0163m
"I cannot close this recital of misery without a word, which I judge very necessary, about this unhappy life, so bravely supported by so many thousands of unfortunates. What would have become of us, but for such kind souls as you? How many of my wretched companions have only been sustained morally and physically, through these days of trial, by the regular arrival of parcels sent by kind unknown friends!
"If these charitable people could hear half of the expressions of gratitude, and see the pleasure caused by these shipments, they would assuredly feel rewarded. I want you to know this, as I feel it will especially interest you. Your kindness towards me proves it. Thanks from me and thanks from them.
"I long to return to France. I await with impatience the day of expatriation, which will permit me to see again my old parents, my family, and to embrace once more my little girls—poor darlings, deprived so early of my affection and care. But I am resigned to wait, and to re-establish here in Switzerland my health, so necessary after this war. I know, Madame, you have given things to my little ones; from me many thanks.
"Receive, Madame, my sincerest salutations and the assurance of my profound gratitude.
"Your devoted,
"Interne Français.
"Hotel du Chamessaire, Leysin, Suisse."
With this authentic picture before us, shall we not do well, we Americans, to realize what our own boys will have to face, should they fall into German hands?
Dinard has recently been obliged to open her doors to one thousand homeless children from Nancy. That historical and beautiful old town in Lorraine is no longer a safe place for kiddies. Twelve thousand have been sent here to Brittany, escorted by American Red Cross doctors and American nurses, and their school-masters and mistresses. Poor little mites, they look white and frightened and suppressed, but they must be relieved to feel they can run about the beach without the fear of bombs—that terror, night and day, which for so many months has haunted them.
Now the soft lapping of the waves replaces the roar of cannon; the green fields of Brittany, the crumbling buildings of their old home; but their little hearts are heavy, many a baby is crying for "maman" when bed-time comes. Their wan cheeks are growing rosy in the breezes from the Atlantic. Good butter, milk, eggs and peaceful sunny days, freedom from the fear of bombardment, are building up their fragile little bodies, and the strained look is leaving their eyes, and they are becoming normal children again.
We are constantly suffering from the spy fever. Every once in a while it breaks out in a virulent form. Everyone looks askance at his neighbor. The most absurd rumors circulate through the whole community, and the world and his wife are in a feverish state of exasperation, each one offering excellent advice as to the suppression of spies, German agents, pro-boches, etc., etc.
Of course, there is some foundation for their fears. If you take up a map of Brittany, you will see that the coast line is greatly indented. There are high, rocky cliffs and innumerable caves which might easily shelter whole cargoes of enemy supplies. Remote little beaches might serve as landing places, and there are all sorts of rumors about tanks of gasoline, barrels of butter, piles of fresh vegetables and meat being hidden in these natural warehouses, and as to how the submarines come in, signalled from shore by their spies, telling them when and where to land.
Undoubtedly there are bases for supplies along the coast. It is wild and uninhabited for miles, the little fishing villages, sheltering along the shore-line in rocky bays and inlets, are practically denuded of able-bodied men; only women, children and old folk living in these little stone cottages facing the rough Atlantic, and who are they to dare to withstand armed Germans?
All the waters along the coast are infested with the German U-boats. Last week the little English packet, running between Saint-Malo and Southampton, was torpedoed ten miles off the Isle of Wight. Only the captain and four others, who happened to be on deck, were saved by clinging to wreckage. All the crew, the two stewardesses, and the cabin boys were drowned before they could reach the deck. We knew them well, these courageous people who have so often made the journey since the war began, and now they are lying under these green waters, martyrs to their duty.
The submarines take weekly toll, but no names are mentioned in the papers, only the total amount of tonnage lost each week. So, added to the horror of the war, is the horror of the sea. In many a little home along the coast, the wife and mother waits for the man who will never return.
At Paimpel, seventy-five miles away, sixty-six out of the seventy anti-bellum fishing smacks have been sunk. What it means to the poor fishing folk can be better imagined than described. Four or five families would often put the savings of a generation into a fishing boat, and the whole population of many villages lived entirely off the product of the sea. Naturally, their poverty is great, and they don't know where to look for help. As one sits on the rocks, looking at the beautiful turquoise ocean with the great space of radiant blue above, and the coast-line stretching away for miles into the hazy distance, it is hard to realize that beneath these sunny waters, perhaps a mile or two away, lurks that hideous instrument of death, the German submarine.
One cannot deny their presence—they make themselves too often conspicuous. Ten days ago, a British transport was torpedoed and went down off Jersey, about fifty miles from here. Every once in a while a French destroyer comes into Saint-Malo harbor, or a military balloon mounts guard in the translucent air.
A story was told recently which bears out these facts, but I don't believe, myself, that it is possible. During the high spring tides we had this month of March, the sea went out on the ebb to a great distance, leaving exposed many rocky islets and long sandy beaches. One small island has deep water on one side, where a U-boat could be safely hidden, and a sandy stretch to the landward side forms an ideal harbor.
The story runs that a few days ago two well-dressed men walked into a little country inn, in a small village, ordered a lunch of young vegetables, chicken, cigars and liqueurs. Smiling pleasantly over their meal, before leaving, they called for paper and ink.
They paid for their food in French money, and left a note for the Sous-Préfet of Saint-Malo. Imagine that official's chagrin, on opening it, to find the following:
"Monsieur le Sous-Préfet—We had an excellent lunch and wish to state that we perceive you still eat well in France.
"Captain Fritz.
"Lieut. Johann.
"U-boat off Brittany, March, 1918."
Hail to you, Poilu! Before the world you stand
Clad in the glory of your deathless fame;
War had no terrors for the dauntless band
That held the line 'gainst bombs, and shells, and flame.
Through tragic months of winter cold and rain,
When snow and water filled the narrow trench,
Steadfast and patient you did bear the strain;
Oh! little soldier of the war-tried French.
From peasant hut, from wealthy, well-stocked farm,
From mountain village, or town's crowded mart,
When first the Toscin shrilled its fierce alarm,
Gladly you rushed to play your noble part.
Oh, Sons of France! How quickly you forgot
The easy comfort of your tranquil life;
When high and low have shared a common lot
There is no room for friction or for strife.
Beneath the August sun, two years ago,
Life fiercely throbbed and beat in your young frame;
You battled, struggled, panted in the glow
Of love for France, and for her precious fame.
'Midst rye and wheat of cultivated fields,
Where now the harvest waits the reapers' glaive,
Only a wooden cross and rain-stained kepi shields
You—unknown hero in your nameless grave.
Afar, 'perhaps, some woman mourns your end,
Wondering, in sorrow, where your body lies;
She cannot come with loving hands to tend
Your humble tomb beneath the Argonne skies.
No flowers shall fade upon your lowly mound,
So soon by storm and time effaced to be;
But where you died, His France's holy ground,
An altar and a pledge to Victory.
Hail to you, Poilu! In all the years to come,
You'll represent the Fighting Soul of France;
Verdun, the Meuse, the Champagne and the Somme,
Are clarion notes which thrill, inspire, entrance.
That rolling down the misty vales of Time
Proclaim your strength, your courage, fine and true,
Raising you to the ranks of men sublime;
The World salutes you! Hail to you, Poilu!
Dinard, 1918.
0176m
Since the following article, "Our War Work," was written, Mr. Deming Jarves has been decorated by the French government with the cross of the Chevalier de la Légion d'Honneur.
The Jarves Family were represented in the Great War by Mrs. Jarves' brother, Capt. John P. Jackson, U. S. N., commanding American transports bringing soldiers to France, and the following great-nephews of Mr. Jarves:
Captain Francesco Marigliano, Duke Delmonte of the Cavalliera di Udine, Italian Army, received two of the highest awards for valor in the Battle of the Piave.
Count Pio Marigliano (his brother), First Lieutenant in the Italian Navy, killed in the blowing up of the battleship Leonardo di Vinci.
Captain Howard Kerr, 11th Hussars, British Army, served through the War on the British Front in France and Belgium.
Captain Graham Lindley of the U. S. Army.
Eric and John Higginson (brothers), petty officers in the U. S. Navy, served on destroyers on the Irish Coast.
Charles Higginson (youngest brother of above), took an intensive course at Annapolis, and then received his commission from the U. S. Navy as an Ensign, on a Cruiser doing convoy work.
Mr. Jarves' father and two uncles took part in the War of 1812, and his grandfather in the Revolutionary War.
(From the Paris Edition of theNew York Heraldof May 12, 1917)
When the wounded from the Marne began pouring into Brittany, there were no adequate hospitals to receive and care for the thousands of gravely injured men. Everyone was called upon to give money, supplies, beds and bedding, lamps and heating apparatus, surgical instruments, bandages, dressings, hospital garments, all the paraphernalia of great military hospitals, to be installed immediately. The confusion was great, the goodwill endless, but the material lacking.
Upon these tragic circumstances everyone, from peasant to American pleasure-seeker, gave of their best.
Twelve large hospitals were opened in Dinard alone; in the two large casinos, in the hotels, and in private villas in the neighborhood of Dinard.
From St. Malo, St. Servan, Paramé, St. Briac, St. Lunaire, all within walking distance of Dinard, came urgent calls for help.
From remoter convents, where everything had to be provided, came even greater demands.
Mr. and Mrs. Deming Jarves, seeing the necessity for immediate help, gave very largely personally, and wrote to relatives and friends in America for assistance. How generous the response was, is indicated in the following list of friends who responded at once:
Cases were sent by:
The Red Cross Society of Washington.
Philadelphia Emergency Aid Society.
British War Relief Association, New York.
Vacation War Relief Association, New York.
Junior War Relief Association, New York.
Surgical Dressing Committee, Philadelphia.
Princeton Chapter of the American Red Cross.
Detroit Drug Company.
Princess Louis of Battenberg.
Mme. Jusserand (wife of the French Ambassador in Washington). Mme. Ekengren (wife of the Swedish Minister in Washington). Lady Swettenham.
Lady Wolseley, of Wolseley.
Miss Martha Codman, Washington.
Mrs. Morehead, Washington.
Mrs. McGowan, Washington.
Miss May Moulton, New York.
Major Louis L. Seaman (President British War Relief Association New York).
Mrs. C. Wolcott Henry, Philadelphia.
Mrs. Freeman, Wissaluckon Heights.
Mrs. Norman, Newport.
Mrs. Charles Pike, Chicago.
Mr. W. M. Kozmenski, Chicago.
Mrs. G. H. Rowland, New York.
Mrs. Russell A. Alger, Detroit.
Money was sent by:
Mr. George A. Russel, Detroit, President People's State Bank, Michigan.
Mr. M. F. Barbour, Detroit, President Michigan Stove Company. Mr. J. T. McMillan, Detroit, President Detroit Steamship Company.
Mr. H. H. Campbell, Detroit.
Mr. G. E. Lawson, Detroit, Vice-President People's State Bank. Mr. Angus Smith, Detroit.
Mr. J. Dwyer, Detroit, President Detroit Stove Co.
Mr. H. B. Ledyard, Detroit, President Michigan Central Railway. Mr. H. Russel, Detroit, Vice-President Michigan Central Railway. Mr. R. A. Alger, Detroit, Vice-President Packard Motor Car Co. Mr. C. H. Freer, Detroit.
Mr. J. C. Hutchings, Detroit, Detroit United Railway.
Mr. Howie Muir, Detroit.
Mr. F. J. Hecker, Detroit.
Mrs. R. S. Mason, Detroit.
Mrs. Butler, Detroit.
Mr. Truman H. Newberry, Detroit, former Secretary of the United States Navy.
Mr. J. S. Alexander, New York, President National Bank of Commerce.
Mr. Myron T. Herrick, New York, former Ambassador to France. Mrs. Helen A. Noyes, St. Paul.
Mrs. Coudert, Washington.
Mrs. Thompson, Washington.
Mrs. Julien-James, Washington.
Mrs. C. Howe Johnson, Washington.
Mrs. Lorthorpe Bradley, Washington.
Mr. Gibson Farnstock, Washington.
Mr. Hudnut, New York.
Mr. John Aspergren, New York.
Mrs. Sheffield Phelps, New York.
Mrs. Moses Taylor Pyne, New York.
Mrs. John Innes Kane, New York.
Mrs. Edward Walker, Detroit.
Mrs. J. J. White, Atlantic City.
Mrs. Barker Gummere, Washington.
Mme. Ekengren and Miss Helen Patten sent a sum of money, being the proceeds of a concert arranged by them.
Villa Transformed Into Warehouse
Mr. Jarves converted two salons of his Villa Val Fleuri into receiving and storing rooms, engaged a secretary and two women for the packing and re-sorting of supplies, and used the garage for opening and receiving the cases. It is estimated that over 97,000 articles have been thus distributed, not to mention tobacco, candies, fruit, cocoa, chocolate, Liebig's Extract, Valentine's Essence, Benger's Food, tetanus serum, etc.
To give a more complete idea of the extent of the work done, it is only necessary to say that 6,393 beds have been installed in the various buildings converted into hospitals.
Besides these immediate demands for medical and surgical supplies, came the call of the homeless, the refugees, prisoners in Germany (Dinard men). From all sides, these appeals poured in from the unfortunate victims of the war.
Thousands of Belgians sought refuge in Brittany. Baronne Raymond de Saint-Gilles, at Le Fretay, has over 4,000 dependent on her for assistance, and Abbé Destroopers at Avranches, and Mlle. Powis de Tenbossche at Rennes, both of whom have over 3,000 Belgians on their refuge lists, all have been supplied with great quantities of garments.
The convents were especially deserving of assistance; many throughout Brittany were of the poorest description. These religious women found themselves face to face with, for them, unparalleled conditions, and were occupied in attending Arabs, Senagalais, Turcos, Bretons, Chasseurs Alpins and Paris "gamins."
The accommodations were poor enough and the medical and surgical supplies utterly inadequate, for they simply did not exist.
To them, Mr. Jarves was able to give a large quantity of necessary articles, including a hot-air apparatus, a full set of surgical instruments, clothing, medicines, comforts and money. The supplies from America have been divided with the conscientious desire to see American generosity help as far as could be.
97,610 Articles Distributed The following list is an estimate of the numbers and kind of articles distributed:
Compresses of all kinds... .. 37,000 Bandages of all kinds... .. 22,000 Pairs of socks .. 4,290 Shirts .. 2,095 Articles of children's clothing.. .. 4,000 Articles of men's and women's clothing .. 2,500 Pyjamas .. 375 Miscellaneous articles... .. 24,500 Cotton wool (pounds)... .. 850 Total .. 97,610
About six hundred surgical instruments have been distributed to various hospitals in Brittany.
Gifts of money have been distributed as follows:
November, 1914—Five thousand francs to the Oeuvre des Belges, Dinard.
November, 1914—Ten thousand francs to M. Crolard (Mayor of Dinard) for the poor of Dinard and the French and Belgian refugees.
The balance was spent in England in purchasing provisions, surgical instruments and dressings for the hospitals.
In December, 1916, Mr. Deming Jarves gave to the town of Dinard the sum of 5,800fr., to form a fund called the "Deming Jarves Fund" (which was increased later to 10,000fr.), which the mayor is distributing to the poor, residing permanently in Dinard and having need of immediate assistance.
All automobile expenses, transport, storage, cartage, distribution and Custom House expenses have been paid by Mr. Deming Jarves. These expenses are estimated at not less than 15,000 fr.
The work still continues, although for the last year, through the courtesy of the American Relief Clearing House, the cases are sent through free of charge from Bordeaux.
France's Thanks
On July 8,1915, Mr. and Mrs. Deming Jarves were notified by M. Julliard, the Préfet of Ille-et-Vilaine, that he would call on them on July 11, at three o'clock, accompanied by M. Lacouloumére, Sous-Préfet of Redon; M. Revilliot, Sous-Préfet of Saint-Malo; General Grillot, commanding the district; M. Crolard, Mayor of Dinard, "en grande tenue," to thank them in the name of France for their generous help in the great crisis of this war.
0186m
When the Yankees return home after the great war is over, those who have been quartered in Brittany will carry back a vivid impression of long stretches of green forests and fields, of tumbling green waters, of gray-and-white skies with dashes of tender blue, of glinting sunshine lying warm on blue slate roofs, of low stone villages huddled about quaint church-towers, and of granite buildings of unknown antiquity—and some may carry home recollections of yellow- or auburn-haired girls, rosy-cheeked, clad in heavy black peasant costumes and white muslin "coiffes."
It rains often in this west country, skies hang low, and there is much hazy atmosphere and blue-wrapped distances, but the temperature is so mild, roses bloom all winter, mimosa spread their golden sprays over southern walls. The hedgerows and uplands are aglow early in January with primroses and gorse, all shades of golden yellows, cutting sharp against green backgrounds and vapory skies.
The air is mild and damp, and it is probably due to this purity of atmosphere, that the Breton is as hardy and as vigorous as he is, for their cottages, with the dirt floors, walled-in beds, and lack of cleanliness, are about as sanitary as in the days of Anne of Brittany.
Since 1914 these good people have been called upon to provide hospitality for all kinds of foreigners; strangers who, in ordinary life, had never even heard of this part of the world, and who probably never had any desire to see it—but Kaiser Wilhelm arranged otherwise, and they poured in in their thousands. Somehow or other, food and lodging were found for them, and they became tremendously at home. Some, much too much so!
First came the Belgians, poor, driven, dazed creatures, carrying all sorts of parcels and bundles, footsore, limping, weary; fleeing before that first dreadful on-rush of Germans in August, 1914. Everyone worked to get them food, clothing and lodging; but, scattered all over the province, they were wretchedly unhappy crowds, knowing no language but Flemish or Walloon, isolated and lost in France, and with their families in Belgium. English and Americans took charge of them, and, by tireless generosity and exertion, provided them with the necessities of life.
I know of one Belgian hospital at St. Lunaire, which, for the last four-and-a-half years, has been dependent on five English girls, who, through all sorts of trouble, complications and work have kept it going—and going competently and well.
From England they obtained the necessary surgical and hospital supplies, but often and often they had to dip deep into their own pockets—it was a flimsy summer hotel, in no way suited to a hospital service; but, nothing daunted, they stuck at it courageously, giving time, health, and wealth, never relaxing their efforts, or becoming discouraged—brave, unselfish, untiring volunteers!
Many a Belgian, exiled, wounded, homesick, has a special little shrine in his heart for the Misses de Montmorency and Miss Amscott.
After the Belgian invasion, came the French wounded.
I would not dare say how many thousands have passed through the Dinard hospitals, where they were nursed by French, English, Belgian and American Red Cross ladies. For years, the streets were full of bandaged, limping creatures, happy to recuperate in our soft climate. While these were in our town, we were suddenly inundated by hordes of Russians; strong, vigorous young men, with a charming disregard for all discipline, and an ardent determination to do exactly as they chose. When remonstrated with, they just laughed and said: "Kaput czar, kaput Russia—kaput tout," and that is all there was to it. They weren't going to fight any more, or obey anyone. They traveled when it pleased them, getting on or off of trains, without inquiring about their destination, carefully ignoring all formalities, such as tickets, time, or overcrowding, and behaved themselves generally as if law and order had disappeared with the czar. Great, strapping chaps they were, too; in clean, well-brushed uniforms and fine boots, apparently not concerning themselves in the least as to the war or the future, sauntering about our streets, amusing themselves as they saw fit, and finally becoming so unbearable that a few were hauled up and shot by the authorities at St. Malo, and the rest sent off somewhere, at the unanimous request of St. Malo and Dinard.
In ordinary times, these Belgians and Russians would never have heard of Dinard, and been perfectly satisfied not to, but then so would we have been, had William the Kaiser permitted them to remain at home.
Last March, the third invasion took place—twelve hundred boys and girls from Nancy, aged four to twelve years. They were quartered at the Royal Hospital and at St. Lunaire, and the American Red Cross sent down nurses and doctors to look after them. They needed everything—clothing, boots, medical attendance and hygiene—being in a shocking condition, having hidden in cellars for months during the bombardment of Nancy; their faces were yellow and pinched, their bodies unhealthy and sickly, their morale at its lowest ebb.
Mr. Thomas Ewing Moore, representative of the American Red Cross, formed a committee of ladies, with the Marquise de Sigy as president, who tells me they distributed, in four months, over ten thousand garments, shoes, boots, hats, underwear, etc.
After the Nancy children had been comfortably installed and attended to, French refugees from the Aisne began to pour in, fleeing before the German offensive of last March. Again the American Red Cross came to their relief, and over $100,000.00 was spent on them—clothing, food, medicines, coal were purchased, homes found, furniture bought—a tremendous work all over Brittany.
All these invasions gave a great deal to do, no one could afford to be idle, and I must say the call was nobly responded to. A branch of the Surgical Dressings Service (American Red Cross) was installed by Mrs. Austin, an "ouvroir" opened, which did splendid work from October, 1917, to September, 1918. 300,000 dressings were sent to Paris; English, French, Belgian and American ladies worked all day and every day; and, thanks to President Mrs. John C. Howard's tact, it proved to be a most harmonious circle. From accounts one hears on all sides of other "ouvroirs," harmony is not precisely their most conspicuous feature.
Elmer Stetson Harden is theoneAmerican volunteer serving in our Brittany regiments. He won the highest praise for his fine courage under fire, which earned him theCroix de Guerre. His officers and companions consider it rather splendid of him, a rich and independent American, to volunteer as a simple "poilu," and to refuse all promotion, satisfied to remain with them through dangers and discomforts, sharing their everyday life out of love for France. It is the more praiseworthy, as he is beyond the age limit; Medford, Mass., may well be proud of this son of hers. He has been wounded twice. After months of suffering in a Dinard hospital, is now cheery and well. I met him yesterday at a luncheon and was glad to see such a wholesome American in horizon-blue.
After all these different invasions—Belgian, French, wounded, children—you can imagine we looked with some misgiving on a Yankee one. The American Y. M. C. A. opened in August, 1,200 men in Dinard, 2,000 across the bay at St. Malo and Paramé; but now, after three months, I can frankly say they are welcome everywhere.
Well-behaved, well-mannered, cheery, healthy, young, they come like a fresh breeze from the sparkling Atlantic, bringing hope, courage and enthusiasm in their wake.
It is so delightful for us war-weary Dinardais to come in contact with anything so vital, and vigorous, that we open our doors to them, bidding them welcome, with patriotic fervor.
All the Anglo-American colony, as well as the French aristocracy at Dinard, have entertained them, either at luncheon or teas, and the Y. M. C. A. has done its utmost to make their short vacation a happy and memorable one. Trips to Mont St. Michel, Dinan and Combourg are included in their week's stay. Vaudeville performances, dances, concerts, everything to make them feel at home and "comfy." My French friends are much impressed by their intelligence and manliness. My friend, the Countess de Durfort, receives 200 every Friday at her feudal Castle of Combourg, and often tells me what pleasure it gives her to entertain "ces braves Américains."
La Baronne de Charette, née Miss Antoinette Polk, of Tennessee, great-niece of President Polk, and widow of Général de Charette, the famous leader of the Papal Zouaves in the war of 1870, has opened her old Chateau every Wednesday to 200 Yankees.
Her Brittany home lies in a hollow surrounded by gray-bearded oaks, near the river Ranee. It is full of historical souvenirs of all kinds. Royalty has spent many happy days beneath its high-peeked roof; parties and festivities of all sorts taking place here.
Wednesdays have always been the reception days of the
General and Mme. de Charette, since 1883. Notabilities who came to Brittany, made it a pleasure as well as a duty to pay their respects to the venerable hero and his charming American wife; they enjoyed a truly southern hospitality, inspected the various historical souvenirs, the flags, the banners, the presentation swords (gifts of devoted admirers all over France), walked in the beautiful park, feasted on good wine and good cheer, and departed with a pleasant recollection of all the charms of this old-world manor, given to the famous general by his ardent followers, the Papal Zouaves.
Madame de Charette wanted to offer the same hospitality to her American compatriots as was offered to European royalty and distinguished foreigners. So every Wednesday her doors are opened to 200 Yanks.
They find an excellent "goûter," a charming hostess, surrounded by the ladies of the nobility from the neighborhood, who put themselves out to amuse the "doughboys."
Music, singing, dancing, fill in the hours from 3 to 8, but what they seem to like the most is to sit in the halflight in a circle, before the great granite chimney-place, the logs burning and snapping, casting weird shadows over these fighters from afar, on the heavy oak beams of the "Salle des Zouaves," flitting here and there over the dark oak furniture, catching a sheen of light from steel helmets, of a bit of color from some pendant war flag. They listen to the old southern tales and the history of the general's battles, or tell, themselves, of what they have seen or done in this war of wars.
Among the French and Italian flags is one—a poor, tattered, faded silk American one—cherished reverently by the family; for, in 1862, Mme. de Charette (then Miss Polk) rode on horseback by a black night to warn General Forrest of the approach of the Union troops. After the victory, General Forrest presented this trophy to the young girl, saying: "My child, thanks to you, we have won the battle; to you, therefore, I give the flag."
Mme. de Charette's only son, the Marquis de Charette, was wounded April 16, 1917, being the only man in his tank to escape alive; he has fighting blood in his veins, for, besides his father's, his ancestors, General de Charette fought at Yorktown with General Lafayette—as well as General Leonidas Polk of the Southern army. We consider it a privilege for our Yankee boys to see such an interior; our own entertainments for them in our modern villas at Dinard being much inferior in interest and attractions, but it is a great pleasure to receive them.
Every Saturday a certain number—20 to 25—come to our home, "Val Fleuri," and we give them American pumpkin-pie, cornbread, potato-chips, cakes, chocolate, etc. Pretty girls dance with them, we sing war songs, and old-fashioned ones, too, and although each Saturday brings a new set, my husband and I are glad to be able to offer to these "boys from God's country" an afternoon in our American home.
October, 1918.
0201m
It is the eleventh of November, a date future generations will look back to as the greatest in modern history; a date which marks the end of the most brutal and aggressive war. The horrible nightmare is over, and the "superman" vanquished, pray God, for all time.
We who have lived through these long tragic years, who have seen with what fortitude and patience the darkest hours have been borne, when storm-clouds blackened the skies and hope hid her face—we tremble with longing for Peace, can scarcely believe it can be true. The hope has dwelt so long in our hearts, the realization has seemed so impossible.
All the morning the town was alive with rumors—a word, a suggestion, a guess, all light as a zephir, but gaining stability as they spread—until people crowding in the streets with radiant faces and happy eyes, became aware of the certitude of Victory as yet unannounced:
"Is it true the boches are beaten?"
"Have we the victory?"
"Foch has signed today."
"The Kaiser has fled."
"The Crown Prince is killed."
A hundred such-like reports were tossed about, nothing definite but a happy expectancy on all the grinning faces. I met the mayor at 11 o'clock.
"Ah, Ah, Monsieur le Maire, voici la Victoire; What? (There is Victory?)"
"But non, Madame, not yet, it is not official."
"But at least we can pavoise (beflag)?"
"Non, non, Madame, pas encore, but—" with a twinkling eye, "you can have your flags ready."
All along the streets are little groups of people chattering excitedly, joined constantly by new-comers; itinerant newsmongers, each with his own special brand of rumor. At the Place de l'Eglise, a large crowd has gathered, waiting for the bells, so long silent, now perhaps to ring in a new era for humanity. The postmaster, a functionary of importance in our little town, is gesticulating and laughing with thecommandant de place. Peasants, shopkeepers, doughboys, Red Cross nurses, Poilus and Belgian wounded, priests, children, old and young, are all crowding, jostling, each with perfect good humor.
Flags spring forth on house-fronts, little fluttering lines of bunting stretch across from window to window, flowers appear in buttonholes, out of church-tower windows lean the bell ringers; a little French flag has been hoisted high on the tower, the first in four years.
"Will the great news never come?"
Presently a loud clattering of sabots; the schools are out, 'round the corner they stream at full speed, twenty abreast, little chaps from eight to twelve, their pink faces aglow, their capes streaming in the wind, a tricolor grasped in red fists, bobbing in front line. Dear little chaps, each has lost someone—a brother or a father—one's eyes fill with tears of relief of what they have escaped, these little citizens of the future, they at least can grow to the fulness of manhood without a dreadful menace hanging over them. The world is safe for them.
0205m
The clock points to 3. Suddenly a great peal of bells rings out on the sunny November air; louder and louder the sound reverberates over the autumn trees and far out to sea, loud and clear and joyous, carrying the glorious news over land and water to the hearts of the waiting people.
Ah! ring, bells of France! Ring out over all this beautiful martyred land, over towns and villages, over country, river, sea. Messengers of God, bringing joy and hope. Ring in long, swelling notes, full of harmony and Peace. Bring to all who listen the certitude of victory; the knowledge that the vast sacrifices have not been in vain; that Peace soon will spread her healing breath over this sore-tried nation. As the carillons ring, a shout bursts out, people weep, laugh, embrace each other. They sob and cheer in the same breath, all hearts united in one over-whelming wave of gratitude and thanksgiving.
Then a slow booming from the cannon at Saint-Malo sounds across the water—only a few days ago what fears it would have caused—but today, thrice blessed guns!
The doughboys raise a terrific shouting; some whistle, shriek, cat-call; tin pans are banged as cymbals; a procession is formed, French and Belgians with their flags in front, singing the "Marseillaise," then the Yanks, cheering and dancing arm in arm, thirty abreast, zigzaging down the boulevard. I ran out with some thirty small national flags, and in a second they were whipped out of my arms and went careering away over the heads of the shouting men.
The procession swept on, catching up bystanders; infirmières had flags thrust at them, and joined the ranks, their white veils and dresses gleaming ahead; some of the Americans picked up the tiny children, carrying them shoulder high, the kiddies clutching them in a stranglehold, their necks craning to see their mothers and sisters running along the sidewalk near them.
The crowd swings on to visit the hospitals, to salute their wounded comrades, to themairie, to thecommandant de place, singing "Over There," the "Star-Spangled Banner," the "Marseillaise," and "la Brabançonne." There was no bed that day for the wounded, operation or no operation they hung out of the windows and balconies, to the horror of their nurses, waving handkerchiefs, towels, pillow-slips, slippers—anything that came to hand. One boy, with theCroix de Guerreand four other medals, hobbled out on the terrace, waved a crutch, sang the first verse of the "Marseillaise," and then fainted dead away. Another hung over a balcony cheering himself hoarse, when remonstrated with and told to remember his operation of two days ago, declared he didn't care if he had to spend six more weeks in bed, he had been wounded five times for his country's good, and now he would have one for his own pleasure.
All the afternoon, little bands marched up and down, a group of Belgians with an accordion, the player with an arm in a sling clutching it somehow, playing the "Brabançonne." Yanks decked out in paper caps and tricolor ribbons, arm in arm with singing girls, sky-larking about the town. All the week, festivities have been in full swing, in the cafes, the hotels, the American Y.M.C.A.—entertainments, flags, cheering, songs, music, games—the world is alive again, and fear, death, horror banished.
So it is all over France. Paris is delirious with joy. I quote from a letter from a French officer:
"The enthusiasm is indescribable! Sammies, Tommies, Poilus, Midinettes, dance the farandele in the streets, singing. More serious people content themselves with round dances on the sidewalks; the girls have their hair tied with tricolor ribbons, the men wear colored paper caps. Actresses are singing on the street corners, waving flags. Add to this the firing of cannon and bombs as if we were back in the evil days ofavionslast spring. Your compatriots, colder and more phlegmatic, content themselves with firing their revolvers in the air. I hope they withdrew the bullets. In every street are corteges with flags, drums, trumpets. 'Marseillaise' sang, shouted, whistled. Some drag the German cannons surmounted by poilus, from the Place de la Concorde; on all sides a sea of heads; impossible to cross the Avenue de la Opera, but every one is 'bon-enfant,' and there have been no fights.
"On the boulevards are great 'Transparents' with Foch, Wilson and Clemenceau's portraits. The crowd stands all day and all night acclaiming them. Clemenceau himself ventured out on the boulevards, and only escaped suffocation from his too ardent admirers, by rushing into the Grand Hotel and having theportes cocheresclosed."
As soon as the news of the signing of the armistice was known in official circles yesterday morning, the Paris Municipal Council sent out, to be posted all over the city, a stirring appeal to the population to celebrate the greatest victory ever won. The poster read as follows:
"Inhabitants of Paris"
"Victory! Triumphant Victory! On all fronts the defeated enemy has laid down his arms! Blood will cease to flow!
"Let Paris throw off the noble reserve for which she has been admired by the whole world.
"Let us give free course to our joy and enthusiasm and hold back our tears.
"To show our infinite gratitude to our magnificent soldiers and their incomparable leaders, let us decorate all our houses with the French colors and those of our dear allies.
"Our dead may rest in peace. The sublime sacrifice they have made of their lives to the future of the race and the salvation of France will not be in vain.
"For them, as for us 'the day of glory has arrived.'
"Vive la Republique!
"Vive la France immortelle!
"For the Municipal Council,
"Adrien Mithouard, President.
"Chausse, Chassaigne-Goyon, Adolphe Chérioux, Henri Rouselle, Vice-Presidents;
"Georges Pointel, Le Corbeiller, Lemarchand, Fiancette, Secretaries;
"Andre Gent, Syndic."
News Flashed Throughout France
While this appeal was being drawn up, the magnificent news was flashed by telephone to the Prefects throughout France by M. Pams, Minister of the Interior, with the following orders:
"Put out flags immediately. Illuminate all public buildings this evening. Have all bells ring out in full peal, and arrange with the military authorities to have guns fired, in order that the people may know of the signing of the armistice.
"Dinard, November 11th, 1918"