;sothatweseemed

tohavepassedtothenorthernfront,andawayfromitagain,throughagreatflashinggatewayinthelongwallofarmiesguardingthecivilizedworldfromtheNorthSeatotheVosges.

****

INALSACE

August13th,1915.

My trip to the east began by a dash toward the north.NearRheims is alittle town—hardly more than a village, but in English we have nointermediatetermssuchas"bourg"and"petitbourg"—whereoneofthenewRed Cross sanitary motor units was to be seen "in action." The inspectionover,we climbed to a vineyard above the town and looked down at a rivervalley traversed by a double line of trees. The first line marked the canal,which is held by theFrench,whohave gun-boats on it.Behind this ran thehigh-road,withthefirst-lineFrenchtrenches,andjustabove,ontheoppositeslope, were the German lines. The soil being chalky, the German positionswere clearly marked by two parallel white scorings across the brown hill-front;andwhilewewatchedwehearddesultoryfiring,andsaw,hereandtherealongtheridge,thesmoke-puffofanexplodingshell.Itwasincrediblystrangetostandthere,amongthevineshummingwithsummerinsects,andtolookoutoverapeacefulcountryheavywiththecomingvintage,knowingthatthetreesat our feet hid a line of gun-boats that were crashing death into those twowhitescoringsonthehill.

Rheims itself brings one nearer to the war by its look of deathlikedesolation. The paralysis of the bombarded towns is one of themost tragicresults of the invasion. One's soul revolts at this senseless disorganizing ofinnumerableusefulactivities.Comparedwiththetownsofthenorth,Rheimsis relatively unharmed; but for that very reason the arrest of life seems themore futile and cruel. The Cathedral square was deserted, all the housesarounditwereclosed.Andthere,beforeus,rosetheCathedral—acathedral,rather,foritwasnottheonewehadalwaysknown.Itwas,infact,notlikeanycathedralonearth.WhentheGermanbombardmentbegan, thewestfrontofRheimswascoveredwithscaffolding:theshellssetitonfire,andthewholechurchwaswrapped in flames.Now thescaffolding isgone,and in thedullprovincial square there stands a structure so strange and beautiful that onemustsearch the Inferno,orsome taleofEasternmagic, forwords topicturetheluminousunearthlyvision.Thelowerpartofthefronthasbeenwarmedtodeep tints of umber andburnt siena.This richburnishingpasses, higher up,

throughyellowish-pinkandcarmine,toasulphurwhiteningtoivory;andtherecesses of the portals and the hollows behind the statues are lined with ablackdenser andmorevelvety than any effect of shadow to be obtainedbysculpturedrelief.The interweavingofcolourover thewholebluntedbruisedsurface recalls the metallic tints, the peacock-and-pigeon iridescences, theincredibleminglingofred,blue,umberandyellowoftherocksalongtheGulfofAEgina.Andthewonderoftheimpressionisincreasedbythesenseofitsevanescence; theknowledgethat this is thebeautyofdiseaseanddeath, thatevery one of the transfigured statuesmust crumble under the autumn rains,thateveryoneofthepinkorgoldenstonesisalreadyeatenawaytothecore,thattheCathedralofRheimsisglowinganddyingbeforeuslikeasunset...

August14th.

Astoneandbrickchateauinaflatparkwithastreamrunningthroughit.Pampas-grass, geraniums, rustic bridges, winding paths: how bourgeois andsleepyitwouldallseembutforthesentinelchallengingourmotoratthegate!

Before the door a collie dozing in the sun, and a group of staff-officerswaiting for luncheon. Indoors, a roomwithhandsome tapestries, somegoodfurniture and a table spread with the usual military maps and aeroplane-photographs.Atluncheon,theGeneral,thechiefsofthestaff—adozeninall—an officer from the General Head-quarters. The usual atmosphere ofcamaraderie,confidence,good-humour,andakindofcheerfulseriousnessthatIhavecometoregardascharacteristicofthemenimmersedintheactualfactsofthewar.Isetdownthisimpressionastypicalofmanysuchluncheonhoursalongthefront...

August15th.

ThismorningwesetoutforreconqueredAlsace.Forreasonsunexplainedto the civilian this corner of old-newFrance has hitherto been inaccessible,even to highly placed French officials; and there was a special sense ofexcitementintakingtheroadthatledtoit.

Weslippedthroughavalleyortwo,passedsomeplacidvillageswithvine-covered gables, and noticed that most of the signs over the shops wereGerman.Wehadcrossedtheoldfrontierunawares,andwerepresentlyinthecharmingtownofMassevaux.Itwas theFeastof theAssumption,andmasswasjustoverwhenwereachedthesquarebeforethechurch.Thestreetswerefull of holiday people, well-dressed, smiling, seemingly unconscious of thewar. Down the church-steps, guided by fond mammas, came little girls inwhitedresses,withwhitewreathsintheirhair,andcarrying,inbasketsslungover their shoulders, woolly lambs or blue and white Virgins. Groups ofcavalryofficersstoodchattingwithciviliansintheirSundaybest,andthroughthewindowsof theGoldenEaglewesawactivepreparations foracrowded

mid-daydinner.Itwasallashappyandparochialasa"Hansi"picture,andthefine old gabled houses and clean cobblestone streets made the traditionalsettingforanAlsacianholiday.

AttheGoldenEaglewelaidinastoreofprovisions,andstartedoutacrossthemountains in the direction of Thann. TheVosges, at this season, are intheir shortmidsummerbeauty, rustlingwith streams,drippingwith showers,balmywiththesmelloffirsandbraken,andofpurplethymeonhotbanks.Wereachedthetopofaridge,and,hidingthemotorbehindaskirtoftrees,wentoutintotheopentolunchonasunnyslope.Facingusacrossthevalleywasatall conical hill clothedwith forest. That hill was Hartmannswillerkopf, thecentreofalongcontestinwhichtheFrenchhavelatelybeenvictorious;andallaboutusstoodothercrestsandridgesfromwhichGermangunsstilllookdownonthevalleyofThann.

Thannitselfisatthevalley-head,inaneckbetweenhills;ahandsomeoldtown, with the air of prosperous stability so oddly characteristic of thistormentedregion.Aswedrovethroughthemainstreetthepallofwar-sadnessfell on us again, darkening the light and chilling the summer air. Thann israkedbytheGermanlines,anditswindowsaremostlyshutteredanditsstreetsdeserted.OneortwohousesintheCathedralsquarehavebeengutted,butthesomewhatover-pinnacledandstatuedcathedralwhichistheprideofThannisalmostuntouched,andwhenweentereditvesperswerebeingsung,andafewpeople—mostlyinblack—kneltinthenave.

Nogreatercontrastcouldbeimaginedtothehappyfeast-dayscenewehadleft,afewmilesoff,atMassevaux;butThann,inspiteofitsemptystreets,isnotadesertedcity.Avigorouslifebeatsinit,readytobreakforthassoonastheGermangunsaresilenced.TheFrenchadministration,workingonthebestoftermswiththepopulation,arekeepingupthecivilactivitiesofthetownasthe Canons of the Cathedral are continuing the rites of the Church. Manyinhabitants still remainbehind theirclosedshuttersanddivedown into theircellars when the shells begin to crash; and the schools, transferred to aneighbouringvillage, numberover two thousandpupils.Wewalked throughthe town, visited a vast catacomb of a wine-cellar fitted up partly as anambulance andpartly as a shelter for the cellarless, and saw the lamentableremains of the industrial quarter along the river,which has been the specialtargetoftheGermanguns.Thannhasbeenindustriallyruined,allitsmillsarewrecked; but unlike the towns of the north it has had the good fortune topreserve its outline, its civic personality, a face that its children,when theycomeback,canrecognizeandtakecomfortin.

After our visit to the ruins, a diversion was suggested by the amiableadministratorsofThannwhohadguidedoursight-seeing.Theywerejustoffforamilitarytournamentwhichthe—thdragoonsweregivingthatafternoon

inaneighboringvalley,andwewereinvitedtogowiththem.

Thesceneoftheentertainmentwasameadowenclosedinanamphitheatreofrocks,withgrassyledgesprojectingfromthecliffliketiersofopera-boxes.These points of vantage were partly occupied by interested spectators andpartlyby ruminatingcattle; on the lowest slope, the rankand fashionof theneighbourhood was ranged on a semi-circle of chairs, and below, in themeadow,alivelysteeple-chasewasgoingon.Theridingwasextremelypretty,asFrenchmilitaryridingalwaysis.Fewofthemountswerethoroughbreds—thegreaternumber,infact,beinglocalcart-horsesbarelybrokentothesaddle—buttheiragilityanddashdidthegreatercredittotheirriders.Thelancers,inparticular,executedaneffective"musicalride"aboutacentralpennon,totheimmense satisfaction of the fashionable public in the foreground and of thegalleryontherocks.

Theaudiencewasevenmoreinterestingthantheartists.Chattingwiththeladies in the front rowwere theGeneral ofdivision andhis staff, groupsofofficers invited from the adjoiningHead-quarters, andmost of the civil andmilitary administrators of the restored "Departement du Haut Rhin." Allclasseshad turnedout inhonourof thefete,andeveryonewas inaholidaymood.ThepeopleamongwhomwesatweremostlyAlsatianproperty-owners,manyofthemindustrialsofThann.Somehadbeendrivenfromtheirhomes,others had seen theirmills destroyed, all had been living for a year on theperilousedgeofwar,underthemenaceofreprisalstoohideoustopicture;yetthehumourprevailingwas that of anygroupofmerry-makers in a peacefulgarrison town. Ihave seennothing, inmywanderingsalong the front,moreindicativeofthegood-breedingoftheFrenchthanthespiritoftheladiesandgentlemenwhosatchattingwiththeofficersonthatgrassyslopeofAlsace.

The display of haute ecole was to be followed by an exhibition of"transportationthroughouttheages,"headedbyaGaulishchariotdrivenbyatrooperwithalonghorsehairmoustacheandmistletoewreath,andendinginamotorofwhichtheenginehadbeentakenoutandreplacedbyalargeplacidwhite horse. Unluckily a heavy rain began while this instructive "number"awaiteditsturn,andwehadtoleavebeforeVercingetorixhadledhiswarriorsintothering...

August16th.

Up and up into themountains.We started early, taking ourway along anarrowinterminablevalleythatslopedupgraduallytowardtheeast.Theroadwasencumberedwithastreamofhoodedsupplyvansdrawnbymules,forwewereonthewaytooneofthemainpositionsintheVosges,andthistrainofprovisions is kept up day and night. Finallywe reached amountain villageunderfir-cladslopes,withacoldstreamrushingdownfromthehills.Onone

side of the road was a rustic inn, on the other, among the firs, a chaletoccupied by the brigade Head-quarters. Everywhere about us swarmed thelittle"chasseursAlpins"inblueTamo'Shantersandleathergaiters.Forayearwe had been reading of these heroes of the hills, and herewewere amongthem,lookingintotheirthinweather-beatenfacesandmeetingthetwinkleoftheir friendly eyes. Very friendly they all were, and yet, for Frenchmen,inarticulateandshy.Allovertheworld,nodoubt,themountainsilencesbreedthiskindof reserve, this shrinking from theglibnessof thevalleys.YetonehadfanciedthatFrenchfluencymustsoarashighasMontBlanc.

Muleswerebrought,andwestartedona longrideup themountain.Theway led first over open ledges, with deep views into valleys blue withdistance,thenthroughmilesofforest,firstofbeechandfir,andfinallyalloffir.Abovetheroadthewoodedslopesroseinterminablyandhereandtherewecameontiersofmules,threeorfourhundredtogether,stabledunderthetrees,installsdugoutofdifferentlevelsoftheslope.Nearbyweresheltersforthemen,andperhapsatthenextbendavillageof"trappers'huts,"astheofficerscallthelog-cabinstheybuildinthisregion.Thesecoloniesarealwaysbustlingwith life: men busy cleaning their arms, hauling material for new cabins,washing ormending their clothes, or carrying down themountain from thecamp-kitchen the two-handled pails full of steaming soup. The kitchen isalways in the most protected quarter of the camp, and generally at somedistanceintherear.Othersoldiers,theirjobover,arelollingaboutingroups,smoking,gossipingorwritinghome, the"Soldiers'Letter-pad"proppedonapatchedblueknee,ascarredfistlaboriouslydrivingthefountainpenreceivedinhospital.Someareleaningovertheshoulderofapalwhohasjustreceiveda Paris paper, others chuckling together at the jokes of their own Frenchjournal—the"EchoduRavin,"the"JournaldesPoilus,"orthe"DiableBleu":little papers ground out in purplish script on foolscap, and adorned withcomic-sketchesandawealthoflocalhumour.

Higherup,underafir-belt,attheedgeofameadow,theofficerwhorodeaheadsignedtoustodismountandscrambleafterhim.Weplungedunderthetrees, into what seemed a thicker thicket, and found it to be a thatch ofbranches woven to screen the muzzles of a battery. The big guns were allaboutus,crouchedinthesesylvanlairslikewildbeastswaitingtospring;andneareachgunhovereditsattendantgunner,proud,possessive,importantasabridegroomwithhisbride.

We climbed and climbed again, reaching at last a sun-and-wind-burntcommonwhich forms the topofoneof thehighestmountains in the region.Theforestwasleftbelowusandonlyabeltofdwarffirsranalongtheedgeofthegreatgrassyshoulder.Wedismounted,themulesweretetheredamongthetrees,andourguide ledus toan insignificant lookingstone in thegrass.On

onefaceofthestonewascuttheletterF.,ontheotherwasaD.;westoodonwhat, till a year ago,was the boundary line betweenRepublic and Empire.Since then, in certain places, the line has been bent back a long way; butwherewestoodwewerestillunderGermanguns,andwehadtocreepalongintheshelterofthesquatfirstoreachtheoutlookontheedgeoftheplateau.From there,undera skyof racingclouds,wesawoutstretchedbelowus thePromisedLandofAlsace.Ononehorizon, far off in theplain, gleamed theroofsandspiresofColmar,ontheotherrosethepurplishheightsbeyondtheRhine.Nearbystoodaringofbarehills,thoseclosesttousscarredbyridgesofupheavedearth,asifgiantmoleshadbeenzigzaggingoverthem;andjustunderus,inalittlegreenvalley,laytheroofsofapeacefulvillage.Theearth-ridges and the peaceful village were still German; but the French positionswentdownthemountain,almosttothevalley'sedge;andonedarkpeakontherightwasalreadyFrench.

Westoppedatagapinthefirsandwalkedtothebrinkoftheplateau.Justunderus layarock-rimmedlake.Morezig-zagearthworkssurmounted itonallsides,andonthenearestshorewasthebranchedroofingofanothergreatmule-shelter.Wewerelookingdownatthespottowhichthenight-caravansoftheChasseursAlpinsdescendtodistributesuppliestothefightingline.

"Whogoes there?Attention!You're in sightof the lines!" avoice calledoutfromthefirs,andourcompanionsignedtoustomoveback.Wehadbeenrather too conspicuously facing theGerman batteries on the opposite slope,andourpresencemighthavedrawntheirfireonanartilleryobservationpostinstallednearby.Weretreatedhurriedlyandunpackedourluncheon-basketonthemoreshelteredsideoftheridge.Aswesatthereinthegrass,sweptbyagreatmountainbreezefullofthescentofthymeandmyrtle,whiletheflutterofbirds,thehumofinsects,thestillandbusylifeofthehillswentonallaboutus in the sunshine, the pressure of the encircling line of death grew moreintolerablyreal.Itisnotinthemudandjokesandevery-dayactivitiesofthetrenchesthatonemostfeelsthedamnableinsanityofwar;itiswhereitlurkslikeamythicalmonsterinscenestowhichthemindhasalwaysturnedforrest.

We had not yet made the whole tour of the mountain-top; and afterluncheonwerodeovertoapointwherealongnarrowyokeconnectsitwithaspurprojectingdirectlyabovetheGermanlines.Weleftourmules inhidingand walked along the yoke, a mere knife-edge of rock rimmed with dwarfvegetation.Suddenlyweheardanexplosionbehindus:oneofthebatterieswehadpassedonthewayupwasgivingtongue.TheGermanlinesroaredbackandfortwentyminutestheexchangeofinvectivethunderedon.Thefiringwasalmostincessant;itseemedasifagreatarchofsteelwerebeingbuiltupaboveus in the crystal air. And we could follow each curve of sound from itsincipience to its final crash in the trenches.Therewere fourdistinctphases:

thesharpbangfromthecannon,thelongfurioushowloverhead,thedispersedand spreading noise of the shell's explosion, and then the roll of itsreverberationfromclifftocliff.Thisiswhatweheardaswecrouchedintheleeof thefirs:whatwesawwhenwelookedoutbetweenthemwasonlyanoccasionalburstofwhitesmokeandredflamefromonehillside,andontheoppositeone,aminutelater,abrowngeyserofdust.

Presentlyadelugeofraindescendedonus,drivingusbacktoourmules,anddown the nearestmountain-trail through rivers ofmud. It rained all theway: rained insuch floodsandcataracts that thevery rocksof themountainseemed to dissolve and turn intomud.Aswe slid down through it wemetstrings of Chasseurs Alpins coming up, splashed to the waist with wet redclay, and leading pack-mules so coated with it that they looked like studiomodelsfromwhichthesculptorhasjustpulledoffthedrippingsheet.Lowerdownwecameonmore"trapper"settlements, sosaturatedand reekingwithwetthattheygaveusaglimpseofwhatthewintermonthsonthefrontmustbe.Nomorecheerfulpolishingoffire-arms,haulingoffaggots,chattingandsmokinginsociablegroups:everybodyhadcreptunderthedoubtfulshelterofbranchesandtarpaulins;thewholearmywasbackinitsburrows.

August17th.

Sunshine again for our arrival at Belfort. The invincible city liesunpretentiously behind its green glacis and escutcheoned gates; but theguardian Lion under the Citadel—well, the Lion is figuratively as well asliterallyalahauteur.Withthesunsetflushonhim,ashecrouchedaloftinhisred lair below the fort, he might almost have claimed kin with his mightyprototypes of the Assarbanipal frieze. One wondered a little, seeing whoseworkhewas;butprobablyitiseasierforanartisttosymbolizeanheroictownthantheabstractandelusivedivinitywhoshedslightontheworldfromNewYorkharbour.

FromBelfortbackintoreconqueredAlsacetheroadrunsthroughagentlelandscapeoffieldsandorchards.WewereboundforDannemarie,oneofthetownsoftheplain,andacentreofthenewadministration.Itistheusual"grosbourg" of Alsace, with comfortable old houses in espaliered gardens: dull,well-to-do, contented; not in the least the kind of setting demanded by thepatriotism which has to be fed on pictures of little girls singing theMarseillaise in Alsatian head-dresses and old men with operatic waistcoatstottering forward to kiss the flag. What we saw at Dannemarie was lessconspicuous to the eye but much more nourishing to the imagination. Themilitaryandciviladministratorshadthekindnessandpatiencetoexplaintheirwork and show us something of its results; and the visit left one with theimpression of a slow and quiet process of adaptation wisely planned andfruitfullycarriedout.Wedid,infact,heartheschool-girlsofDannemariesing

theMarseillaise—and the boys too—but,whatwas farmore interesting,wesaw them studying under the direction of the teacherswho had always hadthemincharge,andfoundthateverywhereithadbeentheaimoftheFrenchofficialstolettheroutineofthevillagepolicygoonundisturbed.TheGermansignsremainovertheshop-frontsexceptwheretheshop-keepershavechosento paint them out; as is happening more and more frequently. When afunctionaryhas tobereplacedheischosenfromthesametownor thesamedistrict, and even the personnel of the civil and military administration ismainlycomposedofofficersandciviliansofAlsatianstock.Theheadsofboththese departments, who accompanied us on our rounds, could talk to thechildrenandoldpeopleinGermanaswellasintheirlocaldialect;and,asfarasapassingobservercoulddiscern,itseemedasthougheverythinghadbeendone to reduce toaminimum the senseof strangenessand frictionwhich isinevitableinthetransitionfromoneruletoanother.Theinterestingpointwasthat this exercise of tact and tolerance seemed to proceed not from anypressureofexpediencybutfromasympatheticunderstandingof thepointofview of this people of the border. I heard in Dannemarie not a syllable oflyricalpatriotismorpost-cardsentimentality,butonlyakindlyandimpartialestimateoffactsastheywereandmustbedealtwith.

August18th.

Todayagainwestartedearlyforthemountains.Ourroadranmoretothewestward,throughtheheartoftheVosges,anduptoafoldofthehillsnearthebordersofLorraine.WestoppedataHead-quarterswhereayoungofficerofdragoonswastojoinus,andlearnedfromhimthatweweretobeallowedtovisitsomeofthefirst-linetrencheswhichwehadlookedoutonfromahigh-perchedobservationpost onour former visit to theVosges.Violent fightingwasgoingoninthatparticularregion,andafteraclimbofanhourortwowehad to leave themotor at a shelteredangleof the roadand strikeacross thehills on foot. Our path lay through the forest, and every now and then wecaughtaglimpseofthehigh-roadrunningbelowusinfullviewoftheGermanbatteries.Presentlywereachedapointwheretheroadwasscreenedbyathickgrowth of trees behind which an observation post had been set up. Wescrambleddownandlookedthroughthepeephole.Justbelowuslayavalleywith avillage in its centre, and to the left and rightof thevillagewere twohills,theonescoredwithFrench,theotherwithGermantrenches.Thevillage,atfirstsight, lookedasnormalasthosethroughwhichwehadbeenpassing;butacloserinspectionshowedthatitssteeplewasshatteredandthatsomeofits houses were unroofed. Part of it was held by German, part by Frenchtroops. The cemetery adjoining the church, and a quarry just under it,belonged to theGermans;but a lineofFrench trenches ran from the fartherside of the church up to theFrench batteries on the right hand hill. Parallelwiththisline,butstartingfromtheothersideofthevillage,wasahollowlane

leadingup toasingle tree.This lanewasaGerman trench,protectedby theguns of the left hand hill; and between the two lay perhaps fifty yards ofground. All this was close under us; and closer still was a slope of openground leading up to the village and traversed by a rough cart-track.Alongthis track in thehotsunshine littleFrenchsoldiers, thesizeof tin toys,werescramblingupwithbagsandloadsoffaggots,theirant-likeactivityasorderlyanduntroubledasifthetwoarmieshadnotlaintrenchtotrenchafewyardsaway.Itwasoneof thosestrangeandcontradictoryscenesofwar thatbringhometothebewilderedlooker-ontheutterimpossibilityofpicturinghowthethingreallyhappens.

Whilewestoodwatchingweheard the suddenscreamofabatterycloseabove us. The crest of the hill wewere climbingwas alive with "Seventy-fives,"andthepiercingnoiseseemedtoburstoutatourverybacks.Itwasthemostterriblewar-shriekIhadheard:akindofwolfishbayingthatcalledupanimageofallthedogsofwarsimultaneouslytuggingattheirleashes.Thereisadreadful majesty in the sound of a distant cannonade; but these yelps andhisses roused only thoughts of horror.And there, on the opposite slope, theblack and brown geysers were beginning to spout up from the Germantrenches; and from the batteries above them came the puff and roar ofretaliation.Belowus,alongthecart-track,thelittleFrenchsoldierscontinuedtoscrambleuppeacefullytothedilapidatedvillage;andpresentlyagroupofofficersofdragoons,emergingfromthewood,camedowntowelcomeustotheirHead-quarters.

We continued to climb through the forest, the cannonade still whistlingoverhead,tillwereachedthemostelaboratetrappercolonywehadyetseen.Half underground, walledwith logs, and deeply roofed by sods tuftedwithfernsandmoss,thecabinswerescatteredunderthetreesandconnectedwitheachotherbypathsborderedwithwhitestones.BeforetheColonel'scabinthesoldiershadmadeabanked-upflower-bedsownwithannuals;andfartherupthe slope stood a log chapel, amere gablewith awooden altar under it, alltapestried with ivy and holly. Near by was the chaplain's subterraneandwelling.Itwasreachedbyadeepcuttingwithivy-coveredsides,andivyandfir-boughsmaskedthefront.Thissylvanretreathadjustbeencompleted,andtheofficers, thechaplain,and thesoldiers loiteringnearby,wereallequallyeagertohaveitseenandhearitpraised.

The commanding officer, having done the honours of the camp, led usaboutaquarterofamiledownthehillsidetoanopencuttingwhichmarkedthebeginningofthetrenches.Fromthecuttingwepassedintoalongtortuousburrow walled and roofed with carefully fitted logs. The earth floor wascoveredbyasortofwoodenlattice.Theonlylightenteringthistunnelwasafaintrayfromanoccasionalnarrowslitscreenedbybranches;andbesideeach

ofthesepeep-holeshungashield-shapedmetalshuttertobepushedoveritincaseofemergency.

The passagewound down the hill, almost doubling on itself, in order togive a view of all the surrounding lines. Presently the roof became muchhigher, andwe sawon one side a curtained niche about five feet above thefloor.Oneoftheofficerspulledthecurtainback,andthere,onanarrowshelf,agunbetweenhisknees,satadragoon,hiseyesonapeep-hole.Thecurtainwashastilydrawnagainbehindhismotionlessfigure,lestthefaintlightathisbackshouldbetrayhim.Wepassedbyseveralofthesehelmetedwatchers,andnowandthenwecametoadeeperrecessinwhichamitrailleusesquatted,itsblacknosethrustthroughanetofbranches.Sometimestheroofofthetunnelwas so low thatwehad to bendnearly double; and at intervalswe came toheavydoors,madeof logsandsheetedwith iron,whichshutoffonesectionfromanother.Itishardtoguessthedistanceonecoversincreepingthroughanunlit passagewithdifferent levels and countless turnings; butwemust havedescendedthehillsideforatleastamilebeforewecameoutintoahalf-ruinedfarmhouse.Thisbuilding,whichhadkeptnothingbutitsouterwallsandoneortwopartitionsbetweentherooms,hadbeentransformedintoanobservationpost.Ineachofitscornersaladderleduptoalittleshelfonthelevelofwhatwas once the second story, and on the shelf sat a dragoon at his peep-hole.Below,inthedilapidatedrooms,theusuallifeofacampwasgoingon.Someof the soldiers were playing cards at a kitchen table, others mending theirclothes, orwriting letters or chuckling together (not too loud) over a comicnewspaper. It might have been a scene anywhere along the second-linetrenchesbut for the loweredvoices, thesuddennesswithwhichIwasdrawnbackfromaslitinthewallthroughwhichIhadincautiouslypeered,andthepresenceofthesehelmetedwatchersoverhead.

We plunged underground again and began to descend through anotherdarker and narrower tunnel. In the upper one there had been one or tworooflessstretcheswhereonecouldstraightenone'sbackandbreathe;butherewewere inpitchblackness, and saved frombreakingournecksonlyby thegleamof thepocket-lightwhichtheyounglieutenantwholedthepartyshedonourpath.Ashewhiskeditupanddowntowarnusofsuddenstepsorsharpcornersheremarkedthatatnighteventhisfaintglimmerwasforbidden,andthat itwasabad jobgoingbackand forth from the lastoutpost tillonehadlearnedtheturnings.

The last outpostwas ahalf-ruined farmhouse like theother.A telephoneconnected itwithHead-quarters andmoredumbdragoons satmotionlessontheir lofty shelves.The housewas shut off from the tunnel by an armoureddoor,andtheorderswerethatincaseofattackthatdoorshouldbebarredfromwithin and the access to the tunneldefended to thedeathby themen in the

outpost.Wewereontheextremevergeofthedefences,onaslopejustabovethevillageoverwhichwehadheardtheartilleryroaringafewhoursearlier.Thespotwherewestoodwasrakedonallsidesbytheenemy'slines,andthenearesttrencheswereonlyafewyardsaway.Butofallthisnothingwasreallyperceptibleorcomprehensibletome.Asfarasmyownobservationwent,wemight have been a hundredmiles from the valleywe had looked down on,where the French soldiers were walking peacefully up the cart-track in thesunshine.Ionlyknewthatwehadcomeoutofablacklabyrinthintoaguttedhouse among fruit-trees, where soldiers were lounging and smoking, andpeoplewhisperedastheydoaboutadeath-bed.OverabreakinthewallsIsawanother gutted farmhouse close by in another orchard: it was an enemyoutpost,andsilentwatchersinhelmetsofanothershapesattherewatchingonthesamehighshelves.Butallthiswasinfinitelylessrealandterriblethanthecannonadeabovethedisputedvillage.Theartilleryhadceasedandtheairwasfull of summer murmurs. Close by on a sheltered ledge I saw a patch ofvineyard with dewy cobwebs hanging to the vines. I could not understandwhere we were, or what it was all about, or why a shell from the enemyoutpost did not suddenly annihilate us.And then, little by little, there cameovermethesenseofthatmutereciprocalwatchingfromtrenchtotrench:theinterlockedstareof innumerablepairsofeyes,stretchingon,mileaftermile,alongthewholesleeplesslinefromDunkerquetoBelfort.

My lastvisionof theFrench frontwhich Ihad traveled fromend to endwas this picture of a shelled housewhere a fewmen,who sat smoking andplayingcardsinthesunshine,hadorderstoholdouttothedeathratherthanlettheirfractionofthatfrontbebroken.

THETONEOFFRANCE

Nobodynowasks thequestion thatsooften,at thebeginningof thewar,cametomefromtheothersideoftheworld:"WhatisFrancelike?"EveryoneknowswhatFrancehasprovedtobelike:frombeingadifficultproblemshehaslongsincebecomealuminousinstance.

Nevertheless,tothoseonwhomthatilluminationhasshoneonlyfromfaroff,theremaystillbesomethingtolearnaboutitscomponentelements;forithascometoconsistofmanyseparaterays,andthewearystrainofthelastyearhasbeenthespectroscopetodecomposethem.Fromtheverybeginning,whenonefelttheeffulgenceasthemerepalebrightnessbeforedawn,theattempttodefineitwasirresistible."Thereisatone—"thetinglingsenseofitwasintheairfromthefirstdays,thefirsthours—"butwhatdoesitconsistin?Andjust

howisoneawareofit?"Inthosedaystheanswerwascomparativelyeasy.ThetoneofFranceafterthedeclarationofwarwasthewhiteglowofdedication:agreatnation'scollectiveimpulse(sincethereisnoEnglishequivalentforthatwingedword,elan) toresistdestruction.Butat that timenooneknewwhatthe resistance was to cost, how long it would have to last, what sacrifices,materialandmoral,itwouldnecessitate.Andforthemomentbasersentimentsweresilenced:greed,self-interest,pusillanimityseemedtohavebeenpurgedfrom the race. The great sitting of the Chamber, that almost religiouscelebration of defensive union, really expressed the opinion of the wholepeople. It is fairly easy to soar to the empyreanwhen one is carried on thewingsofsuchanimpulse,andwhenonedoesnotknowhowlongoneistobekeptsuspendedatthebreathing-limit.

Butthereisatermtotheflightofthemostsoaringelan.Itislikely,afterawhile, to come back broken-winged and resign itself to barn-yard bounds.Nationaljudgmentscannotremainforlongaboveindividualfeelings;andyoucannot get a national "tone" out of anything less than a whole nation. Thereally interesting thing, therefore,was to see, as thewarwent on, andgrewintoacalamityunheardofinhumanannals,howtheFrenchspiritwouldmeetit,andwhatvirtuesextractfromit.

Thewarhasbeenacalamityunheardof;butFrancehasneverbeenafraidof the unheard of. No race has ever yet so audaciously dispensed with oldprecedents;asnonehaseversoreveredtheirrelics.Itisagreatstrengthtobeable towalkwithout thesupportofanalogies;andFrancehasalwaysshownthat strength in timesof crisis.The absorbingquestion, as thewarwent on,was to discover how far down into the people this intellectual audacitypenetrated,howinstinctiveithadbecome,andhowitwouldendurethestrainofprolongedinaction.

Therewasnevermuchdoubtaboutthearmy.Whenawarlikeracehasaninvaderonitssoil,themenholdingbacktheinvadercanneverbesaidtobeinactive. But behind the armywere thewaitingmillions towhom that longmotionlesslineinthetrenchesmightgraduallyhavebecomeamereconditionofthought,anacceptedlimitationtoallsortsofactivitiesandpleasures.Thedanger was that such a war—static, dogged, uneventful—might graduallycramp instead of enlarging the mood of the lookers-on. Conscription, ofcourse,wastheretominimizethisdanger.Everyonewassharingalikeinthegloryand thewoe.But theglorywasnotofakind topenetrateordazzle. Itrequiresmore imagination to see thehaloaround tenacity thanarounddash;andtheFrenchstillclingtotheviewthattheyare,sotospeak,thepatenteesand proprietors of dash, and much less at home with his dull drudge of apartner.Sotherewasreasontofear,inthelongrun,agradualbutirresistibledisintegration, not of public opinion, but of something subtler and more

fundamental: public sentiment. It was possible that civilian France, whilecollectively seeming to remain at the same height, might individuallydeteriorateanddiminishinitsattitudetowardthewar.

TheFrenchwouldnotbehuman,andthereforewouldnotbeinteresting,ifonehadnotperceivedinthemoccasionalsymptomsofsuchaperil.TherehasnotbeenaFrenchmanoraFrenchwoman—saveafewharmlessandperhapsnervoustheorizers—whohaswaveredaboutthemilitarypolicyofthecountry;but there have naturally been some who have found it less easy than theycouldhaveforeseentoliveuptothesacrificesithasnecessitated.Ofcoursetherehavebeensuchpeople:onewouldhavehadtopostulatethemiftheyhadnot come within one's experience. There have been some to whom it washarderthantheyimaginedtogiveupacertainwayofliving,oracertainkindof breakfast-roll; though the French, being fundamentally temperate, are farlesstheslavesoftheluxuriestheyhaveinventedthanaretheotherraceswhohaveadoptedtheseluxuries.

Therehavebeenmanymorewhofoundthesacrificeofpersonalhappiness—ofallthatmadelifelivable,orone'scountryworthfightingfor—infinitelyharder than the most apprehensive imagination could have pictured. Therehavebeenmothersandwidowsforwhomasinglegrave,ortheappearanceofonenameonthemissinglist,hasturnedthewholeconflictintoanidiot'stale.There have beenmany such; but there have apparently not been enough todeflectbyahair'sbreadth thesubtlecurrentofpublic sentiment;unless it istruer, as it is infinitelymore inspiring, to suppose that, of this company ofblindedbaffledsufferers,almostallhavehadthestrengthtohidetheirdespairand to sayof thegreatnationaleffortwhichhas lostmostof itsmeaning tothem: "Though it slayme, yetwill I trust in it." That is probably the finesttriumphofthetoneofFrance:thatitsmyriadfierycurrentsflowfromsomanyheartsmadeinsensiblebysuffering,thatsomanydeadhandsfeeditsundyinglamp.

Thisdoesnotintheleastimplythatresignationistheprevailingnoteinthetone of France. The attitude of the French people, after fourteenmonths oftrial,isnotoneofsubmissiontounparalleledcalamity.Itisoneofexaltation,energy,thehotresolvetodominatethedisaster.Inallclassesthefeelingisthesame: every word and every act is based on the resolute ignoring of anyalternativetovictory.TheFrenchpeoplenomorethinkofacompromisethanpeoplewouldthinkoffacingafloodoranearthquakewithawhiteflag.

Twoquestionsarelikelytobeputtoanyobserverofthestrugglewhoriskssuchassertions.What,onemaybeasked,aretheproofsofthisnationaltone?Andwhatconditionsandqualitiesseemtoministertoit?

Theproofs,nowthat"the tumultand theshoutingdies,"andcivilian life

has dropped back into something like its usual routine, are naturally lessdefinablethanattheoutset.Oneofthemostevidentisthespiritinwhichallkinds of privations are accepted.No onewho has come in contactwith thework-people and small shop-keepers of Paris in the last year can fail to bestruck by the extreme dignity and gracewithwhich doingwithout things ispractised.TheFrenchwoman leaning in thedoorofher emptyboutique stillwears the smile with which she used to calm the impatience of crowdingshoppers.The seam-stress livingon themeagrepayof a charitywork-roomgivesherday'ssewingasfaithfullyasifshewereworkingforfullwagesinafashionableatelier,andnevertries,bytheleasthintofprivatedifficulties, toextractadditionalhelp.ThehabitualcheerfulnessoftheParisianworkwomanrises, in moments of sorrow, to the finest fortitude. In a work-room wheremanywomenhavebeenemployedsincethebeginningofthewar,ayounggirlofsixteenheardlateoneafternoonthatheronlybrotherhadbeenkilled.Shehadamomentofdesperatedistress;buttherewasabigfamilytobehelpedbyhersmallearnings,andthenextmorningpunctuallyshewasbackatwork.Inthissamework-roomthewomenhaveonehalf-holiday in theweek,withoutreductionofpay;yetifanorderhastoberushedthroughforahospital theygiveupthatoneafternoonasgailyasiftheyweredoingitfortheirpleasure.But ifanyonewhohas livedfor the lastyearamong theworkersandsmalltradesmenofParisshouldbegintociteinstancesofendurance,self-denialandsecretcharity,thelistwouldhavenoend.Theessentialofitallisthespiritinwhichtheseactsareaccomplished.

The second question: What are the conditions and qualities that haveproducedsuchresults? is lesseasytoanswer.Thedoor isso largelyopentoconjecture that every explanation must depend largely on the answerer'spersonal bias.But one thing is certain. France has not achieved her presenttonebythesacrificeofanyofhernational traits,butratherbytheirextremekeyingup; therefore thesurestwayof findingaclue to that tone is to try tosingle out whatever distinctively "French" characteristics—or those thatappearsuchtotheenviousalien—haveadirectbearingonthepresentattitudeof France. Which (one must ask) of all their multiple gifts most help theFrenchtodaytobewhattheyareinjustthewaytheyare?

Intelligence! is the first and instantaneous answer. Many French peopleseemunawareof this.Theyaresincerelypersuaded that thecurbingof theircriticalactivityhasbeenoneof themost importantanduseful resultsof thewar. One is told that, in a spirit of patriotism, this fault-finding people haslearned not to find fault. Nothing could bemore untrue. The French, whentheyhaveagrievance,donotair it in theTimes: theirforumis thecafeandnot the newspaper. But in the cafe they are talking as freely as ever,discriminatingaskeenlyandjudgingaspassionately.Thedifferenceisthattheveryexerciseoftheirintelligenceonaproblemlargerandmoredifficultthan

anytheyhavehithertofacedhasfreedthemfromthedominionofmostoftheprejudices,catch-wordsandconventionsthatdirectedopinionbeforethewar.Thentheirintelligenceraninfixedchannels;nowithasoverfloweditsbanks.

Thisreleasehasproducedanimmediatereadjustingofalltheelementsofnational life. In great trials a race is tested by its values; and the war hasshowntheworldwhataretherealvaluesofFrance.Neverforaninstanthasthispeople,soexpertinthegreatartofliving,imaginedthatlifeconsistedinbeingalive.Enamouredofpleasureandbeauty,dwellingfreelyandfranklyinthepresent,theyhaveyetkepttheirsenseoflargermeanings,haveunderstoodlifetobemadeupofmanythingspastandtocome,ofrenunciationaswellassatisfaction,oftraditionsaswellasexperiments,ofdyingasmuchasofliving.Neverhavetheyconsideredlifeasathingtobecherishedinitself,apartfromitsreactionsanditsrelations.

Intelligence first, then, has helped France to be what she is; and next,perhaps,oneofitscorollaries,expression.TheFrencharethefirsttolaughatthemselvesforrunningtowords:theyseemtoregardtheirgiftforexpressionasaweakness,apossibledeterrenttoaction.Thelastyearhasnotconfirmedthatview.Ithasrathershownthateloquenceisasupplementaryweapon.By"eloquence" I naturally do notmean public speaking, nor yet the rhetoricalwriting too often associated with the word. Rhetoric is the dressing-up ofconventional sentiment, eloquence the fearless expression of real emotion.And this gift of the fearless expression of emotion—fearless, that is, ofridicule,orofindifferenceinthehearer—hasbeenaninestimablestrengthtoFrance.ItisasignofthehighaverageofFrenchintelligencethatfeelingwell-wordedcanstirandupliftit;that"words"arenothalfshamefacedlyregardedas something separate from, and extraneous to, emotion, or even as amereventforit,butasactuallyanimatingandformingit.Everyadditionalfacultyfor exteriorizing states of feeling, giving them a face and a language, is amoralaswellasanartisticasset,andGoethewasneverwiser thanwhenhewrote:

"Agodgavemethevoicetospeakmypain."

ItisnottoomuchtosaythattheFrenchareatthismomentdrawingapartoftheirnationalstrengthfromtheirlanguage.Thepietywithwhichtheyhavecherishedandcultivatedithasmadeitapreciousinstrumentintheirhands.Itcansaysobeautifullywhattheyfeelthattheyfindstrengthandrenovationinusingit;andthewordonceutteredispassedon,andcarriesthesamehelptoothers. Countless instances of such happy expression could be cited by anyonewho has lived the last year in France.On the bodies of young soldiershave been found letters of farewell to their parents that made one think ofsomeheroicElizabethanverse;andthemothersrobbedofthesesonshavesentthemanansweringcryofcourage.

"Thank you," such a mourner wrote me the other day, "for havingunderstood the crueltyofour fate, andhavingpitiedus.Thankyoualso forhavingexaltedthepridethatismingledwithourunutterablesorrow."Simplythat, and nomore; but shemight have been speaking for all themothers ofFrance.

When the eloquent expression of feeling does not issue in action—or atleastinastateofmindequivalenttoaction—itsinkstothelevelofrhetoric;but inFranceat thismomentexpressionandconductsupplementandreflecteach other. And this brings me to the other great attribute which goes tomakingupthetoneofFrance:thequalityofcourage.Itisnotunintentionallythatitcomeslastonmylist.Frenchcourageiscouragerationalized,couragethoughtout, and foundnecessary to some special end; it is, asmuchas anyotherqualityoftheFrenchtemperament,theresultofFrenchintelligence.

Nopeoplesosensitivetobeauty,sopenetratedwithapassionateinterestinlife,soendowedwiththepowertoexpressandimmortalizethatinterest,caneverreallyenjoydestructionforitsownsake.TheFrenchhate"militarism."Itisstupid,inartistic,unimaginativeandenslaving;therecouldnotbefourbetterFrenchreasonsfordetestingit.NorhavetheFrencheverenjoyedthesavageforms of sport which stimulate the blood of more apathetic or more brutalraces. Neither prize-fighting nor bull-fighting is of the soil in France, andFrenchmendonot settle theirprivatedifferences impromptuwith their fists:theydoit,logicallyandwithdeliberation,ontheduelling-ground.Butwhenanationaldangerthreatens,theyinstantlybecomewhattheyproudlyandjustlycall themselves—"awarlike nation"—and apply to the business in hand theardour, the imagination, theperseverance that havemade them for centuriesthegreatcreativeforceofcivilization.EveryFrenchsoldierknowswhyheisfighting, and why, at this moment, physical courage is the first qualitydemandedofhim;everyFrenchwomanknowswhywar isbeingwaged,andwhy her moral courage is needed to supplement the soldier's contempt ofdeath.

ThewomenofFrancearesupplyingthismoralcourageinactaswellasinword.Frenchwomen,asarule,areperhapslessinstinctively"courageous,"intheelementarysense,thantheirAnglo-Saxonsisters.Theyareafraidofmorethings,andarelessashamedofshowingtheirfear.TheFrenchmothercoddlesher children, the boys aswell as the girls:when they tumble andbark theirkneestheyareexpectedtocry,andnottaughttocontrolthemselvesasEnglishandAmericanchildrenare.IhaveseenbigFrenchboysbawlingoveracutorabruisethatanAnglo-Saxongirlofthesameagewouldhavefeltcompelledtobearwithouta tear.Frenchwomenare timid for themselvesaswell as fortheir children. They are afraid of the unexpected, the unknown, theexperimental. It isnotpartof theFrenchwoman's trainingtopretendtohave

physical courage. She has not the advantage of our discipline in thehypocrisiesof"goodform"whensheiscalledontobebrave,shemustdrawhercouragefromherbrains.Shemust firstbeconvincedof thenecessityofheroism;afterthatsheisfittogobridletobridlewithJeanned'Arc.

Thesamedisplayofreasonedcourageisvisibleinthehastyadaptationofthe Frenchwoman to all kinds of uncongenial jobs. Almost every kind ofservice she has been called to render since the war began has beenfundamentally uncongenial. A French doctor once remarked to me thatFrenchwomen never make really good sick-nurses except when they arenursingtheirownpeople.Theyaretoopersonal,tooemotional,andtoomuchinterested in more interesting things, to take to the fussy details of goodnursing,exceptwhenitcanhelpsomeonetheycarefor.Eventhen,asarule,they are not systematic or tidy; but theymake up for these deficiencies byinexhaustible willingness and sympathy. And it has been easy for them tobecomegoodwar-nurses,becauseeveryFrenchwomanwhonursesaFrenchsoldier feels that she is caring forherkin.TheFrenchwar-nurse sometimesmislaysaninstrumentorforgetstosterilizeadressing;butshealmostalwaysfinds theconsolingword tosayand theright tone to takewithherwoundedsoldiers.Thatprofoundsolidaritywhich isoneof the resultsofconscriptionflowers,inwar-time,inanexquisiteandimpartialdevotion.

This, then, iswhat"France is like."Thewholecivilianpartof thenationseemsmergedinonesymbolicfigure,carryinghelpandhopetothefightersorpassionately bent above the wounded. The devotion, the self-denial, seeminstinctive;buttheyarereallybasedonareasonedknowledgeofthesituationand on an unflinching estimate of values.All France knows today that real"life"consistsinthethingsthatmakeitworthliving,andthatthesethings,forFrance, depend on the free expression of her national genius. If FranceperishesasanintellectuallightandasamoralforceeveryFrenchmanperisheswithher;andtheonlydeaththatFrenchmenfearisnotdeathinthetrenchesbutdeathbytheextinctionoftheirnationalideal.Itisagainstthisdeaththatthewholenation is fighting; and it is the reasoned recognitionof their perilwhich,atthismoment,ismakingthemostintelligentpeopleintheworldthemostsublime.

THEEND

LikedThisBook?

ForMoreFREEe-BooksvisitFreeditorial.com