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 LIBRARY 
 
 University of 
 
 California 
 
 Irvine
 
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD
 
 THE FRENCH CENSOR ALLOWED 
 THE MANUSCRIPT OF THIS BOOK 
 TO PASS, HAVING ALREADY PER- 
 MITTED THE PASSAGE OF THE 
 LETTERS WHICH COMPOSE IT, BUT, 
 IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE PRES- 
 ENT REGULATIONS REGARDING 
 PHOTOGRAPHS, THE PHOTOGRAPHIC 
 ILLUSTRATIONS WHICH WERE TO 
 ACCOMPANY THE MANUSCRIPT 
 WERE NOT ALLOWED TO 
 LEAVE FRANCE
 
 THE PEAK 
 OF THE LOAD 
 
 THE WAITING MONTHS ON TKE HILLTOP 
 
 FROM THE ENTRANCE OF THE STARS 
 
 AND STRIPES TO THE SECOND 
 
 VICTORY ON THE MARNE 
 
 BY 
 
 MILDRED ALDRICH 
 
 AUTHOR OF "A HILLTOP ON THE MARNE," "TOLD IN A 
 
 FRENCH GARDEN, AUGUST, 1914," " ON THE 
 
 EDGE OF THE WAR ZONE" 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 Copyright, 1918 
 BY MILDRED ALDRICH 
 
 First printing, October, 1918 
 Fifteen thousand copies 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, W. 8. A.
 
 TO THE BOYS OF THE 
 
 * AMEX * 
 
 WHO HAVE GONE OVER THE HILLTOP 
 INTO THE FIGHTING LINE
 
 TH PEAK OF THE LOAD
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 Dear Old Girl: ^ ril 20 > 
 
 I HAVE had a rather busy two weeks, dur- 
 ing which, for many reasons, I have not felt- 
 in the spirit to sit down and write you the 
 long letter I know you expect in response to 
 your great epistolary cry of triumph after 
 the Declaration of War. 
 
 Personally, after the uplift the decision 
 gave me, came a total collapse and I had 
 some pretty black days. I had to fight 
 against the fear that we were too late, and 
 the conviction that, if we were really to do 
 our part at the front, the war was still to 
 last not one year, but years. An army can- 
 not be created in a day, and the best will 
 in the world, and all the pluck I know our 
 lads to have, will not make them, inside of 
 at least a year, into a fighting army fit to 
 stand against the military science of Ger- 
 many, and do anything more serviceable than 
 die like heroes. 
 
 Besides, no matter from what point of 
 view one looks at the case, it does make a 
 difference to think that our boys are coming 
 over here to go into this holocaust.
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 You must know that, even among officers 
 in the army, who welcome with enthusiasm 
 the entrance of the States into the ranks of 
 the Allies, there are plenty who are still 
 optimistic about the war's duration, and who 
 smile, and say: " Don't fret. Your boys will 
 march in the triumphal procession. The gen- 
 erous aid the States have given us earns them 
 that right, but they cannot get ready to fire 
 their guns in time to do much at the front." 
 
 I hope you '11 take it in the right spirit 
 when I say that I don't want it to end like 
 that, and I am sure it won't. Personally I 
 think the end is a long way off, and I can't 
 tell you how our boys are needed. Besides, 
 put it at the fact that Fate is to take a pro- 
 portionate toll from our army the other 
 nations will have had nearly four years, if 
 not quite four, before our losses begin. 
 
 Our men are going to leave their women 
 and children in safety, in a land that can 
 never know the horrors of invasion. I don't 
 want to dwell on that idea, but it is a comfort 
 all the same. 
 
 You say in your last that our boys are 
 coming across the ocean " to die in a foreign 
 land." Yes, I know. But they are coming 
 to a country where they are already loved. 
 Wonderful preparations are going to be 
 made to care for them, and I do believe the 
 United States, as a government and as a 
 people, is going to make the great sacrifice 
 
 [ 2 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 economic, material and spiritual which 
 the situation demands of her in a manner 
 which will make us all proud of her as a 
 nation and will set a seal of nobility on the 
 future of the race, and place our sort of 
 democracy in the front ranks forever. 
 
 More than that, I believe that the States 
 will come out of it more united than they 
 have ever been, and, I hope, with the many 
 elements, resulting from our long wide- 
 opened door of immigration, welded into a 
 people. 
 
 You and I, who love our country, in spite 
 of, not because of, her faults, can surely at 
 this stage of the game agree that the lessons 
 we are going to learn are needed, and that 
 out of the sorrow we know is before us may 
 come results that could never have been 
 achieved otherwise. 
 
 I who have been living so long in the 
 midst of it, and have seen with what undying 
 gaiety youth meets even these conditions 
 smile even through the certainty of later 
 tears when I think of some aspects of the 
 situation. Just reflect, for example, on the 
 thousands of our boys who never dreamed 
 of " coming to Europe," who don't even 
 know its geography or its history, who never 
 bothered about architecture or archaeology, 
 who are going to make the voyage across 
 the big pond. They are going to see foreign 
 parts, hear foreign tongues, rub elbows with 
 
 [ 3 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 races they never saw or thought of seeing 
 before. They are going to have hard times, 
 but crowds facing hard times together seem 
 to get some fun out of it. They are going 
 to be hardened into fine physical form by 
 exercise. They are going to learn discipline, 
 which, if the youth of any country ever 
 needed, ours does, and they are going to 
 learn the meaning of obedience, which the 
 youth of America, accustomed to domineer 
 over its elders, will be the better for 
 learning. 
 
 You see I always look for the compensa- 
 tions, and, as I have told you before, if one 
 looks hard enough, they are to be found. 
 
 In my mental vision always hangs the idea, 
 which so many are fearful to face death 
 is the common fate of us all. 
 
 However, I never sit up straight at a 
 thought so ordinary, with such calm philos- 
 ophy, that a little imp does not, with a mali- 
 cious gesture, sweep the mists out of my eyes, 
 and make me realize that, from Macaulay 
 with his : 
 
 ' To every man upon this earth 
 Death cometh soon or late, 
 And how can man die better 
 Than facing fearful odds 
 For the ashes of his fathers 
 
 And the temples of his gods? " 
 
 To the priest in his pulpit, the orator in his 
 tribune and me sitting before my type- 
 
 [ 4 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 writer words are easy. Yet even when I 
 smile, I know that you and I, and oh! how 
 many million others, would rather be out 
 there " somewhere in France " than sitting 
 quietly, inactively, at home, looking at the 
 thick curtain which the necessary censor 
 hangs before us, and waiting in patient sus- 
 pense. The helpless looker-on in any 
 struggle suffers more than those who are 
 absorbed in its action. Is n't it a mercy that 
 we believe this, whether it be wholly true or 
 not? Also, though Macaulay sounds grandil- 
 oquent, the idea is as true to-day as it was in 
 the days of old Rome of which he wrote, 
 for our boys are coming over not to fight 
 for France, but to fight for Liberty, which 
 is the very altar of our national existence, 
 and for the same ideas for which our ances- 
 tors the founders of the original Union, 
 now ashes, laid down their lives. 
 
 I don't mean this to be a sad letter. I am 
 not exactly sad. My feeling is too big a one 
 for that. But I think we are all of us learn- 
 ing to-day to think of death more calmly, 
 more continually, and more philosophically, 
 than we have ever done. We are getting 
 above the sentiment that it is a subject to be 
 avoided, and arriving, quite naturally, at a 
 mood which used only to be common to those 
 who had reached an age at which it was 
 natural and logical to feel that it might be 
 encountered at any moment. I think it a 
 
 [ 5 1
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 great advance anyway. But we will talk 
 more about that another time. 
 
 Things are pretty quiet here now. 
 
 After the sunny weather which came in 
 to celebrate the entrance of the Stars and 
 Stripes came some pretty cold days, and on 
 one of them, when I was shivering over a 
 tiny fire made of green twigs, came the news 
 that the n8th had been badly cut up behind 
 Soissons in the last advance, and that of all 
 the little group who had stood about me in 
 the library that sunny Sunday morning, but 
 one was left. 
 
 I just put my cap on and went out to walk. 
 
 I kept telling myself that " it was all 
 right," as I tramped along the road that 
 in half a century all of us in and about this 
 great struggle, would be safely au dela, and 
 that though men die, and women, too, the 
 idea for which they die to-day is immortal. 
 It looks easy on paper, but my word! 
 it is not. I have to fight for it. You will 
 soon have to, on your side of the water. 
 
 Activity is the only help. I came back 
 and worked like a dog my dog does not 
 work at all tidying up all the stuff left 
 over by the cantonnements, making heaps of 
 straw and other debris on the side of the 
 road and trying to burn it. 
 
 I had given it some weeks to dry, but it 
 had not done its part very well. The result 
 is that it is not all burned yet. I light it half 
 [ 6 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 a dozen times a day, and it smoulders. Some 
 time I expect it will all be burned, and then 
 we '11 spread it over the garden. So, instead 
 of putting any more words on paper, I ought 
 to go out to rake that brush fire up again. 
 
 Incidentally I '11 look off at the hill and 
 down the valley. All the fruit trees are in 
 flower. Down the hill towards Conde there 
 are lovely pink clouds which mark the peach 
 trees, and across the Morin, to the south, the 
 plum trees are like dainty white mists. The 
 alleys in the garden at Pere's look like a 
 millinery show, all wreaths of apple blos- 
 soms strung on the trellises that border the 
 paths, and the magnolia parasol, which 
 marks, with its spreading shape, the middle 
 of the path, and under which Amelie sits in 
 summer to darn my stockings, is already 
 putting on its young green cover. I am 
 going to send you a photograph of that gar- 
 den path one day. 
 
 Of course we don't talk or think of any- 
 thing here but the German retreat Hin- 
 denburg's famous strategic retreat. No one 
 denies that the whole thing has been a great 
 lesson in military science, were it not for its 
 accompaniment by acts so unmilitary as to 
 put another blot on the very word " Ger- 
 man." 
 
 Every one has a different way of regard- 
 ing the fact that possibly to avoid or out- 
 
 [ 7 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 wit the threatened Allied spring offensive 
 Hindenburg felt it prudent to establish a 
 new and stronger line of defence thirty kilo- 
 meters in the rear of the line he had been 
 holding so long, a line to-day known as 
 the Siegfried line. Whether or not we were 
 outwitted history will tell us some day in 
 the future I suppose. The fact from 
 which there is no getting away is that, al- 
 though this move was rumoured even among 
 civilians as long ago as July of last year, he 
 succeeded in doing it, and that in spite of 
 the fact that the Allied pursuit was prompt 
 and more or less harassed his rear, and per- 
 haps pushed him further and more rapidly 
 than he at first intended. 
 
 Soldiers do not deny the cleverness of the 
 move, but the acts of no military import 
 which accompanied the retreat fill us with 
 horror. To destroy roads and bridges, to 
 cut down forests and raze houses that could 
 have served as shelters or military posts, 
 well, any army would do that. But to poison 
 wells, to uproot orchards, to carry off young 
 girls these are acts of war that are to 
 say the least unmilitary. It is no use talk- 
 ing about it. But what a ruined northeast 
 France it is! Yet, in spite of that, almost 
 the day after the retreat began the poor 
 refugees who had left in August, 1914, be- 
 gan to hurry back, ready to reconstruct their 
 devastated homes. It is a wonderful spirit, 
 
 [ 8 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 and thank God for it! It is to be the saving 
 of France. 
 
 I wonder if mere words on paper can 
 make any one realize exactly what has hap- 
 pened. I am sure that, horror-stricken as 
 we have been by some of the details, we have 
 no full sense of it, and how can you, merely 
 reading it in letters of black and white in a 
 newspaper, realize what it is hard for us to 
 take in when it is told us by men who looked 
 on it? Imagine 264 villages wiped off the 
 map: towns like Chauny, a big industrial 
 centre where there were bleach fields and 
 chemical works, razed: 255 churches and 
 38,000 houses reduced to mere heaps of rub- 
 bish. Can you take it in? I confess that it 
 is hard for me. 
 
 I saw an officer who was in the pursuit 
 who told me that the Boches left groups of 
 women who had been outraged shut up in cel- 
 lars in the ruined towns and villages, and 
 carried off all the girls in their late 'teens. 
 What a record for " Kultur " ! Does it not 
 wipe the word out of all decent vocabularies 
 and inscribe it among those forbidden and 
 hidden away in pornographic dictionaries? 
 
 The demoniac ingenuity of the destruction 
 really surpasses all the demonstrations of 
 German efficiency which this war has yet 
 brought to notice. You have probably read 
 that they sawed down all the orchards and 
 did their utmost to render the fertile soil 
 
 [ 9 J
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 for a long time unproductive. But that was 
 rather a large order, I am afraid. At any 
 rate they made inanimate objects their in- 
 fernal aid. They left hidden mines to ex- 
 plode. They left large trees standing, along 
 where roads had once been, sawed almost 
 through, so that the first strong wind would 
 send them crashing on engineers at work re- 
 pairing the roads or convoys passing in pur- 
 suit. My word ! but these Germans give the 
 traditional Old Nick all the trumps in the 
 pack and beat him still in devilishness. 
 
 You remember Coucy-le-Chateau, that 
 marvellous ruin, which Violet-le-Duc con- 
 sidered the finest specimen in Europe of 
 medieval military architecture, and which 
 after two hundred and fifty-six years of ex- 
 istence was dismantled by Mazarin in 1652, 
 and has since then been a public monument 
 a wonderful ruin? I am sure you have 
 climbed over it, every one has, and sat in 
 the shade and looked off at the view. I had 
 a letter the other day from a cavalry officer 
 who is now stationed there, in which he said, 
 'You thought it a ruin when you saw it. 
 You should see it now. The brutes ! " 
 
 In the meantime, the English are still out- 
 side St. Quentin, to the very outskirts of 
 which the French cavalry pushed in March. 
 That has always been a fatal spot to the 
 French. It is rather ironical to remember 
 that it was near St. Quentin which was 
 
 [ 10 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 part of the dower of Mary, Queen of Scots, 
 
 that the French were defeated three hun- 
 dred and fifty years ago by the allied Eng- 
 lish, German and Flemish armies, and that 
 there, in January, 1871, the French Armee 
 du Nord was beaten by General Goeben of 
 the Prussian forces. I shall feel more easy 
 in my mind once the English are in the town, 
 although we hear that it is largely destroyed 
 
 another big factory town a sort of 
 French Lowell or Lawrence gone. 
 
 In your last letter you reproach me be- 
 cause I say "nothing about Russia." Yes, 
 I know Russia is our "great delusion." 
 What can one say? I have never known 
 much about Russia. I used to think I did. 
 Most of the Russians I knew were revolu- 
 tionary men who were political exiles here. 
 But I have been no greater fool about it 
 than most of the governments of this world. 
 What can I say except that I suppose they 
 are going to fail us and then what ? Well, 
 one thing is certain, the curtain is getting 
 torn and we are likely to know more about 
 the Russians than we have ever known to 
 our cost. You need not bother to twit me 
 that I used to say the " Russians were a great 
 people." Of course I did, and I say it still. 
 They may not prove it until I have gone on, 
 but that is not important. 
 
 You may have the laugh on me. But is 
 it worth while ? You have it on a lot of big
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 people. Let that content you. Besides, the 
 only thing you ever had against the Russians 
 was that they were " queer," and that their 
 language was "hard to learn." And then 
 you did not like the paintings they exhibited 
 at the Salon. My reasons for liking them 
 were better than yours for disliking them. 
 I suppose that I shall find excuses for them 
 if the very worst that can happen comes to 
 pass. So don't think you can take any rise 
 out of me on that subject. There are a 
 great many other things that I think about 
 which I do not write to you. To begin with, 
 the censor would work on my letters with his 
 ink brush, and you would be none the wiser, 
 and I would have bothered myself in vain.
 
 II 
 
 May i, 1917 
 
 I HAD hardly mailed my last letter to you 
 when things got very exciting here again. 
 
 Early in the morning of April 24 that 
 was Tuesday of last week we heard that 
 the cavalry was trotting into the valley again, 
 and that we were to have the 32nd Dragoons 
 quartered on us. 
 
 Naturally, the first thing I said was, 
 "What a pity it isn't the 23rd," which was 
 so long with us in the winter that we felt it 
 was really our regiment. When the 32nd 
 began to ride in we learned that the 23rd 
 was not far off only five miles down the 
 valley at La Chapelle, just opposite Crecy- 
 en-Brie. 
 
 Well, I could not complain, for I had an- 
 other charming young officer in the house 
 another St. Cyr man, a lieutenant with a 
 "de" to his name a man a little over 
 thirty, and very chic. 
 
 On Wednesday that was the 25th I 
 was sitting in the library trying to work, 
 when I heard an unusual movement in the 
 road, and looked out to see a group of five 
 officers of the 23rd, followed by a couple of 
 
 [ 13 J
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 orderlies, dismounting at the gate coming 
 to make an afternoon call all booted and 
 spurred and fresh-gloved and elegant, as if 
 there were no such thing as war, though they 
 were burned and bronzed by the campaign 
 from which they had but just retired. 
 
 It was good to see them again, especially 
 the Aspirant, and though I would have liked 
 to hear all the details of the famous " strate- 
 gic retreat," I got only a few, as of course 
 you know it is forbidden the soldiers to talk 
 to civilians, and a good thing, too. 
 
 However, I did hear a few interesting 
 things, one of the most striking being that 
 when the French cavalry dashed through 
 Noyon, the poor French people did not rec- 
 ognize them. The population in the invaded 
 district was waiting for the famous pantalon 
 rouge. They did not even know that their 
 army had changed its uniform, and when 
 they saw the blue-grey cavalry coming they 
 thought it was still the enemy and ran to 
 hide again. 
 
 They told me that the joy of these poor 
 people who had been two years and a half 
 under the German heel, when they finally 
 realized that it was their own army which 
 had arrived, was pathetic. 
 
 Hardly had the group of officers taken 
 leave, and ridden up the hill, when Lieuten- 
 ant de G came in to sit down for a little 
 
 chat about home and children. I can't tell 
 
 [ 14 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 you how these men like to talk about home. 
 In the course of the conversation I made 
 arrangements with him to have some of his 
 horses and men help in the fields the next 
 morning, for the work here is terribly 
 behind. 
 
 When he went down the hill to dinner I 
 rushed to tell Amelie, and to have everything 
 ready for next morning, and you can imagine 
 my disappointment, when, at nine, Lieutenant 
 
 de G came in, quite disconsolate, to tell 
 
 me that orders had arrived to sound " Boots 
 and Saddles " at half past six the next 
 morning. 
 
 I ought not to have been surprised for the 
 officers of the 23rd had told me that it was 
 not a long stay only an etape. 
 
 The next morning that was last Thurs- 
 day was a beautiful day. I was up early. 
 
 I met Lieutenant de G on the stairs, 
 
 where he bowed over my hand, and made 
 me such a pretty, graceful speech of thanks 
 for my hospitality you can count on any 
 French soldier, from an officer down to the 
 ranks, doing that. 
 
 I had hardly got out into the garden after 
 he left, when a detachment of the 23rd pulled 
 up at the gate, and the sous-officier in com- 
 mand, saluted, as he said: "Aspirant B 's 
 
 compliments. The 23rd is cantonning at 
 Mareuil to-night. I am going ahead to ar- 
 range the cantonnement. If it is possible 
 
 [ 15 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 the Aspirant counts on calling on you this 
 afternoon to make his adieux. We march 
 again to-morrow," and with another salute 
 the little troop galloped down the hill. 
 
 The 23rd rode away at half past seven, 
 and they passed the 6th Dragoons riding in, 
 to take their places. 
 
 The little body of cavalry that came up our 
 hill was in command of a marechal des logis 
 a handsome, tall, slender lad of not over 
 twenty, who explained that it was only a 
 twenty-four-hour rest for men and horses. 
 They carried no kitchens at all, no revict- 
 ualment of any sort. Each man had two 
 days' rations in his sac, and the horses car- 
 ried their feed-bags and oats. 
 
 It was a new kind of cantonnement for 
 me, and the most picturesque I had ever 
 seen. 
 
 When everything had been arranged the 
 marechal des logis came to the door and 
 asked if I could conveniently put him up. 
 
 I led him to his room, and you would have 
 laughed if you could have seen his expres- 
 sion when I showed him the big freshly 
 made-up bed. 
 
 "Am I going to sleep in that?" he ex- 
 claimed, and then we both laughed as if it 
 were a real joke. You see we need so little 
 excuse to laugh these days. 
 
 The weather was beautiful. 
 
 The boys sat or lay all along the roadside 
 
 [ 16 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 in the sun, and the horses, relieved of all 
 equipment, and well brushed, were tethered 
 to the banks and in the courts, wherever 
 there was a blade of grass in fact they 
 were " turned out to grass " for the first time 
 since last fall, while the soldiers ate and 
 smoked and slept beside them, or rolled, 
 frolicking like youngsters full of springtime 
 spirit. It was the most unmartial, bucolic 
 sight imaginable. 
 
 There was not much pasturage for the 
 horses, and I looked at my lawn, and at what 
 Louise calls the "prairie" under the fruit 
 trees, and I went out in the road and cere- 
 moniously invited as many of the best- 
 behaved horses as could feed there to come 
 in to lunch. 
 
 The marechal des logis was writing letters 
 in the salon when I led my little cavalcade 
 along the terrace they had selected the 
 most obedient horses who did not even need 
 halters and he came out to say that it was 
 a pity to trample my lawn as if I cared 
 for that! 
 
 You, who so adore horses, would have 
 loved to see them. There was plenty of 
 good feed. There was sunshine and shade, 
 and they nibbled and snorted, while the sol- 
 diers who had charge of them rolled on the 
 grass and smoked. I did wish I could have 
 got a snapshot for you, but no one had a 
 camera. 
 
 [ 17 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 As it was Thursday Louise was working 
 in the garden Thursday is her day. Sud- 
 denly she shaded her eyes and looked down 
 towards the Marne, and called out to me 
 
 that Aspirant B was coming. Sure 
 
 enough, there he was, coming on foot across 
 the fields as if he had seven-league boots, 
 and waving his cap. Mareuil, where the 
 23rd had gone, is only two miles away. 
 
 He arrived hot and breathless, to explain 
 that, while he was not really out of bounds, 
 still he had not asked permission and so had 
 come on foot, and dared not stay long, but 
 that he could not bear to leave the Seine 
 et Marne without coming to say good-bye, 
 as orders might come at any moment to 
 advance, and no one had the faintest idea 
 what their destination would be. 
 
 I had half a moment's foolish hesitation, 
 as I remembered that the marechal des logis 
 was in the salon. I did not know what the 
 military etiquette was, or how officers like to 
 meet unceremoniously. So I said : " Shall we 
 sit out here, or will you come into the salon ? 
 The marechal des logis of the 6th is there." 
 
 "Oh, let's join him, of course," replied 
 the Aspirant. 
 
 As I led the way I wondered how I was 
 going to introduce them. I did not know the 
 marechal's name. But I need not have 
 fretted. 
 
 I opened the door. The marechal sprang 
 [ 18 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 erect. The two youngsters both so tall, so 
 slender and straight saluted, flung their 
 names at each other, thrust out their hands 
 and gripped. Then they smiled, sat down, 
 crossed their long legs, and fell to. It was 
 like a drill so exactly in unison and so 
 young and charming, that I just leaned back 
 in my chair and listened and thought a lot. 
 
 Don't you know how there used to be a 
 tradition about " little Frenchmen " ? I vow 
 I don't know where they all are now. I 
 thought of it Wednesday when the group of 
 officers stood about in -my salon their 
 heads almost to the rafters and I thought 
 of it again to-day as I saw these two twenty- 
 year olds both nearly six feet, if not quite. 
 
 When the brief visit was over the lads 
 parted like friends. 
 
 As the Aspirant was saying good-bye on 
 the lawn, and laughing at the idea of my 
 having " the horses in to tea," as he called it, 
 although I called it " spending the day," he 
 directed my attention to the road across the 
 field by which he had arrived, and I looked 
 down. 
 
 " Hulloa ! " he exclaimed. " Here comes 
 the 23rd racing to visit its pet cantonnement 
 at Huiry. You know, Madame, they never 
 have been so happy anywhere else as they 
 were in what they call ' ce joli petit pays de 
 Huiry: " 
 
 Sure enough, there came Hamelin and 
 
 [ 19 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 Vincent, who had lodged at Amelie's, and 
 Basset and all the rest who had lived about 
 us in December and January. 
 
 So you see we had rather an exciting day. 
 
 The result was that I was very tired, and 
 I slept very soundly. 
 
 As a rule when troops are here I always 
 hear all the night movement. Whenever any 
 officer in the house received a night message, 
 in spite of all their precautions, I invariably 
 heard the cyclist arrive. But that night I 
 heard nothing. I waked at six. I opened 
 my shutters. The sun was shining brightly. 
 The morning was clear and warm. I looked 
 out, wondering at the silence. I expected to 
 see the horses being groomed all along the 
 road. To my surprise all the stable doors 
 were wide open no one in sight, no 
 horses, no soldiers anywhere. 
 
 When Amelie appeared she said the order 
 had come at midnight. They had marched 
 at three and I had not heard a sound. 
 Am I not getting used to a military life? 
 
 But I must give you some evidence that 
 the race famed for its politeness has not lost 
 any of the quality in the war, and all its 
 hurry. 
 
 Although Lieutenant de G , who left 
 
 Thursday morning, had formally thanked 
 me for my hospitality, within twenty-four 
 hours I received the following note from 
 him. 
 
 [ 20 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 Madame: 
 
 I must again express to you all my gratitude for 
 the charming welcome you extended to me under 
 your roof. Our roving life did not allow us to stay 
 long at Huiry, but, thanks to you, we shall always 
 cherish a charming recollection of our too short visit. 
 
 And, twenty-four hours after the 6th rode 
 away in the night, I received the following 
 letter from the young marechal des logis. It 
 seems to me such a pretty letter for a lad of 
 twenty that you deserve to see it. 
 
 With the Army, April 28, 191? 
 Madame: 
 
 I hope you will have the kindness to excuse me 
 if, before my departure this morning, I did not have 
 the opportunity of thanking you for the charming 
 welcome you extended to me in your pretty home. 
 It was late when I came in last night, and it was 
 still dark when we took leave of your dear little 
 village this morning, and I was therefore unable to 
 see you, to my deep regret, and to express to you in 
 person all the gratitude I felt, and my deep joy to 
 find that the sympathy which the Americans, our 
 new allies, express for us, is no vain word. Your 
 kindness to us all was the best of evidence, and I beg 
 you to believe, Madame, that the sentiment is 
 reciprocated. 
 
 All my men, as well as my two comrades and I, 
 were deeply touched by the welcome extended to us 
 in your village, and especially by you in person, and 
 we should have been only too happy had we been 
 able to stay with you longer. We are much less 
 comfortable to-night than we were last night, but 
 a soldier is forced to consider himself comfortable 
 anywhere. All the same he is more than happy, now 
 and then, to find himself among kind people who 
 
 [ 21 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 offer him the comforts of home of which he has 
 been deprived for nearly three years. Even our 
 horses are less gay than they were yesterday. This 
 afternoon they had no green lawn to nibble. 
 I beg you, dear Madame, etc. 
 
 Marechal des logis G . 
 
 The politeness of these French boys and 
 their aptness in writing letters promptly is 
 remarkable. It is a national characteristic. 
 It is a great contrast to the American 
 sans gene manner, which surprises French 
 people. For example, all the French sol- 
 diers nursed in our little ambulance write 
 immediately they get back to the Directrice, 
 the Sisters, and their special nurse to reiter- 
 ate the thanks they have so profusely ex- 
 pressed before leaving, and anyone to whom 
 I have shown the smallest courtesy while 
 there writes to me. The little hospital has 
 never sheltered but one American. When he 
 returned to his post every one gave him an 
 address, and every one expected a postcard 
 from him, at least. Of course he could not 
 write French, but he could send a picture 
 postcard with his name, and a line which he 
 knew I would render into French. No word 
 ever came back. Dear Soeur Jules is sure 
 he is dead. I never see her but she asks: 
 
 "Have you had news from ?" And 
 
 when I say, " No," she shakes her head sadly, 
 and exclaims, " Poor lad ! Of course he has 
 been killed. Poor nice boy ! We were so at- 
 
 [ 22 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 tached to him." I let it go at that. It is 
 so hard to explain that it is very American. 
 
 Lovely day so good after the terrible 
 winter. 
 
 I am already planting peas and beans and 
 potatoes. But the flower garden will not be 
 very pretty this year, I lost so many rose 
 bushes in the awful long spell of January 
 and February cold. But what of that? Po- 
 tatoes are the only chic thing this year. 
 They are planted everywhere on the lawn 
 at the chateau, in the front gardens, under 
 the fruit trees. I was tempted to plant 
 them on my lawn, only that would have been 
 pretentious, as Pere had more land than we 
 needed, and it would have cost more to turn 
 up my lawn than the mere patriotic look of 
 the thing was worth.
 
 Ill 
 
 May 18, 1917 
 
 JUST the loveliest day you can imagine. 
 When I went into the garden early this 
 morning I did wish you were here. A soft 
 puffy breeze was blowing, and a thin haze 
 veiled the sun. There was only one word 
 for it divine. I never see the country 
 looking as it did at that moment that I do not 
 long to own a big camera and become an 
 expert with it. It would only be in that way 
 one could ever get a proper picture of it. 
 It is so wilfully changeable that to do it jus- 
 tice to catch it at its best the camera 
 would have to be on the spot ever ready. 
 
 We have had a week of really hot weather. 
 It has been good for planting, and I Ve 
 planted carrots and turnips and beets and 
 onions, tomatoes and cucumbers, and if this 
 lasts, I am going to try golden bantam corn. 
 What do you think of that for a farmer? 
 Hush Louise does the hard work, and I 
 boss it. I sit in the field on a camp chair 
 with the seeds in a basket, and a green um- 
 brella over my head, and big gloves on my 
 hands, while Louise grovels in the dirt and 
 carries out my ideas. I get terribly tired, 
 
 [ 24 ] '
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 and very red in the face, but Louise, brown 
 as a berry, comes out fresh as possible. 
 
 Well, anyway, I am going to have some- 
 thing to eat in time and that comforts 
 me. 
 
 At noon to-day it clouded over, and a cold 
 wind came up which drove me indoors. 
 Though it is as cold here as outside, still 
 I am out of the wind, and that is how it 
 happens that, though I have nothing much 
 to write about, I am going to try to make a 
 letter. Everything in the world is still 
 but though we hear no sound of cannon, I 
 have the thought of it always with me. It 
 is more persistent than the poor. 
 
 I have been looking over some of your 
 letters, and I find that you have often asked 
 me questions about my beasties, and because 
 I have almost always had other things to 
 write about I have never got to telling you 
 about anything in the beastie line, except 
 cats and you got that, you remember be- 
 cause you were nasty about my efforts to 
 "wake up the States," which had been hardly 
 less successful at that time than dear Lord 
 Roberts' great " Wake Up, England!" 
 
 Well, since you want to hear about 
 beasties, so be it. 
 
 Of course, you remember that in the old 
 days I never had any beasties in the apart- 
 ment, except birds. When I came out into 
 the country to live I did not see any place 
 
 [ 25 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 either in my little house or in my new life 
 for that huge cage and the twenty birds that 
 lived in it, in Paris. 
 
 I had loved them in the Paris apartment. 
 High up in the air, with that broad open 
 space across the Montparnasse cemetery to fill 
 the wide balcony with sunlight and warmth, 
 they had seemed quite in the picture. But 
 the idea of caged birds on this hilltop seemed 
 to me silly. What happiness could a cage 
 full of birds have when surrounded by sing- 
 ing birds in liberty? Also every one out here 
 kept cats. 
 
 In Paris, high up above the street, the 
 morning concerts had been the only gay thing 
 in the sad and lonely house. I learned to 
 love them. I loved giving them their bath 
 in the morning, doing up their house for 
 them, and preparing their meals. I loved 
 seeing them flying about, dancing and singing, 
 swinging and balancing, and eating. 
 
 I loved believing they were happy. But 
 I could not imagine them happy out here, 
 so they did not come with me. I gave them 
 and their gilded palace to some one whom 
 they had always known, and now and then 
 I still go to see them. 
 
 So when I came out here I had no beasties. 
 
 The first one I had was a dog. He was 
 
 a beautiful Airedale a big dog with a dear 
 
 chestnut-coloured head and legs and belly, 
 
 and a nicely fitting, undulated, black jacket. 
 
 [ 26 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 But, alas ! I did not have him long, and it 
 was altogether a sad experience. 
 
 When he arrived he was homesick. 
 
 Did you ever see a homesick dog? Or, 
 what is worse, did you ever live with one? 
 For days, before he learned to love me, he 
 followed me about in a patient, resigned way 
 which made me pretty sad. I had not had 
 much experience in owning beasties, except 
 birds. I had to get acquainted as well as he. 
 It was hard on both of us. Besides, the 
 house was all fresh and clean, and, as I was 
 determined that he should feel that it was 
 as much his home as mine, he was allowed 
 everywhere, and brought in a lot of dirt, and 
 my habit of having everything in apple-pie 
 order by the way, what kind of order is 
 that? got a shock. 
 
 But I grew used to all that, and reconciled 
 to it, as he became attached to me, and, even 
 in the little time he stayed, I got so that I did 
 not mind when he leaped all over me, and 
 wiped his muddy paws, and he could not 
 walk out with me without embracing me 
 every few minutes. I was so grateful to him 
 for showing pleasure in my society that for 
 a while I did not even try to break him of it. 
 I ended by getting deeply attached to him, 
 and he to me. I was so proud of him. I 
 loved walking out with him, carrying his 
 leash and whip, with a whistle in my sweater 
 pocket. He was naturally obedient. He 
 
 [ 27 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 always walked close to my heels except when 
 I told him to " go," and then he was off like 
 a flash. But he never went out of sight. If 
 he reached a turn, he stopped to look back 
 and see if I were coming, and if I hid he 
 dashed back and sniffed around until he 
 found me. Of course this is all common- 
 place to people who have always had dogs 
 of their own. But it was a new experience 
 to me. 
 
 If he saw anyone coming towards me he 
 retired quietly to my side not as if afraid, 
 but as if to assure himself that I was not 
 going to be molested. For a few weeks that 
 was all right. He seemed gentle and was as 
 playful, once he was domiciled, as a small 
 dog. 
 
 I had never had a watch-dog didn't 
 know anything about them. I had him for 
 company. But one day Amelie was sweep- 
 ing the terrace. Argus was tying in the sun. 
 I was standing at the gate, which was closed. 
 The postman came up the road and started 
 to open the gate. Argus was there in one 
 bound. He snarled, then growled deep down 
 in his throat. The man did not come in. 
 
 Amelie laughed aloud. Instinctively I 
 said, "No, no, Argus!" but Amelie simply 
 screamed at me: " Laissez done" and she 
 patted him on the head. " At last," she said. 
 " I was wondering if that dog was anything 
 but beautiful. Pat his head," she com- 
 [ 28 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 manded, " and tell him he is a good dog." 
 I obeyed orders, and Argus wagged his tail, 
 and strutted, and from that day he was the 
 terror of the commune. He never passed 
 anyone on the road without growling, and 
 he barked at every one who passed the gate. 
 
 Personally I thought he carried his ardour 
 too far, since he could not bear a stranger 
 near. He barked when they arrived, and 
 he kept it up. Every one was afraid of him, 
 though I was always convinced that he was 
 not a dangerous dog. He never attacked 
 anyone. On the road he always came the 
 instant he was called, and patiently allowed 
 himself to be leashed. 
 
 I confess I never got at his psychology 
 he did not live long enough. As I say, he 
 never attempted to attack anyone, though he 
 did attack a big dog. He never attached 
 himself to anyone outside of the household. 
 I had heaps of theories about him. At times 
 I thought there was a savage strain in him. 
 At other times I imagined he was as afraid 
 of people as they were of him. But I don't 
 know. 
 
 When he was ill, and I sent for the veter- 
 inary, Argus was upstairs lying at my bed- 
 room door when the doctor arrived. I called 
 him. He came half-way down the stairs and 
 stood barking. The doctor said: "As hand- 
 some an Airedale as I ever saw, but I would 
 not touch him for a fortune." 
 
 [ 29 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 "But, doctor," I said, "he's perfectly 
 gentle." 
 
 " With you, perhaps. I can't touch him." 
 
 So I went upstairs with the dog, and he 
 let me tie up his nose, and I held him while 
 the doctor examined him. 
 
 Well he died. Never mind about that. 
 I don't like even now to remember it. I like 
 to think of him as we used to walk out to- 
 gether, when he was the first comrade of my 
 new life. 
 
 Oh, yes, I have another dog now, but he 
 is just a dog to me. I like him well enough, 
 and play with him, but my heart is not set 
 on him as it was on my big dog of whom I 
 was so proud. 
 
 This dog's name is Dick. He is a big 
 black poodle and a perfect fool. He is what 
 the French call "pas mechant pour deux 
 50W5," just a common or garden fool. He 
 is a thoroughbred, but he has never been 
 trained at all, and as he was nearly, if not 
 quite, four years old when he came with 
 his character training has been impossible. 
 He was bought when a baby as a plaything 
 for a child at Couilly. When the war broke 
 out, his family went to Switzerland and left 
 Dick a boarder at Amelie's. At Couilly he 
 left a bad reputation. A child had hit him 
 with a stick and hurt him, and Dick had 
 sprung on her the one naughty act of his 
 
 [ 30 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 life, but it was enough to give him a bad 
 name so he had to come up here to live. 
 
 No one knows everything about a dog 
 except after long years of experience. 
 Though he is the silliest, gentlest, most play- 
 ful dog in the world, though he adores chil- 
 dren, and the cats sleep all over him, I have 
 to own that he has never forgotten the child 
 at Couilly who struck him with the big stick, 
 and the very sight of her to-day after more 
 than five years brings out a quality of 
 ugliness in him that he never shows at any 
 other time. Apart from that one trait he is 
 a comic, frolicsome dog, whose delight in 
 life is to " go," and whose dream of happi- 
 ness is to have anyone, no matter whom, 
 throw stones for him. 
 
 He was boarding at Amelie's when I came 
 here. While Argus lived he never came near 
 the house. But after Argus had gone 
 Amelie used to bring him down here with 
 her, and I got used to seeing him about. 
 Neither Amelie nor Abelard had been con- 
 tent that there was no dog here at night, and 
 finally I consented to let Dick sleep in the 
 kennel; he has been sleeping there ever since. 
 The only protection he gives is to bark when 
 anyone approaches the house, and that is 
 really all that is necessary. When he barks 
 furiously in the night as every one knows 
 his voice, someone comes to be sure that I 
 am all right.
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 When I say he barks at every one, that 's 
 not quite true. He used to bark at every 
 one, but, for some reason, since we have had 
 so many soldiers cantonned here, he never 
 barks at a poilu. It is the only exception. 
 He barks at the children, at the postman, at 
 the neighbours he sees every day on the 
 road, but he never barks in these days at a 
 common soldier. Droll, that, I think! I 
 have asked him to explain himself, but I am 
 too stupid to understand. 
 
 Of course Melie has a big dog a black 
 retriever who, though he is already huge, 
 is hardly more than a puppy. He came last 
 winter, and I named him Marquis, and it 
 was at once abbreviated into Kiki. Amelie 
 brought him in her apron one night when 
 he was about as big as a small cat, and 
 showed him to Khaki and Didine. Khaki 
 gave one look at him, and asked for the 
 door. He shrugged his shoulders as he went 
 out with very stiff legs and a line of bristling 
 hair down his back, as much as to say " An- 
 other? Dear me! " But Didine went up to 
 him as he lay on Melie's knee, examined 
 him, and deliberately cuffed him first on one 
 side of his head, and then on the other, and 
 hard cuffs, too. Marquis has grown up since 
 then, but he has no taste for cats. 
 
 Although Marquis is still only a puppy, he 
 is already much bigger than Dick, and Dick 
 is still just as much of a puppy and will 
 
 [ 32 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 be to the end of his days and it is lovely 
 to see them play together such races and 
 boxing matches as they have ! They don't 
 always observe the rules of the Marquis of 
 Queensbury to be sure, but they never get 
 cross over their game. Marquis is just as 
 good a sport as Dick, but though he is heav- 
 ier he does not tire so easily, and often when 
 Dick retires to his corner to get his breath 
 back and lies with his tongue hanging out, 
 Marquis goes and pulls him into the ring by 
 his hind leg. 
 
 So there you have the dogs that run with 
 me when I cross the fields. I have to keep 
 them with me as all dogs must be leashed 
 or muzzled. I carry muzzles and whip and 
 whistle when I walk, and, as they are both 
 obedient to the whistle, I can call them if I 
 see anyone approaching, and get them on 
 their leashes if I don't have time to muzzle 
 them. Some time, if I get a chance, I '11 ask 
 them to send you their pictures. 
 
 Though I don't have birds, I have hens 
 and chickens. I have four hens setting at 
 Amelie's now. I don't want anything of that 
 sort round here. So I have arranged an imi- 
 tation of a basse cour and hen-house at 
 Amelie's. You 'd laugh if you could see it. 
 I began it last summer. I sent Amelie to 
 town to buy a dozen chickens ten of them 
 proved to bie cocks, so we fed them to be 
 eaten, and bought another dozen, with 
 
 [ 33 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 hardly better luck, except in the matter of 
 winter food. I began the spring with a 
 rooster and seven hens, and every one of 
 those hens shall set if she wants to. Amelie 
 pulls a long face, and says, " How are you 
 going to feed them?" Well, if I can't, I 
 can eat them, or give them to other people 
 to eat. 
 
 Food is a very interesting question in these 
 days. Besides, hens are about the only 
 creatures I can contemplate eating with 
 equanimity. They are amusing enough at 
 feeding time, but they are ugly, selfish, un- 
 lovable birds, except when they have a brood 
 of fluffy little ones about their feet, and then 
 they are adorable. 
 
 The most amusing experience I have ever 
 had was with goats, and that one experi- 
 ence impressed on me the fact that I 'd need 
 several more years of training to become a 
 real farmer, or a stock breeder, perhaps 
 even another incarnation. 
 
 When milk got short it was a serious 
 dilemma, and the future looked even more 
 serious. Milk is a very important item in 
 my diet, and how we were to get through 
 another winter short of milk was a question. 
 
 One day Amelie remarked that if we had 
 a goat, that it would be some help, as she 
 and Pere liked goat's milk. So, one day, at 
 Meaux, I told her I 'd make her a present 
 of a goat, if she could find one. I was 
 
 [ 34 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 amazed when she came back to the wagon 
 carrying the cunningest little beastie in her 
 arms you ever saw. 
 
 " Why, Melie," I cried, " that won't give 
 any milk! " 
 
 " Give it time," she replied. " It is such a 
 pretty one." 
 
 So I named it Jeannette, and it came to 
 live " at the farm." 
 
 It was as frisky as a kitten and we all 
 made a plaything of it. It followed Melie 
 up and down from her house to mine, and 
 when it got to know the way it came by it- 
 self to call. I was eternally catching it in 
 my garden, standing on its hind legs, nib- 
 bling my rose bushes, and picking it up in 
 my arms and carrying it home. But it was 
 so fascinating on its stiff, wooden, peglike 
 legs, and it side-stepped so gracefully when 
 I was catching it, and danced on its hind 
 feet, and butted at me sideways, that I could 
 not get cross. 
 
 Sometimes I 'd hear a rustle in the hedge 
 as I was reading in the shade, and, going out 
 to the gate to see what was trying to get 
 through, would find Jeannette standing on 
 her hind legs, eating the old hedge with all 
 her might. I did n't mind that. It did not 
 hurt the hedge to be trimmed. But when 
 she began to eat pansies, roses and gera- 
 niums, I drew the line, and protested. I 
 drove her home one day, and began to ask 
 
 [ 35 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 myself if other goats had as much liberty as 
 Jeannette, and decided that they did not and 
 that, in fact, she was being badly brought up. 
 
 I looked over the fields and saw goats 
 nibbling, each with a long rope attached to a 
 stake. 
 
 So I went up to Amelie's to have a serious 
 talk about the upbringing of her goat. I 
 found Pere it was just afternoon taking 
 his nap in a big chair with Jeannette hugged 
 in his arms as she lay on his knees. 
 
 I had to laugh. It was not a moment to 
 argue. 
 
 The proper moment came a few days 
 later. 
 
 It was early in the morning. I heard some 
 one talking angrily in the road, and it only 
 took a little listening to discover that Jean- 
 nette had been in a neighbour's garden and 
 made a good meal of peas. The owner was 
 angry, and I did not blame her. It was one 
 thing for Jeannette to destroy my garden 
 or Pere's, but quite another matter when she 
 went trespassing and laid us liable to a 
 proces. 
 
 This time I stiffened my lips I hate to 
 argue with Melie and just went at the job. 
 I emphatically stated that it was absurd to 
 let a destructive animal like a goat roam at 
 liberty, that goats were usually attached, and 
 that there was no reason why Jeannette 
 
 [ 36 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 should not be. By the time I had done, 
 Melie was in tears. 
 
 " Poor Jeannette," she sobbed. " She 
 loves her liberty, and I love mine, and can 
 sympathize. Poor Jeannette, I know just 
 how she feels." 
 
 Of course I had to say, " Sorry, Melie, 
 but we did not buy the goat for a plaything, 
 and you know as well as I do that she can- 
 not always run free, so one time is as good 
 as another. There is plenty of place for her 
 to eat. There is the little meadow out under 
 the trees where she can be tied up. She will 
 be near the house, and the grass there is full 
 of all sorts of good things dandelions, 
 chicory, sanfoin, and there is the court here, 
 and there is the little enclos at the top of the 
 hill where we put the horse and donkey, and 
 there is the grass land up the hill, and when 
 once the cassis is gathered, she can be put 
 there." 
 
 "Oh," replied Amelie, "there are places 
 enough, if it must be done." 
 
 It was done, but it was too late to be done 
 with comfort to anyone. Jeannette had been 
 made a family pet. She was used to com- 
 pany. Wherever we put her she b-1-laated 
 for hours at a time, unless one of us went 
 and sat with her. I protested, but I used 
 to catch Amelie taking her sewing to sit with 
 Jeannette, and Pere used to go and lie near 
 her on the ground to take his noon nap 
 
 [ 37 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 and as long as she lived, she would never be 
 cured of that longing for society, if not for 
 liberty. 
 
 Well, the time came when Jeannette be- 
 came a mother. It was about the quickest 
 performance I elver kndw of. jit was a 
 Thursday. Louise was working in the gar- 
 den, as is usual on all Thursdays. She had 
 gone to Pere's to carry a wheelbarrow of 
 grass we had cut the lawn. I saw her 
 returning without the wheelbarrow on a 
 quick run, calling as she came, " Is there 
 any hot water? Jeannette has got twins!" 
 
 I did not wait for Louise to get the hot 
 water. I just sprinted in my way for 
 the stable. There were the little long-legged 
 things walking, if you please, while Jean- 
 nette looked over her shoulder at them in 
 wide-eyed surprise. Talk about cunning 
 things! They beat all I had ever seen. 
 They were both white. One had a thin black 
 line down his spine to his cute little stub of a 
 tail, and the other had a similar black line 
 half as long. On the spot I named them 
 it's my way Pierre and Paul. 
 
 For a few weeks those little goats were 
 my every-day amusement. They were play- 
 ful as kittens. We used to attach Jeannette 
 up the road in an open field, and leave Pierre 
 and Paul with her, but if I dared to heave 
 in sight, both the little beasties rushed to 
 meet me. Then Jeannette set up a yell, and 
 
 [ 38 ]
 
 I had to catch them and take them back. 
 Then I was as bad as Amelie, for I would 
 sit in the shade and watch them. The field 
 was up a bank, and they used to butt each 
 other down, and dance and do side-steps un- 
 til I used to call Amelie to come and look at 
 them, and we would both sit, like a pair of 
 geese, and laugh. I forgot as much as she 
 ever had what the goat was bought for. 
 
 Pierre was a bit more venturesome than 
 Paul. He was always the leader. The only 
 queer thing was that they never varied their 
 methods. For example, they would both 
 come close to the door, and turning their 
 heads sideways, look in. Then Pierre ven- 
 tured in, and Paul followed. The dining- 
 room was always darkened in the daytime to 
 keep it cool, but the door was open. Pierre, 
 followed by Paul, would come and look, and 
 then, although there was no sill, bound in 
 as though over a barrier, and, after a mo- 
 ment's hesitation, Paul did the same thing. 
 There was hardly a day they did not come, 
 and they never varied the antic, nor failed, 
 when I went to catch them and put them in 
 the stable at night, to side-step, bound side- 
 wise on their hind legs, and butt at me with 
 such a pretty turn of the head. But no one 
 ever drew a picture or made an image of a 
 goat in any other movement, so all goats 
 must do it. Only these were the first with 
 which I had ever been intimate. 
 
 [ 39 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 Well, all country idyls end in tragedy. 
 
 Last Saturday Saturday is market day 
 at Meaux after I had taken my coffee, 
 which I got myself, as Amelie and Pere had 
 arranged to go to market early on account 
 of the heat I went up to the pasture to see 
 why Jeannette was crying so. I found her 
 still tied in the stable instead of in the pas- 
 ture, as I had expected, and there was no 
 Pierre and Paul. 
 
 I had a sort of sudden premonition. I 
 went back, and sat in the garden until I heard 
 the wagon coming. I gave one look at 
 Melie's red eyes. I did not have to ask. 
 I knew that Pierre and Paul had gone to 
 market. 
 
 Jeannette did not get over crying for days. 
 
 Well, as Pere remarked, " She was bought 
 to give us milk." 
 
 You see, next time I '11 know how to bring 
 up a goat. I can only be thankful I don't 
 get attached to chickens. I Ve that much 
 luck. 
 
 You can't call this a war letter, can you? 
 The real absolute truth is that just now it is 
 hard to believe there is any war, it is so calm 
 and still here, and the nights are heavenly. 
 I often sit out until midnight, and I have even 
 fallen asleep with my head on my arms, 
 simply hating to come indoors and leave all 
 the beauty of the night. I wish often that I 
 had one of those tents in which the Virginia 
 
 [ 40 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 boys slept on our common. I think it will 
 be the next thing I present myself. 
 
 You can never realize the wonder of the 
 nights here until you see them. It is not dark 
 until after ten, summer-time, of course. 
 There is no sound except from the passing 
 trains, and nothing breaks the line of the 
 hills, except, now and then, the end of a 
 searchlight from the other side, a thin line 
 only, but it visualizes "war," reminding us 
 that the watch is kept. 
 
 Of course we have all been bitterly disap- 
 pointed again that the push does not go on. 
 We don't understand, but we must have faith 
 in those who do, or we hope, do.
 
 IV 
 
 June 15, /p/7 
 
 I HAVE been so busy learning to be a 
 farmer that during the last three weeks I 
 have had no time to write letters. I have 
 read the newspapers, tried to be patient, and 
 been up to Paris. That 's my life. 
 
 We have had lovely hot weather and 
 everything is growing well. Still, in spite 
 of rains in May, just after I wrote to you, 
 which seemed to me sufficient to wet the 
 ground, every one is yelling for rain. I con- 
 fess the ground does look dry. 
 
 Yesterday nine chicks came out of a nest 
 of thirteen eggs. I was delighted, but 
 Amelie is disappointed. They ought all to 
 have hatched. I recognized that, when she 
 called my attention to it. Until then I had 
 thought it a brave showing. I shall do 
 better next time, or, if I don't, be wiser in 
 speech. 
 
 I went up to Paris on June 3rd and stayed 
 a whole week, which was unusual for me, but 
 I had work to do there and could not seem 
 to get back. I wish you could have seen my 
 garden when I did. It was like a wilderness 
 of flowers. It looked absolutely unkept, 
 
 [ 42 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 although it was clean and tidy. But no one 
 would dream of cutting the roses when I am 
 not here, and the Gloire de Dijon over the 
 front door, and the big Pink Rover over the 
 dining-room, had bloomed and bloomed and 
 shed their petals until the air was full of 
 them. The grass was high, the geraniums 
 and pinks a mass of colour. I would not 
 have dreamed that a week or ten days could 
 have done the work it had, although, of 
 course, it was hot weather. 
 
 In Paris no one talked of anything but the 
 taking of Messines, and now that the Allies 
 have the three heights Bapaume taken in 
 March, Vimy in April, and Messines last 
 Monday, every one is hoping for another 
 phase of a general offensive. Wise and well- 
 informed people say it is impossible, and the 
 gospel of patience is preached everywhere. 
 All the same Messines was a great affair, 
 one of the most astounding bits of prepara- 
 tion the war has yet seen. 
 
 We surely needed that bit of encourage- 
 ment, with all the disquieting things that are 
 going on in Russia, and with the perpetual 
 disturbances of the Socialists and Pacifists, 
 who find it so hard to understand even yet 
 that peace to-day can only be a German 
 peace, with Germany not only victor, but 
 conqueror. Before this war can end well 
 all the hopes of any decency or generosity or 
 good breeding or justice on the part of the 
 
 [ 43 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 Germans must be wiped out of the minds of 
 every race she is fighting. The Allies must 
 quit talking, quit explaining their position, 
 which is clearly known now, and get down to 
 work. This struggle will never be settled 
 except by guns and aeroplanes, and it is waste 
 effort to talk about Germany until she is 
 beaten to her knees, and until she is, though 
 this war lasts twenty years, it will never end. 
 As a well-known American man said to one 
 of my friends in Paris, " Our boys must not 
 come over here to get licked," and unless 
 Germany is licked they will be. 
 
 Day before yesterday we began to gather 
 cherries. They are not very plentiful, and 
 as for prunes almost none. However, we 
 have enough for ourselves, and as we have 
 almost no sugar, the scarcity is not so dis- 
 turbing as it would be otherwise. But it de- 
 prives the pockets here of sous, and they 
 need them. 
 
 To-day is a very hot day. It is so hot that 
 Pere left for Meaux to take a few things to 
 market before four, and was back for his 
 coffee at seven. 
 
 You see how we occupy ourselves here in 
 spite of the war. At this minute, but for the 
 newspapers, which, in the silence, we read 
 and try to understand, and but for the sol- 
 diers in our ambulance more sick than 
 wounded just now and but for such heart- 
 breaking affairs as the air raids on London 
 
 [ 44 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 when school-children were killed, we seem at 
 times almost as far off from the war as you 
 are. We do not get used to it. No one 
 ever will, but more and more we are begin- 
 ning to understand that if war is to be we 
 must prepare to meet all the atrocities of a 
 nation like Germany, fighting for its mis- 
 taken ideas, and its continued existence on a 
 wrong road. The world had no right to let 
 itself be taken by surprise. Germany had 
 never made any secret of her ambitions. 
 Apart from all the military and economic 
 books in which all her ideas of her future de- 
 velopment and her belief in conquest have 
 been clearly set down, no German writer on 
 any subject has been able to escape putting 
 the national ideas into books of no matter 
 what nature. Even as long ago as 1861 
 Hermann Grimm in an article on Emerson, 
 after prophesying one Church and one State, 
 remarked: " But what next? The strife will 
 then be to make this one sovereignty the 
 Germanic, to which the Slav, the Mongolian, 
 the Romanic, and whatever other races are 
 called, shall submit," and less than twenty 
 years later (1879), James E. Hosmer, a 
 professor of German literature in St. Louis, 
 in spite of an intelligent effort to deal justly 
 with the comparative struggles of England, 
 Germany and the States, announced his opin- 
 ion that the world was slowly being German- 
 ized. After all, who knows, if, but for this 
 
 [ 45 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 stupid war, his prophecy might not have 
 become true? There is no doubt in any of 
 our minds that the world had been in a way 
 hypnotized by Germany ever since 1870. If 
 the Hohenzollerns had not returned to the 
 methods of the days of Hannibal, there is 
 no knowing what might have happened. 
 Listen to what I came across accidentally the 
 other day, about old times when " upon their 
 great white shields they slide down the slopes 
 of the Alps to do battle. They have armour 
 of brass and helmets fashioned into resemb- 
 lance of heads of beasts of prey. The 
 women fight by the side of their husbands, 
 then, as priestesses, slay the prisoners, letting 
 the blood run into brazen caldrons that it 
 may offer an omen. Even the Romans are 
 terrified, veterans though they are from the 
 just ended struggle with Hannibal. Papirius 
 Carbo goes down before them, and Rome 
 expects to see in her streets the blond North- 
 men, as she had just before looked for the 
 dark-skinned Numidian. Caius Marius 
 meets them, 100 B.C. in southern Gaul, and 
 again in northern Italy, the front rank of 
 their hosts that they may stand firm 
 bound together man by man, with a chain, 
 and the fierce women waiting in the rear with 
 uplifted axes to slay all cowards. But 
 Marius comes off conqueror from the corpse- 
 heaped battle-fields, and Rome has a 
 respite ! " 
 
 [ 46 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 I have always told you, the world does not 
 change, and how more than true it is that 
 history repeats itself. Our age and time has 
 been deaf to the warnings of the past, and 
 blind to the writing on the wall. Yet even 
 that is the virtue of a failing. It is danger- 
 ous to think too well of a people, but it is, 
 after all, a generous fault. Germany's is the 
 reverse she thinks too ill of every one but 
 herself, and knows herself as little as she 
 knows other people. 
 
 If you have handy a book containing 
 Grimm's essay on Frederick the Great and 
 Macaulay, do read it, just for phrases like 
 this: 
 
 "That a German should write a history 
 of France, Italy, Russia, or Turkey would 
 seem no wise unsuitable, or contradictory, 
 but imagine an Italian, Frenchman, or Turk 
 writing a history of Germany! If the book 
 by chance imposed on some innocent mind 
 because written in a foreign language it 
 would only be necessary to translate it." 
 
 Well, by their own acts they have im- 
 peached themselves and late as it is, it is 
 lucky for the world that it is not later. 
 
 I suppose it will not be long now before 
 our boys begin to arrive, but I have no mad 
 expectation of their being fit for action be- 
 fore the end of the year, if they are then. 
 Kitchener's first mob was dressed for the 
 
 [ 47 1
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 field in eight months, but England is nearer 
 than the States, and the submarines were not 
 so active in 1915 as they are now. It is 
 not only a long way to Tipperary it is a 
 mighty long way to New York. The only 
 prayer I ever feel like saying these days 
 and even that is against my habits, for I 
 don't believe as much in asking for things as 
 I do in being grateful for them is : "Hurry 
 up, America ! May the Allies hold out until 
 you get here." 
 
 Though I say so little about the war, and 
 although we keep on doing the little ordi- 
 nary things of everyday life we must, you 
 know our hearts are all out there in the 
 north, where, since the so-called strategic 
 retreat some of the toughest fighting in the 
 war has written Craonne, Tete de Conde 
 and Chemin des Dames in letters of fire on 
 our memories. The beginning of these 
 things happened 'way back in April, but the 
 news we get is so meagre in details that it 
 is only now that we realize all the heroism 
 of the effort, or are able to put a proper 
 name on the battles. Of course we did get 
 the news of the wonderful English work at 
 Messines eight days ago, at once. That 
 was such a noisy affair that it could not be 
 kept out of notice, besides it had been pre- 
 paring for so long, and was so soon over. 
 I am told they heard the explosion in Lon- 
 don, when the long-prepared mines were 
 [ 48 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 touched off. It was one of the things we did 
 not hear here. 
 
 Well, Constantine is off his throne, an- 
 other wandering crowned head to be a politi- 
 cal danger to the future. At any rate it will 
 protect us from getting a blow in the back 
 down there, though it comes at a late day. 
 Next! 
 
 [ 49 ]
 
 V 
 
 July 5, 1917 
 
 WELL, the first of our boys have marched 
 in the streets of Paris. 
 
 I did not see them. I was not able to go 
 up to town, nor was I in the mood to see such 
 a procession. So in honour of the day it 
 was July 4th I put up all my flags, and 
 waited to hear about the enthusiasm with 
 which the boys were received, from other 
 people. 
 
 The day before, Petain had addressed the 
 French army in these words : 
 
 ' To-morrow, the anniversary of the Dec- 
 laration of Independence of the United 
 States of America, the first American troops 
 to land in France will march in Paris. Soon 
 after they will join us at the front. 
 
 " Salutations to our new comrades in 
 arms, who, without arriere-pensee of money 
 or conquest, inspired simply by the desire to 
 defend the cause of justice and liberty, have 
 come to take their place at our side. 
 
 " Other divisions are preparing to follow 
 them. 
 
 "The United States of America is pre- 
 pared to place at our disposition, without re- 
 
 [ 50 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 garding the cost, her soldiers, her factories, 
 her ships, the entire resources of her 
 country. They are inspired by a desire to 
 pay a hundred-fold the debt of gratitude 
 they feel to Lafayette and his comrades. 
 
 "With one voice, on this Fourth of July, 
 let the cry go up from every point on our 
 front ' Honour to the great Sister Republic ! 
 Fivent les Etats-Unisf " 
 
 The order was obeyed with spirit. It was 
 one great echo of the cheers that split the 
 air in April, and yesterday America owned 
 Paris. One of my friends who was there 
 wrote me last night: " I wonder you did not 
 hear the cheers on the Hilltop. The walls 
 of Paris shook with them. And Pershing 
 had tears rolling down his cheeks as he rode 
 through the shouting crowds." 
 
 I would have liked to know what he 
 thought of Paris, as the capital of an in- 
 vaded country. I am afraid it will prove a 
 terrible temptation to our boys, for there is 
 no question that Paris has a charm which 
 few can resist long. I guarantee that before 
 long the States will hear all sorts of tales 
 about the unlicensed acts of our boys in their 
 first encounter with an atmosphere so new 
 to them, and a people so strange to them. 
 Don't let that worry you. It is a phase 
 which was to be foreseen, and was logically 
 impossible to prevent. A large percentage 
 of our boys whose last thought was that
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 they would ever be soldiers sent to fight on 
 foreign soil know nothing about the 
 French. They have all heard of Paris as a 
 " gay city," where wonderful things take 
 place, and of France as a country where 
 things are permitted which would not be tol- 
 erated at home. You know no race belies 
 itself in its light literature as the French. 
 And it is the light literature which is the 
 most known in translations. To judge by 
 that, women are never virtuous, men are 
 never loyal, and we all know how often it 
 has been said that " home " has no equiva- 
 lent in French because the thing itself does 
 not exist here. You and I know France 
 better than that. We know that nowhere in 
 all the world is home life more beautiful, or 
 family ties stronger than where the words 
 " ma mere'" are sacred, and where father 
 and son are not ashamed to embrace in pub- 
 lic. If there is less hypocrisy of speech and 
 opinion about some of the natural incidents 
 of human experience than exists in some 
 other parts of the world, those who draw 
 too quick conclusions from that will be liable 
 to find themselves mistaken. If the French 
 make less fuss than we do about certain acci- 
 dents of life, it is to their credit, and they 
 are only a bit in advance of the rest of the 
 world in the vanguard of advance in 
 fact the banner-bearers, as they always have 
 been, of civilization. Then, besides, you 
 
 [ 52 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 know, and the world will know when this is 
 over, that the so-called " emotional French " 
 are less hysterical than we are. 
 
 So don't you worry over any of the tales 
 about the American boys in Paris which are 
 sure to go across by cable and special corre- 
 spondents. Over here our boys will grow 
 into self-reliant, self-respecting men. They 
 will be broken of many of the bad habits 
 which we have to know exist, and they will 
 go home such of them as return to 
 build up a new type of American. Hard- 
 ships will model their faces, which when I 
 was last in New York looked too round and 
 pudgy; exercise will harden their frames 
 which were too molle. In fact, they will be 
 in every way the better. They will leave a 
 great heritage to the future and make a race 
 with a right to pride. Besides, they will com- 
 plete their education in a way that no uni- 
 versity could, and, after it is over, no one will 
 be able to accuse us justly again of being " a 
 race of provincials." 
 
 I felt that I had to say this quickly, as 
 judging by the letters I got to-day the Ameri- 
 cans have given Paris a shock, and the ma- 
 terial is too good to be long neglected by 
 the space writers. So don't worry. It is 
 unimportant. 
 
 I have another brood of chickens this 
 time twelve out of thirteen, and yet 
 Amelie is not content. I hope the next will 
 
 [ 53 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 be really satisfying, expect them in a few 
 days. 
 
 I don't need to tell you that I was very 
 popular here on the Fourth. Every one 
 treated me as if I were the entire United 
 States of America. After long years of 
 doubting, it was a fine feeling. I felt all 
 warm and comfy about my heart. I had 
 waited so long for it. 
 
 [ 54 ]
 
 VI 
 
 July 27, 1917 
 
 I WAS surprised on looking in my letter- 
 book to find that it is already three weeks 
 since I last wrote to you. But a farmer's 
 life is a busy one, and we have had strange 
 weather so changeable. The seventh and 
 eighth were hot and muggy, the ninth like a 
 chilly autumn day, the twelfth and thirteenth 
 were very hot; on the seventeenth we had a 
 rainstorm that turned my garden into a lake, 
 and the road into a brook. Then came one 
 awfully hot day just scorching and since 
 then it has been beautiful. All this has been 
 good for our crops. I Ve had peas and 
 beans, cucumbers and tomatoes, strawberries 
 and raspberries in fact I think every day, 
 as I sit down at noon, that I live just as well 
 now as I could at any crack restaurant in the 
 world. Next week I shall have green corn 
 and all sorts of other dainties. It is a pity 
 that it is not summer every day in the year. 
 
 On the tenth I saw the first camions full 
 of Americans going over the road towards 
 Meaux. As I sat in the little cart watching 
 them go by, I did wish I could tell them that 
 I was an American, but it seemed best not 
 
 [ 55 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 to. They are for prudential reasons, 
 advised not to talk to strangers, and it is 
 wise. So I contented myself with smiling at 
 them every one does that and feeling a 
 bit chagrined that they did not recognize in 
 me a fellow citizen. 
 
 All the commune has been busy for a fort- 
 night picking cassis the black currants 
 and the English are going to risk buying 
 them to make jelly for the soldiers. It is 
 always one of the prettiest times of the year, 
 when little children as well as men and 
 women are sitting on low stools under the 
 laden bushes, in the hot sun and the showers. 
 But it is weary work, and they look so tired, 
 as at four o'clock they rest for a bite and lie 
 sprawled everywhere to eat their bread and 
 cheese. 
 
 We have had some trying days, days 
 when leading a normal life seemed absurd. 
 On the seventeenth the bombardment was so 
 heavy that the very house shook, and the 
 twenty-first was no better. Yet the news- 
 papers gave no news that would seem to 
 explain in either case. It simply recalls to 
 our minds that it is going on always, this 
 war. 
 
 Last night was a hard one. I was reading 
 in bed, and, for lack of anything new, I had 
 taken up Benson's " Lord of the World" 
 more interesting now than when I first read 
 it. Suddenly I was literally made to jump 
 
 [ 56 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 out of bed by a terrible explosion not in 
 the direction of the front. I went into the 
 back of the house and looked out towards 
 Paris. It was a black night, no moon, no 
 stars and deathly still. I was finally 
 almost convinced that it was a terrible and 
 solitary clap of thunder. So I went back to 
 bed. 
 
 Half an hour later came a series of terrific 
 explosions. So I wrapped up and went out 
 into the orchard. 
 
 I could see the light of a fire in the east, 
 but not in the direction of Paris, and much 
 nearer. By this time I heard voices every- 
 where and knew that other people were up. 
 There was no doubt what it was, of course 
 ammunition works. The morning papers 
 announce the hand-grenade factory at 
 Claye destroyed. Pity! We need all our 
 ammunition. 
 
 Of course that meant no sleep for me. 
 Once I am waked up well, no hope of sleep- 
 ing again these days. 
 
 I am amused at your letter about Jeannette. 
 Glad you enjoyed her, but rather sorry you 
 ask for news of her. Alas ! her news is not 
 good. But here it is. Jeannette could never 
 be cured of the habits of her youth, for 
 which she was not to blame, nor be recon- 
 ciled to lack of liberty. As long as she re- 
 mained, she continued to b-l-lart in the most 
 heartrending manner if she was left alone. 
 
 [ 57 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 Amelie had something to do besides sitting 
 with her, and I grew weary, if ever I sent 
 Amelie on an errand in the afternoon, of 
 either listening to her heartbreaking calls, or 
 taking a book and a camp chair and bearing 
 her company. When we did not go to her, 
 she cried and would not eat. So pretty soon 
 she went dry, then she went away, too. 
 I hope she found Pierre and Paul in the 
 Happy Hunting Grounds. 
 
 It was a pretty sore subject for some time. 
 But one gets used to everything, and the 
 other day I asked Amelie how much she got 
 for Pierre and Paul. " Eighteen francs," 
 she replied. Then I made a heartless calcu- 
 lation. " We paid twelve for Jeannette. We 
 sold the whole outfit for thirty-five. We 
 were twenty-three francs to the good plus 
 experience, a few quarts of milk, and some 
 fun." 
 
 I should not have diverted you with de- 
 tails like that. You brought it on yourself. 
 
 These bucolic diversions do not help us to 
 forget nothing can but they sometimes 
 ease the strain wonderfully. 
 
 Incidentally, I saw a soldier from one 
 of the ambulance corps the other day, who 
 was at Arras when the battle ended after a 
 month of pretty stiff fighting. He tells me 
 it is a dead city. It was bombarded in the 
 early days of 1914. It was bombarded in 
 July, 1915, and now, through the month of 
 
 [ 58 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 May, the battle raged round it. It was a 
 beautiful and historic city full of wonder- 
 ful old buildings. It is now a ruin. But as 
 the stretcher-bearer said: "Talk about 
 beauty! I stood in the Petite Place, in the 
 moonlight, one night, looking toward the 
 once majestic Hotel de Ville above whose 
 arch-supported Gothic facade soared, in 
 October, 1914, that lofty belfry. All about 
 me was ruin, and through the broken fagade 
 and falling tower the white moonlight 
 streamed, making one of the most wonderful 
 pictures I had ever seen. It was the very 
 majesty and dignity of desolation. No cen- 
 turies-old Greek or Egyptian or Roman ruin 
 ever moved me more deeply. I have been 
 often in the moonlight to look at the Coli- 
 seum at Rome, and I could not help wishing 
 that before that ruin is restored all the world 
 might see it as I saw it that night. Its dig- 
 nity, its desolation, and its beauty seemed to 
 me so symbolic of France of to-day." 
 
 [ 59 J
 
 VII 
 
 August 14, 1917 
 
 SORRY to tell you that the weather turned 
 nasty in the last days of July. The leaves 
 began to turn brown, to dry, and to fall. 
 The world already looks like autumn. It 
 fills me with misgivings for the winter. I 
 have been putting in wood, in the hope of 
 having something I can call a fire. I have 
 been buying wood wherever I could get it. 
 It is slow work, the wood is queer stuff, 
 what the trade calls " benefice des boucher- 
 o5," that is to say, gnarled pieces, roots, 
 big chunks, in fact all the wood not consid- 
 ered good enough for a respectable wood- 
 pile, and which dealers do not buy. Need- 
 less to say that I pay just as much for it as if 
 it were the neat three-feet-long logs my fire- 
 place demands. 
 
 There is no coal in sight. 
 
 However, it is not yet winter. It is indeed 
 two months before, under usual climatic con- 
 ditions, I should think of needing fires. Yet, 
 even to-day I could enjoy a brisk fire in the 
 evenings, which are more like October than 
 August. 
 
 Don't imagine that I am depressed. I am 
 [ 60 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 not. I am simply, by force of habit, telling 
 you the truth. 
 
 I wonder if a full realization of the situa- 
 tion over here will ever come to you in the 
 States. I don't yet see how it can. The 
 ocean is wide. I know myself how difficult 
 it is to arrive at an actual conception of a 
 far-off disaster. But I suppose that, next 
 year, when every day's newspaper will carry 
 its list of casualties, you will feel quite differ- 
 ently from what you do now, and have less 
 taste for the sight of marching regiments and 
 bands of music. 
 
 Just imagine what France is like to-day. 
 The north-east is a devastated battle-field. 
 The rest of the country is spread pretty thick 
 with factories making war materials. The 
 fields on which we are depending to live are 
 being cultivated, short-handed, as best they 
 can be, by women, children, old men, and war 
 prisoners. The south and west are over- 
 crowded with training camps, cantines, hos- 
 pitals and refugees. It is an inconceivable 
 situation. One has to see it to realize it. 
 When one thinks of it seriously, isn't it re- 
 markable to see how, with the entire able- 
 bodied male population in the war, the work 
 of the nation can go on at all? It is not as- 
 tonishing that we lack things. It is miracu- 
 lous that we get on at all, and that, once the 
 army is fed, there is anything left for us 
 civilians. 
 
 [ 61 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 Of course we are not just now seeing any- 
 thing of the war except in our little ambu- 
 lance where to-day they are mostly sick 
 and convalescents usually boys slowly 
 coming back to interest in life from having 
 been gassed. Our roads are quiet. We 
 rarely hear more than a dull far-off booming 
 of guns. It often sounds about as much like 
 horses kicking in their stalls as anything else. 
 
 To be sure we only have to cross the 
 Marne into Meaux to get a different impres- 
 sion. For Meaux is a military centre, and 
 always was. Its huge barracks near the ca- 
 thedral gave it, even in peace time, a military 
 aspect. There is to-day a big military hos- 
 pital in the barracks, which are built quite 
 round the great sunlit inner court, and cover 
 an immense tract of ground. In the bar- 
 racks there is to-day one of the hundreds of 
 English cantines that the British are running 
 for the French soldiers. It is conducted by 
 a group of British ladies, one of them a 
 cousin of Lord French, a lady older than I 
 am, who works with all the enthusiasm of a 
 girl, and with the tact and ability that girls 
 lack. 
 
 These wonderful British women are 
 among the most interesting things the war 
 has brought to France. The leaders are 
 often women wives and widows of offi- 
 cers who have seen Indian service. You 
 [ 62 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 know the type of horseback-riding women, 
 used to adventure and danger, with pluck as 
 well as charm, slender, nervous, and untiring. 
 
 Their cantine at Meaux is a model one. 
 It serves special regimes for six hundred sol- 
 diers, provides reading matter, teaches them 
 sports, takes an interest in them when they 
 go back to the front, and keeps them fur- 
 nished with all sorts of comforts. 
 
 I wish that you, who have such a respect 
 for order you know you always were tire- 
 somely orderly could see that huge 
 kitchen, all freshly painted pale green, with 
 its wide doors opening into the big sunlit 
 court, where the soldiers sit about, the 
 horses are exercised, huge army camions are 
 lined up, and at the far end of which are the 
 neat freshly built sheds for the German 
 prisoners. 
 
 There is a great range across the back, 
 and near the open door there is a reading- 
 table on which there are always fresh flowers, 
 and groups of rattan chairs stand around it. 
 At one side is a tiny dining-room where the 
 directress of the cantine and her aides eat, 
 and behind it a room with two stoves where 
 they make gallons and gallons of tea and 
 coffee in the biggest urns I ever saw. 
 
 The service is no glorious one, I can tell 
 you. There is nothing picturesque about it. 
 It is sheer hard work at times it is almost 
 
 [ 63 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 menial. I am telling you about it, because 
 I want you to realize what war is demanding 
 of women to-day. 
 
 Every day one of these women gets an 
 order from the head nurse for a certain 
 number of soups, a certain number of meat 
 dishes, so many dishes of specified vege- 
 tables, etc. This list is written on a big 
 blackboard fixed on the wall beside the stove, 
 and at a certain hour the men who distribute 
 the food come to the kitchen to carry away 
 the trays. Often the only help they have is 
 from the convalescent soldiers and German 
 prisoners. They stand over the hot stoves 
 themselves, unmindful of complexion or 
 hands. 
 
 Whenever I was there I always felt a 
 great curiosity regarding the mental proc- 
 esses of the Germans. I watched their quick 
 way of working, their silence, their docility, 
 and, as far as I could see, perfect politeness. 
 I got the idea in my head that, no matter 
 what they might say, there was not one of 
 them, judging by their looks, who did not 
 rejoice that for him, and probably through 
 no fault of his, the horrors of war were over. 
 I knew that one at least of the English ladies 
 spoke German. So I asked her one day 
 about them. She replied: 
 
 " They are the best, the most civil, the 
 best disciplined help we have ever had. 
 They are clean about their work, and abso- 
 
 [ 64 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 lutely obedient. There is never any ques- 
 tion about an order. It is given. It is 
 executed." 
 
 That did not surprise me, but that was not 
 what I wanted to know. So I put the ques- 
 tion flatly. "But about the war? Do they 
 still believe in a victory for Germany?" 
 
 "Oh, absolutely," she replied. "They 
 have no doubt about that. They say quite 
 freely that they can easily hold out three 
 years longer; that we may hold them, but 
 we cannot beat them. There are no two 
 minds amongst them on that subject. They 
 even agree so well in their manner of insist- 
 ing that it almost seems as if they were speak- 
 ing under orders." 
 
 I give you this for what it is worth, only 
 insisting, since you so often write as if you 
 in the States had the idea that we were soon 
 to see Germany break. I often wonder 
 where you get the idea. Here it looks to us 
 every year as if Germany were stronger, in- 
 stead of weaker, as if each year, with her 
 capacity for obedience and her habits of or- 
 ganization, she was learning in the war new 
 ways of safeguarding herself. We never 
 can get away from that forty years of prepa- 
 ration, for while we are working so hard to 
 recover from years of foolish idleness, Ger- 
 many is no more idle than we are. I have 
 said this to you before more than once, I am 
 afraid, and if I keep insisting it is only be- 
 
 [ 65 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 cause it seems to me a fatal error to ignore 
 that fact. 
 
 These ladies at Meaux, who have never 
 before known long hours of manual labour, 
 great responsibility, and absolute negation of 
 personal tastes, have nevertheless started to 
 arrange a night cantine at Meaux. 
 
 I may have told you before that Meaux is 
 strangely lacking in restaurants. In spite of 
 its historical interest, it is not as much visited 
 as many other towns less famous. There is 
 no restaurant of any sort in the station. 
 There is a common buvette at one end where 
 workmen go to get a drink, but where no 
 other class would dream of entering. There 
 is a terrace outside where one can sit down 
 to drink a lemonade. It is just the most or- 
 dinary buvette with a zinc counter in front 
 of a sink for washing glasses, and there is 
 always a crowd and a very smelly one 
 in front of it. There are a few hotels, only 
 one fairly good, but they are in the town, 
 at some distance from the railway station. 
 
 Of course Meaux is a great military centre 
 now. Through its big station pass all the 
 trains from the front from Verdun to the 
 north which do not pass over the northern 
 road to Belgium. Military trains are slow. 
 Hundreds of men from the huge camp of 
 permissionaires at Vaires have to change 
 cars, both coming in and going out, at 
 Meaux, and often they wait hours to make 
 [ 66 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 their connection. This wait is more often 
 than not in the night. It is bitter cold on the 
 long, covered platform, and there is no 
 chance to get even a cup of coffee. 
 
 So these English ladies are setting up a 
 night cantine there, to be running from mid- 
 night to four o'clock, and half the little 
 group is to be on duty every night, ready to 
 serve hot tea, coffee, or soup. 
 
 I often laugh when I see them, over the 
 fuss that has been made in my time over the 
 " eight-hour law " for able-bodied men. Of 
 course I know that you are going to fling 
 back at me that women are tougher than 
 men, even harking back that boy babies 
 are harder to bring through childhood than 
 girls. But that has nothing to do with the 
 question. The real thing is, that if only the 
 world in its development could aid people 
 to find work to do that they either loved or 
 believed in, their hours of labour would not 
 be the hated slavery they now are to the 
 mass. 
 
 I hope you won't mind my talking so 
 much about the women in this war. I wish 
 you could come over here if only to see 
 them. I feel that there has been nothing 
 more worth while done in the war than the 
 work of women of all nations. I know you 
 women in the States are all working, but to 
 realize what is being done, one has to see it 
 over here. 
 
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 I imagine we have buried for all time 
 what has for so many years been known as 
 the "woman question." It has been a long 
 and bitter struggle, and so often conducted 
 on unwise lines. It requires a fanatic to 
 lead a crusade, and the woman cause has 
 had its fanatics, and its martyrs, too. 
 The beauty of the whole matter is that 
 woman has won by acts, not words. She 
 has won by doing a woman's work. Best 
 of all she has, for all time, given the lie to 
 the argument that she had no right to the 
 franchise because in case of a war she could 
 not protect her country. It has taken a war 
 to prove the falseness of such an argument, 
 and to demonstrate that, while women could 
 not, as a sex, carry a gun into battle, there 
 was work just as important real war work 
 which she could do, and she has done it 
 well, in a manner which has compelled man 
 to bare his head before her, and bend his 
 knee to her just as devoutly as he ever did 
 in the days of chivalry, even while he recog- 
 nized in her a comrade and an equal. 
 
 Moreover, when she was needed and cap- 
 able, she has actually gone into the firing 
 line, and won and worn her decorations for 
 the same reasons that men have received 
 them. 
 
 In every branch of war work done by un- 
 armed men, women have appeared and shown 
 the same courage and the same unfailing 
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 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 patriotism as men. They have worked for 
 the cause and died for it without in any way 
 unsexing themselves. I have seen thousands 
 of these women, and I give you my word 
 that among no women I have ever met in my 
 long life have I found " womanliness " finer 
 than among the women near the front, every 
 one of whom was doing work that but for 
 them an able-bodied man would have had to 
 stay behind the fighting-line to do. 
 
 I hope you have heard about the English 
 Women's War Auxiliary Corps, made abso- 
 lutely imperative by the need of more men 
 before the States came in. These are young 
 women of all classes, enlisted like men for 
 the duration of the war, dressed in khaki, 
 living in camps or cantonnements just like 
 the men, under exactly the same conditions 
 as the Tommies, and facetiously called by 
 their friends " Miss Thomasina Atkins." 
 The big force of thousands is officered by 
 women. They live behind the lines under 
 the same conditions as the men, and do all 
 sorts of clerical work post-office, tele- 
 graph, motor-cycle in fact everything a 
 woman can do to liberate a man to carry a 
 gun. 
 
 I have a number of young girl friends in 
 the corps, dressed in uniform, wearing mili- 
 tary boots, living a soldier's life of hardship 
 and discipline. No wonder the suffrage ex- 
 citement is already ancient history. If war 
 
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 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 does nothing but this for Great Britain, it 
 has done much. Yet we who are looking on 
 know already that this is only one of the 
 great things it has achieved. 
 
 This is getting to be a long letter. Never 
 mind. When things are slow, as they are 
 now, and I am so shut away that I have no 
 one to whom I can chatter, no one to theorize 
 with, I have to clear my brain now and then 
 by talking at a sheet of paper just to drive 
 the haze and confusion out of my mind. 
 
 Useless to talk to you across the ocean 
 about the ever-changing and day after day 
 more threatening Russian situation. I am 
 afraid nothing can now stop the fatal trend 
 of events. For the time and perhaps for- 
 ever we are evidently going to lose Russia. 
 I wonder if you in the States have the faint- 
 est idea what this means? Why, if Germany 
 succeeds in getting Russia disarmed in the 
 next few months well, I dare not even say 
 to myself all that it seems to me to threaten. 
 Poor Russian people such dreamers ! 
 They are not wicked. I do not believe that 
 they have the faintest conception of the dis- 
 aster they are preparing for France. Of 
 course Germany does not yet believe that the 
 States can put any important fighting force 
 into France before she fetches off the coup 
 which will liberate a couple of millions of 
 soldiers now on her eastern frontiers to 
 march against us. It is a formidable idea for 
 
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 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 us to face. Well, England put a fighting 
 army into France in eight months, and had 
 to bring a large part of it from Canada and 
 Australia. And, alas! in addition to the 
 hordes that may come to fling themselves 
 en masse on us before the States are ready, 
 you must not forget that the middle-Europe 
 powers can put nearly a million fresh troops 
 into the field automatically, each year, from 
 the classes which reach military age they 
 are prolific, those Boche races. 
 
 Then, also, no means are too low for them. 
 When a country is without honour and with- 
 out shame, its means of increasing savage 
 purposes is tremendously increased. When 
 the true history of the Russian debacle is 
 written, it will add another startling page to 
 the deathless dishonour of Prussianized Ger- 
 many. If one stops at nothing, one can, 
 temporarily, accomplish many things. I am 
 sure the untiring American war correspond- 
 ent must have already told you of one of the 
 methods by which the Germans get some of 
 the Russians to lay down their arms. How, 
 having, for days, bombarded a discouraged 
 army, cut them off from their reinforcements 
 and their commissary trains by a heavy artil- 
 lery barrage, reduced by hunger, thirst and 
 panic, they sent out a flag of truce accom- 
 panied by wheelbarrows full of a special kind 
 of bread of which the Russians are fond, and 
 vodka of which they have been deprived
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 since the first year of the war. They fed 
 and inebriated them when their hope and 
 power of resistance was at its lowest ebb. 
 Of course, that is not a very encouraging 
 sign for the Russian race, but after all, as a 
 people they are only children; not warriors, 
 but mystics and dreamers, and know nothing 
 of international affairs. They have never 
 known responsibility, so how can they know 
 honour? 
 
 It is a tragic situation for us. But we 
 must be patient with them, even in our dread 
 of the consequences. It is that, or throwing 
 that huge, rich undeveloped country 
 which in the future is likely to be the El- 
 dorado of adventurers, and see a stampede 
 which will surpass California, or Kimberley, 
 or the Klondike into the greedy hands of 
 Germany. If we cannot prevent that at any 
 sacrifice, I do not see how Europe or the 
 rest of the world for that matter is going 
 to escape from the domination of Germany 
 except after centuries of war. Germany 
 seems able to fight, and organize and com- 
 mercially invade, at the same time. 
 
 This is why I cannot look forward without 
 shuddering. Germany expects to settle with 
 Russia in the next six months. Can the 
 States be ready then? 
 
 Don't imagine I am downhearted. I am 
 not. But I tell you quite frankly, I am ter- 
 ribly nervous, and the calm about here just 
 
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 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 now does not make me less so. I am sure 
 that there is not an intelligent person here 
 who does not know what the result of this 
 struggle is to be, but it is the realization 
 every month more clear- of all it is going 
 to cost which keeps our nerves a bit over- 
 strung. 
 
 [ 73 ]
 
 VIII 
 
 August 24., 1917 
 
 I HAVE had quite an active month, for me. 
 
 I have been visiting and I have had com- 
 pany twice. Rather exciting, isn't it? 
 Otherwise my life has been as usual : a 
 little work in the garden, a weekly visit to 
 the ambulance, and now and then a call from 
 some of the convalescent soldiers. 
 
 My sweet corn came up wonderfully. I 
 have been eating it almost every day. But 
 you should see my French neighbours' sur- 
 prise at the deed. They raise fodder corn 
 for their cattle. They never heard of such a 
 thing as eating any kind of corn. Whenever 
 they pass the garden while I am gathering 
 it, they always stop to watch me, and when 
 I come down the bank swinging the bunch 
 of ears in my hand, they invariably ask, 
 "What is Madame going to do with it?" 
 
 "Eat it," I reply, opening the husks to 
 show the golden kernels. 
 
 "Pas possible!" is the inevitable exclama- 
 tion. 
 
 You see, if there is one thing which it is 
 impossible to do, it is to change the habits of 
 these people. I have cooked the corn, and 
 
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 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 shown them how to eat it. Not they ! They 
 spit it out. I have induced them to eat corn- 
 bread, but only when it is made with eggs and 
 milk, and sweetened. They call it " cake," 
 and eat it with relish, but corn-meal mush, 
 hasty pudding, and things of that sort, which 
 would relieve the bread question, I have thus 
 far found impossible for them. 
 
 Absolutely nothing happens here. After 
 three years of war almost every day has be- 
 come an anniversary day. The other years 
 it was not so marked this tendency to look 
 back but since we entered the fourth year, 
 it seems as though every one had the same 
 idea. It is constantly, " three years ago to- 
 day " such and such a thing happened. First 
 it was Liege which was on every one's tongue. 
 Then it was Mons, and so on down the 
 memories of that opening month of war. 
 We are already prepared to celebrate, at the 
 Cathedral at Meaux, and by a pious pilgrim- 
 age to the graves on the plain, the third 
 anniversary of the .victory of the Marne, a 
 victory which seems to gain in importance 
 each year, and which marked the end of the 
 open field battles and inaugurated the try- 
 ing trench warfare. Even when the war is 
 over, I imagine there will have been nothing 
 to dim the importance of this battle. 
 
 In the meantime the weather is annoying, 
 and we have to support it with what patience 
 we can, and try our best not to dread the 
 
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 winter. It is like late autumn already. I 
 should so love a blazing fire in the evening. 
 As it is impossible, I go into my cozy bed 
 early and read. 
 
 We watch, as well as the reticence of our 
 little newspapers will let us, the terribly slow 
 and costly gnawing into the German lines 
 it looks about an inch a day of the French 
 north of Verdun, and the English east of 
 Ypres. Now and then we get a thrilling 
 story from some point on the line, like that 
 of the taking of Cote 70 by the Canadians 
 on the fifteenth, which nearly accomplished 
 the encircling of Lens. 
 
 Quiet as we are here, we live under the 
 obsession of the thing going on " out there," 
 knowing that every hour is marked by its 
 acts of personal heroism in a struggle so 
 gigantic that the individual no longer counts, 
 and acts of bravery are only valuable as giv- 
 ing tone and colour to the entire Allied effort 
 in a war where Man has simply surpassed 
 himself. 
 
 I do hope that you are reading John 
 Buchan's " History of the War." It will 
 help you to understand many things about 
 which I have not been able to write you. It 
 is not, of course, the final word. Where so 
 much is concealed, the final word cannot be 
 said until much later. But it is a sane and a 
 calm effort, and it helps one wonderfully. 
 
 I refuse the bait your last letter holds out. 
 
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 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 As long as I can resist it, I will not talk about 
 the political situation. For over a hundred 
 and fifty years we have made a sort of fetich 
 of what we call "the people." Well, the 
 justice of that idea is on trial now, and while 
 I consider that what looks disastrous at pres- 
 ent is really in the logical march of develop- 
 ment, I confess that the situation is grave. 
 Any effort to curb the movement now would 
 be a direct attack on liberty liberty of 
 speech, liberty of opinion. In the advance 
 of the world " there is no backward step, no 
 returning," though sometimes ideas that have 
 served their purpose do get sloughed off, and 
 progress goes on without them. 
 
 The pitiful thing about this war is I sup- 
 pose it is true of all wars for an idea that 
 the bravest and worthiest have died the 
 cream of the younger cultured class, the best 
 of the youth from the farming districts and 
 fishing stations of Brittany. The cultivator 
 has always been the backbone of France. 
 The workingman has always been the agi- 
 tator. The young farmers are all in the 
 fighting regiments. The workmen are in the 
 factories and on the railroads, and it is the 
 latter class which predominates in the social- 
 ists, and has a taste for being " agin the 
 government." The farmers are filling sol- 
 diers' graves, along with the students and the 
 aristocracy. The workingman is filling his 
 pockets and talking. It is a new proof 
 
 [ 77 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 if one were needed of the vitality of 
 France, the home of real liberty, where it is 
 difficult to muzzle anyone, that things are 
 not worse than you choose to think them. 
 Let that satisfy you. It has to satisfy us. 
 Besides if you will find any war, in any coun- 
 try, and in any century, in which some one 
 did not get rich, from the days of conquest, 
 even before the great William of Normandy, 
 down to wars for an idea, like our own Civil 
 War, I should dearly love to hear about it. 
 
 Well, my one English-speaking friend, 
 who lives over the hill on the other side of 
 the Grande Morin, is preparing again to re- 
 turn to the States. You may remember that 
 she left here before the battle of the Marne, 
 and returned, to my great joy, the following 
 summer. She has a little daughter, and this 
 is no place for a child who can be taken out 
 of such an atmosphere. It leaves me less 
 isolated, in a certain sense, than I was in 
 1914, for, in three years, my French neigh- 
 bours have all been drawn closer around 
 me by our common interests and common 
 troubles. Be sure that I am not, and never 
 have been at all, lonely, even though I am 
 now and then nervous, as who is not? Your 
 letters do not give the impression that you 
 are absolutely calm.
 
 IX 
 
 September 4, 1917 
 
 SINCE I last wrote, I have been travelling. 
 I have been to Versailles for a week-end. I 
 can hear you laughing. Well, I assure you 
 that it was no laughing matter. The days 
 have gone by when we used to just run out to 
 Versailles for a few hours in the afternoon. 
 It took me five hours and a half from my 
 door to my destination, just at the entrance 
 of the park, by the Grille de Neptune. It 
 was a real voyage, and the first one I have 
 made, if you except those to Paris, 
 since the war broke out. 
 
 I went up to Paris by the five o'clock train, 
 to escape the heat of mid-day. That train, 
 which is the only one we have in these days 
 which is not strictly a way-train, only makes 
 two stops between Esbly, where I change to 
 the main line, and Paris, instead of the seven 
 the other trains make, and I expected, at the 
 latest, to be in Paris by half-past six, with 
 just time to get a bite, and take the twenty- 
 five minutes past seven train for Versailles, 
 and get there by half-past eight, before dark. 
 No one likes to travel after dark if it can 
 
 [ 79 J
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 be avoided dark trains, dimly lighted sta- 
 tions, no porters, and few cabs, you know. 
 
 From the beginning all my plans miscar- 
 ried. The train to Paris stopped and was 
 side-tracked three times. Once we waited 
 fifteen minutes, so that it was half-past seven 
 when I arrived, and I missed my train for 
 Versailles, and had to wait until nearly nine 
 o'clock. There were not half a dozen pas- 
 sengers in the train, and it was already nearly 
 dark when it pulled out. The familiar little 
 hour's ride was as strange as though I had 
 never made it. The train stopped every- 
 where. All the stations were dark as pos- 
 sible, and therefore unrecognizable. It was 
 a queer sensation to run along beside a plat- 
 form in the still early darkness, see a door 
 open from the ticket office, a woman, with a 
 mobilization band round her left arm and a 
 small cap on her head, come out in the nar- 
 row stream of light from the half opened 
 door, and stand ready, while perhaps one 
 person got out and no one got in, to blow 
 her little whistle for the train to go ahead, 
 while I strained my eyes to catch somewhere 
 the name of the station, and never once did it. 
 
 If anyone had told me that anything so 
 familiar could be so unfamiliar I would not 
 have believed it. 
 
 The result was that instead of getting to 
 Versailles at half-past eight, when I was 
 expected, I got there at ten. There was no 
 [ 80 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 way of sending word no telephonic com- 
 munication is possible, and telegrams take 
 often forty-eight hours for the shortest 
 distances. 
 
 At Versailles the porter was a quarter of 
 an hour finding a cab, so I arrived at my 
 destination; a strange house, whose noble 
 staircase was pitch-dark and I had no 
 electric lamp in my pocket the concierge 
 in bed, and very cross at being wakened, and 
 I groped my way in the strange house up 
 three flights of stairs to find my hostess lying 
 awake and worrying. You see there is one 
 thing to be said for these war times, the 
 very smallest effort one makes becomes an 
 exciting adventure else what would I have 
 to write you about? 
 
 I never saw Versailles more beautiful. 
 
 The house in which I visited had a balcony 
 overlooking the bassin de Neptune. The 
 situation was ideal, not only for its beautiful 
 outlook and its wonderful afternoon lights, 
 but because of the ease with which one could, 
 in five minutes, walk up to the top of that 
 glorious terrace, on the park side of the 
 palace, and look down that superb vista over 
 the tapis vert to the glistening canal beyond, 
 and also because I could sit on a balcony 
 overlooking the street and that part of the 
 park, and enjoy such a picturesque and chang- 
 ing scene as the Versailles of our days has 
 never known. 
 
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 The town was full of training camps, 
 cantonnements, and cantines. Soldiers of 
 all nations, all colours, all divisions, and all 
 grades pass in and out the Park gates all 
 day. The tower of Babel could have been 
 nothing to what the Park of Versailles was 
 that Sunday that I was there. There were 
 Americans and British, Canadians, Austral- 
 ians, Egyptians, Indians, there were French 
 and Senegalese, and Moroccans; there were 
 Serbs and Italians; there were Portuguese 
 and Belgians and Rastas, and alas ! there 
 were a few Russians, for there are millions 
 of them just as ashamed of what is happen- 
 ing out in the east as we are, and just as sad 
 over it. There were blacks and whites, yel- 
 lows and reds and browns. There were chic 
 officers, some of them on leave, still sporting 
 their pantalons rouges, and much braided 
 kepis. There were slouching poilus in their 
 baggy trousers and ill-fitting coats, and smart 
 English Tommies, and broad-hatted Yanks, 
 looking as if they wished they could go coat- 
 less and roll up their sleeves it was a hot 
 day instantly distinguishable from the 
 wide-hatted Australians and Canadians. 
 Nothing was handsomer than the Italians 
 with their smart, half-high hats, or more 
 amusing than the Belgians' little tassels of all 
 colours jigging from the front of their head 
 covering. All day that picturesque crowd 
 passed in and out of the park, with crowds 
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 of women and children and all sorts of 
 civilians. 
 
 Just opposite the balcony where we sat 
 was a shop where they sold all sorts of sou- 
 venirs of the town and post cards. From 
 morning till night the crowd stopped there, 
 and it seemed to me that pictures of Ver- 
 sailles must be going over the world, and 
 surely to many places that had never heard 
 of it before. I could not help thinking of 
 the beginnings of culture that all these people 
 must be unconsciously taking in at the pores, 
 at least I hoped there were. Many of the 
 boys from the States, who in the ordinary 
 course of normal life could never have hoped 
 to see the place, and who are able to appre- 
 ciate it and love it, will at least have that 
 much to the good among many other 
 things when they go home. 
 
 Of course the palace is hermetically closed. 
 It has to be. All the same, I did wish that 
 some of the American boys, who had never 
 crossed the big pond before, could have seen 
 it. However, for actual eye satisfaction the 
 outside of the big palace and its parks is 
 more important. I only regretted the in- 
 terior because I longed for them to have it 
 all. 
 
 It was wonderful how gay the crowd was, 
 and how well the soldiers behaved, and how 
 interested they all were in the children. The 
 interest seemed mutual. I '11 warrant there 
 
 [ 83 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 is not a child in Versailles who does not know 
 every uniform on sight, or who does not 
 recognize every nationality and every grade. 
 
 I only saw our boys at a distance as they 
 came and went. But my hostess, who is liv- 
 ing in Versailles for the summer and autumn, 
 not only meets and talks with them on days 
 when the park is not so thronged as it is on 
 Sundays, she has them sitting by her fireside 
 to drink tea. She tells me that some of 
 them are terribly homesick. They miss their 
 women-folks, and their young girl friends. 
 That is perfectly natural, for the comrade- 
 ship between young men and women in the 
 States is a sort of relation which no other 
 people have or understand. Even homesick- 
 ness which will be forgotten as soon as they 
 are actively " in it " is, I am told, doing them 
 good. It may console all of you on the other 
 side of the water to know that the boys speak 
 of " home " as probably none of you ever 
 heard them speak, and say "mother" in a 
 tone quite new to them. So there is gain in 
 all things. 
 
 I did not care to go into the park in the 
 crowd. It was much more interesting to 
 watch the moving throng from my high gal- 
 lery seat, and to wander about the park in 
 the early morning, when it was practically 
 empty. That is a chance one rarely gets 
 unless one is staying there. You have no 
 idea how lovely it looks then, and one can 
 
 [ 84 ]
 
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 wander at will, and every turn is a new pic- 
 ture, all the more beautiful for lacking fel- 
 low creatures in modern clothes. I never see 
 it, as I saw it one breezy morning, when 
 there seemed to be only us two about, with- 
 out feeling a debt of gratitude to Louis XIV, 
 great builder that he was. It is a debt that 
 accumulates. Even Republican France can 
 afford to be grateful to him, and forgive his 
 faults for the sake of the grandeur he con- 
 ferred on them, and which no republic can 
 ever dare to imitate out of the country's 
 purse. 
 
 I wish you, who know the park so well, 
 could see it this year. There are no flowers. 
 Some of the pines and cedars on the terraces 
 are neglected the number of gardeners is 
 insufficient for all the work and in some of 
 the more primitive parts of the park the trees 
 need trimming. Instead of flowers there are 
 vegetables planted everywhere. All the 
 flower beds surrounding the grass plots are 
 planted with potatoes and beans and simple 
 garden stuff. As the French gardener is in- 
 capable of doing anything ugly, these beds 
 of vegetables are laid out just as carefully as 
 if the choicest flowers from the serres were 
 there; each bed has its label, carefully 
 placed, to indicate the variety, bearing the 
 
 words, " Planted for Ambulance No. ." 
 
 Isn't that a pretty idea? 
 
 Several of the fountains were being re- 
 
 [ 85 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 paired the morning ,we walked there alone, 
 and one of them was playing, just as if for 
 us. It was delightful to be walking along 
 a shady alley, with the thick carpet of dry 
 leaves rustling under foot, and stirring all 
 one's memories of the historic days of the 
 ancient regime, and to see suddenly at the 
 end of the vista a jet of water rise into the 
 air, and the autumn breeze shake it into 
 spray. Ordinarily on days when such a sight 
 is possible, a great crowd prevents one from 
 realizing that it is beautiful as well as spec- 
 tacular, and the same crowd and its move- 
 ment drives away the spectres of the past. 
 
 It was lucky I made this brief visit. If I 
 had not, I don't know what I could have writ- 
 ten to you about. It is the same old story of 
 patient waiting, of trying realization that 
 we are all used to of the slow movement and 
 the meagre results. The Allies are holding 
 the beast by the throat out there, and it 
 begins to look as if that were about all that 
 could be done until the boys from the States 
 are ready to go in and choke him. After all, 
 it is a pretty big job and the beast dies 
 hard. I am afraid he does not yet realize 
 that he is being choked. All I pray is that 
 he does not get away, and make another 
 bound. Not that it will matter except to 
 make us all mad.
 
 X 
 
 October 4, 1917 
 
 SEPTEMBER was not a bad month, except 
 that it led us nearer to the winter, which I 
 frankly dread. In two weeks it will be time 
 to light up the fires, not for the cheer to my 
 eyes, but from actual necessity, and I Ve 
 no fuel. 
 
 Already the garden is faded. The only 
 things still flowering are a few brave roses, 
 zinnias, and Indian pinks. Everything else 
 has been either cut back, or taken up. 
 
 I have done nothing this month except 
 the usual thing, studying a map of the front, 
 or wondering at what date Germany will 
 choose to fling the concentrated forces the 
 Russian debacle put at her disposal against 
 us. You seem to have not the smallest idea 
 of this possibility, since I note in your last 
 letter your remark " that Germany is in a 
 shocking state, and must break soon." I 
 wonder where you get that impression, and 
 wait for the moment sure to come, when your 
 eyes will be opened to the truth, that time 
 serves Germany as well as it serves us; that 
 if we are stronger to-day than we were in 
 1914, so is she; and that not until the States 
 
 [ 87 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 can actually put fighting men into the line is 
 there any hope of our doing more than we 
 have done so far hold the Boche. 
 
 Please God the time does not come when 
 we cannot. 
 
 Since I last wrote you I have made two 
 trips across the Marne to Juilly, to visit the 
 American hospital. Many of the nurses over 
 there have been very neighbourly since, nearly 
 two years ago, after the first offensive in 
 Champagne, two of them led Colonel Pelle- 
 tier over here one dreary rainy day to call. 
 He is General Pelletier to-day. He gave his 
 right arm to his country in that autumn fight 
 of 1915, and you may know him by name in 
 the States, as he was the first man to greet 
 General Pershing when he landed in France. 
 He speaks English as well as we do, the 
 case with so many colonial officers. Ever 
 since that afternoon I have had a sort of sen- 
 timent for Juilly. The nurses and doctors 
 have been rather neighbourly, but I have 
 never got up the energy to return their nice 
 visits. I liked the idea, that, not far away, 
 men and women of my race were working for 
 France, at a place that I could almost see 
 from my lawn. I can actually, on a clear 
 day, see Monge, the last town passed on the 
 road to Juilly. 
 
 It was not until I had two reasons to push 
 me that I made up my mind to go to Juilly. 
 
 First, Mademoiselle Henriette, whose 
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 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 service in our ambulance had deprived her 
 of all recreation, was anxious to see a big 
 modern war hospital, and I had it in my 
 power to gratify her. 
 
 Second, I had an old friend a priest 
 who is a professor in the College de Juilly, 
 part of which has been given up to the hos- 
 pital. This Abbe, not unknown in Boston, 
 he once taught there, had marched 
 away, with a gun on his shoulder, in the days 
 of September, 1914, but later, being deli- 
 cate, it was decided that he was more useful 
 as a teacher than as a poilu, and he sadly 
 took off his tunic and resumed his soutane. 
 
 The first visit led logically to the second. 
 Mademoiselle Henriette talked so much in 
 our modest little ambulance at Quincy of all 
 the wonders she had seen at Juilly, that our 
 Median-Chef, a clever Russian, was anxious 
 to see it, and I returned to introduce him and 
 the directress of the ambulance, who is the 
 wife of our Mayor. I made both visits in- 
 side of ten days. 
 
 You will begin to think that I am always 
 gadding. Well, it has been rather exciting 
 for the old lady these last weeks. I am 
 afraid that I was getting garden-bound, just 
 as the army is getting trench-bound, and, as 
 ruling passions are strong in death, in spite 
 of myself, my visits to Juilly took on a sort 
 of before-the-war historical-research spirit. 
 
 The College de Juilly, which has given 
 
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 up its dormitories to the hospital, is an his- 
 torical university founded by the Orateriens, 
 and situated in one of the most extensive and 
 picturesque parks in the department of the 
 Seine and Marne. It was in that college that 
 Stuart kings of England educated their male 
 offspring. There the Duke of Monmouth, 
 the over-ambitious and popular, beloved son 
 of Charles II, who made an almost success- 
 ful attempt to crowd his uncle off the throne, 
 was brought up, and there, also, the most 
 brilliant son of James II, the Duke of Ber- 
 wick whose mother, Arabella Churchill, 
 was a sister of the great Duke of Marl- 
 borough, got his education, to which he did 
 much honour. Perhaps it was a pity that he 
 was the illegitimate son. English literature 
 would have lost much of the romance that 
 Charles Edward and Bonnie Prince Charlie 
 inspired, but then also there would have been 
 no German blood in the English reigning 
 family. But perhapses are stupid. 
 
 We went out the first time in a rickety 
 taxi-auto, furnished by the woman at Meaux 
 who had taken me out on the battle-field in 
 December, just after the battle of the Marne. 
 We went by way of Mareuil, through 
 Meaux, to take a Senegalese, who had been 
 nursed in our hospital, back to his depot, and 
 from there, by the route Senlis, across the 
 battle-field, towards Supplets, where it began 
 on September fifth. 
 
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 It was a lovely day sunny, under a pale 
 blue sky, silent, with just a puffy little breeze. 
 The roads were deserted, as we ran along 
 through the wide fields. The only signs of 
 life were the big ploughs turning up the 
 ground for the winter wheat planting, 
 huge ploughs drawn by four and sometimes 
 six great white oxen, moving slowly in the 
 foreground, in the middle distance, and sil- 
 houetted on the hilltops against the sky-line, 
 guided by tall, sturdy, blond youths, in white 
 blouses, with a red band about their round 
 caps German prisoners. Their air was as 
 placid as that of the big oxen they were driv- 
 ing, and the glance they turned on us, as we 
 joggled by in our shaky taxi-cab, was as 
 mildly indifferent as that of their beasts. 
 There was no one in sight to guard them 
 there was no need. I am told that, as a rule, 
 they have no desire to escape that is to 
 say, the common soldiers have not. With 
 the officers it is different. Many of them 
 would get away if they could on account of 
 their careers. But the common soldiers are 
 good workers. They are treated well. The 
 fields of France are better than the trenches 
 and butchery. 
 
 I am not going to describe the hospital for 
 you. Don't think it. You, with your fifty- 
 page Sunday newspapers, and your number- 
 less magazines, get all of that sort of thing 
 which is good for you. 
 
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 I am afraid that Henriette was even more 
 impressed by the nurses and the orderlies 
 and the stretcher-bearers than she was by 
 the wonders of the hospital equipment. She 
 thought the American girls " so handsome, 
 and so smart," and they were, but, most 
 of all, at tea in the huge white refectory, she 
 was impressed by the cameraderie between 
 the men and women, as they sat together 
 over their tea. She had never seen anything 
 like that before in all her life. She thought 
 it charming* wished the French could ar- 
 rive at it, and declared the American 
 women the luckiest in the world, and I sup- 
 pose that she is not far wrong. 
 
 Some time in the future I shall take you to 
 Juilly. You will not see poilus done up in 
 bandages, or walking on crutches in the 
 winding streets of the old village, or lying on 
 their mattresses in the sun in the gardens, 
 or sitting about in the park. You will not see 
 the pretty picture which we saw from the win- 
 dow of the Abbe's study a white-robed, 
 white-coifed nurse, sitting on the pedestal 
 of the tall statue of Sainte Genevieve, with 
 her white-shod feet sticking straight out in 
 front of her, and her young head bent over 
 a writing-pad, while the setting sun flecked 
 the white figures with shadows from the 
 moving leaves of the big trees about her. I 
 felt as if a sculptor ought to do her as sym- 
 bolic. Monsieur I' Abbe remarked, " She 
 
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 ought to be writing verses, but I presume she 
 is only writing home." I felt myself that 
 the home letter was more appropriate, and 
 felt it a pity that the home people could not 
 have seen the picture the tired young 
 nurse, perhaps just escaped from the operat- 
 ing-room (into which I had been allowed to 
 peep, because the doctor I had hoped to see, 
 and one of the nurses whose visit I was re- 
 turning, were there, done up in gauze, and 
 unrecognizable, ), to write home in the 
 beautiful, stately, historic park, at the feet 
 of the patron saint, whose faith had turned 
 back the Hun of ancient times, and whose 
 Paris the poilus of to-day defend. But, 
 though you will not see that, you are sure to 
 find many reminders of the war days, in ad- 
 dition to the portrait of the well-known 
 American woman who founded and sustains 
 this great hospital, and which will for all 
 time hang there, with the portraits of the 
 great men whose names have been associated 
 with the college since its foundation. The 
 great park, the wonderful library, the fa- 
 mous Salle des Busies, the charming dining- 
 room with its carved wood walls and heavily 
 carved doors, and the terraced park, with its 
 noble trees and historic associations, will be 
 all the more attractive because it has been 
 the scene of a fine American effort, because 
 American doctors and American nurses have 
 for three years already paced its hall, keep- 
 
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 ing vigil by night and day, and rested their 
 tired nerves in the peaceful alleys of great 
 trees, adding their mite and one of the 
 noblest not only to the history of the place, 
 but to the cementing of the entente. I speak 
 of the Americans, but the nurses are not all 
 American. There are British, Canadians, 
 and Australians, and there are Belgians and 
 French, and I don't know how many nations 
 represented in the personnel of the hospital. 
 And as they have served the civilian popu- 
 lation as part of their work, Juilly will never 
 again be just the sort of place it was before 
 the war, for that matter, no place over 
 here will. 
 
 We made our return by a shorter route, 
 through Trilbardou, and across the Marne 
 at He de Villenoy, into Esbly. The bridge 
 across the Marne was one of those destroyed 
 in September, 1914. The old bridge was of 
 stone. The new one is a temporary one of 
 wood not wide enough for two teams to 
 pass. It is in the form of a broken letter Z, 
 so that when entering on one side it is im- 
 possible to see whether or not the bridge is 
 free. There should be a guard there. Once 
 there was, but there was none that day. It 
 is not a frequented road. So as we made 
 the first turn on the bridge, we found our- 
 selves face to face with a red cart drawn by 
 a tiny donkey. The donkey could not be 
 backed, anyway, he was further across 
 
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 the bridge than we were, so we had to 
 back off, and let him pass. It was rather a 
 ticklish operation, but easier with an auto 
 than it would have been with a horse. 
 
 The second visit was rather a repetition 
 of the first, except that the doctor took us 
 over in his car, and we went much more 
 quickly, and that we had two little adven- 
 tures en route. 
 
 The first was laughable, in a way. You 
 know there is no real hunting season any 
 more, and the fields are full of game. Part- 
 ridges and pheasants run about fearlessly. 
 They have forgotten the gun. Perhaps they 
 know that Man has too much else to do with 
 guns to bother them. It is very pretty to see 
 the partridges running in the fields, and not 
 flying often, when one is quite on them, 
 though it is such a menace to the crops. But 
 it was a hare that we started just out of 
 Meaux. It was going to cross the road when 
 we rounded a corner. I think it could have 
 made the other side, but it did not try. In- 
 stead, it started down the road ahead of us 
 to race the car. We were going about thirty 
 miles an hour, and the hare beat us for ten 
 minutes gaining all the time until he 
 got courage to side jump, and disappear in 
 the field. I never would have believed a 
 hare could make that pace, if I had not seen 
 him do it. 
 
 The second adventure was tragic. 
 
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 Just as we came in sight of Monge we saw 
 a smashed aeroplane lying in the field to the 
 south, not far from the road. We slowed 
 down long enough to make sure that it was 
 deserted. We knew it was a recent accident, 
 as there was no one near. It was a French 
 plane, for one broken wing displayed the tri- 
 coloured rosette. There was no one in sight 
 when we reached it but a white-bloused Ger- 
 man prisoner driving an ox-team in the field 
 on the other side of the road; but as we put 
 on speed again, we saw, coming towards us 
 in a cloud of dust, a French military car, 
 and as it approached we saw French officers 
 standing, looking off, ready to spring, and 
 knew that they were seeking for the machine. 
 We hurried away, to learn on arriving at 
 Juilly, ten minutes later, that the accident 
 had been seen from the upper ward windows, 
 and that the ambulance had been out, and 
 brought back the two men both dead. 
 
 Things like that do not upset one to-day 
 as they once did. But all the time I was 
 walking through the hospital, talking to the 
 poilns, I had the dead aviators on my mind. 
 It did seem so pitiful to have fallen to death 
 over the peaceful sunny fields of their be- 
 loved France, under the bovine eyes of a 
 German prisoner. To die in an air battle is 
 a different thing from dying like that, and 
 I could not but pity them, little as death 
 seems pitiful to me to-day. 
 
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 While I write all this I think of the 
 battle in Flanders, and of all that France is 
 enduring and must endure in the reforming 
 of her republicanism. Be sure she can do it. 
 All the pacifist disturbances have only shown 
 her the necessity, and meanwhile the world 
 at large is learning how to judge a nation by 
 the results of its efforts and not by the acts 
 of its individuals. I suppose those who be- 
 lieve that the beauty of life lies in the strug- 
 gle are right, but the trying part for me is 
 that it looks so much finer in history than it 
 does in the doing. That is probably because 
 I have not a great and calm mind. 
 
 [ 97 ]
 
 XI 
 
 October 10, 1917 
 
 I HAVE just come back from Paris. I 
 went up to see what could be done to amelio- 
 rate the situation for the winter. We are to 
 have almost no fuel. If I can keep a fire 
 going in the kitchen and manage a wood fire 
 for evenings in the salon, it will be about all 
 I can do. But I have laid in, by luck, some 
 petrole taken over from a friend who is 
 going to return to the States, so I have put 
 in two petrole stoves one to heat the break- 
 fast-table, and one upstairs, beside my type- 
 writer, so that I can write in moderate com- 
 fort. It is not a healthy heat but it is all 
 I can do. 
 
 Everything is calm here, in spite of the 
 battle going on in the north, and all the polit- 
 ical excitement in Paris. 
 
 I am sure that the American papers are 
 giving you all the details of the excitement 
 stirred up by Leon Daudet. I can only hope 
 he has not gone off half-cocked. The papers 
 give us no clue to the facts of the case. Un- 
 luckily, in all three of the principal books 
 which Daudet has published since the war 
 broke out, all rich reading, he has been 
 
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 so unbridled in his attacks on so many promi- 
 nent people, literary, mondial, and politi- 
 cal, that I can't help trembling. The sort 
 of attack he has often made on people about 
 whom I know something does not inspire me 
 with unquestioning confidence, although I 
 know that almost anyone put under the 
 microscope might give some such record as 
 Daudet gets with his humorous, often ugly, 
 southern temperament. No one questions 
 Daudet's patriotism, although he is an un- 
 qualified royalist, but then, every one has 
 always known that. It is the policy of his 
 paper. However, if the hearings now 
 secret are over and the most dangerous, 
 as well as one of the most brilliant, un- 
 scrupulous and wicked men in Paris, is 
 caught in the net, I shall feel that the ex- 
 citement, unfortunate and untimely as it is, 
 has been worth while. I cannot help feeling 
 that, in a sense, this is only the third act of 
 the Calmette-Caillaux affair which preceded 
 the war, in which Calmette was killed the 
 first of his party " mort pour la Paine" as 
 much as if he had been killed on the battle- 
 field. I suppose there is no such audacious 
 man in France as Joseph Caillaux. But 
 whether he is innocent enough to escape 
 always is the question. 
 
 It is rather a pity that France should have 
 to operate upon this ulcer in war-time. But 
 the sore has been gathering for a good while, 
 
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 and I suppose the sooner it is attended to 
 in a public clinic the better for the country, 
 army, government, public service and all. 
 It will probably empty out a lot of people 
 whom public life or life at all will not 
 know any longer. You can't deny that it 
 takes a plucky nation to gather round an 
 operating-table at such a time if they do, 
 and I believe they will. 
 
 The streets of Paris are full of American 
 boys in khaki, sombreros, and new tan gai- 
 ters, and all behaving as if they were here 
 for a sort of glorification. In a sense it is a 
 big adventure for them, and for some it will 
 be "the big adventure" to come over the 
 sea, all dressed up in new uniforms, to walk 
 about the streets of Paris, before going on 
 " out there." No one blames them for en- 
 joying it, any more than any one blames 
 them for looking rather like the supers in 
 a Charlie Frohman border drama. In fact 
 every one likes them, just as they are, and 
 the French are quite daft about them. It is 
 a case of " love at first sight," only I am told 
 that boys arriving after this are not likely to 
 see Paris until they come back from "out 
 there." 
 
 On my return trip from Paris I met a 
 young officer from the Pacific coast, who, in 
 the course of conversation, said to me : " It 
 is odd. These people do not look a bit like 
 us. They don't speak our language. I speak
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 very little of theirs. But somehow they arc 
 like us. I felt at home with them at once, 
 and every day I feel more at home. I don't 
 know why it is can't explain it." 
 
 So you see not all the boys are homesick, 
 as I feared they were. 
 
 Speaking of them the other day a young 
 French officer, who is in the aviation corps 
 in a camp near St. Nazaire, and who belongs 
 to the fleet which goes out to meet the Ameri- 
 can transports coming into a French port, 
 told me that his first westward flight to pro- 
 tect the incoming American troops was one 
 of the most thrilling days of his life. I got 
 quite excited myself listening to his descrip- 
 tion of the flight over the submarine zone to 
 meet the fleet, flying so low that he could see 
 the khaki-clad lads, in their life belts, packed 
 on the decks, waving their caps in the air, 
 and imagined he could hear their shouts of 
 "Five la France!" 
 
 I don't seem to be able to write about any- 
 thing to-day but " our boys." 
 
 As for that, every one talks about them, 
 and when any of the people here see them 
 passing on the grande route, you would 
 surely think, to hear the jabbering about it, 
 that they had brought the " Glory of the 
 Lord" with them. I hope they have. 
 
 Some of their experiences in getting our 
 men acclimated are funny enough. For ex- 
 ample, the friend with whom I make my
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 home in Paris is an unofficial " aunt" to any 
 number of American lads, the sons of her old 
 friends and otherwise. The other day she 
 had as an unexpected guest to dinner a 
 youngster from the flying corps. I went out 
 to buy a few things to supplement a war re- 
 past up to the appetite of a healthy boy, and 
 he went along with me to carry the bundles. 
 We ended in a cake-shop they are not 
 shut yet one of the prettiest in a smart 
 quarter, and I made a collection of things 
 which I thought a boy with a sweet tooth 
 would like, and could not get in camp. 
 When I went to the desk to pay, the cashier 
 mentioned the sum, but she added : " Mon- 
 sieur has been eating cakes ? " 
 
 Instinctively I said " No," to look round 
 and find him with his mouth full, and another 
 dainty poised at his lips. 
 
 " How many ? " I asked with a laugh. 
 
 "How many what?" 
 
 "How many cakes have you eaten?" 
 
 "These little things with petticoats? I 
 don't know. Three or four." I nodded to 
 the cashier. She mentioned the price, and, 
 as I paid it, he simply shouted: "What? 
 You are not going to pay for those piffling 
 little things? Why at home we always 
 sample these things in a shop." 
 
 " But you are not at home," I replied. 
 " We '11 discuss it outside," and in the street 
 I explained the French cake-shop system to 
 
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 him, to his deep amusement. He had only 
 been in Paris twenty-four hours, it was his 
 first visit, and this was his first appearance in 
 a cake-shop. He could not get over the " ab- 
 surdity," as he called it. 
 
 Many of the boys down in the camps near 
 Chalons have had the same difficulty in mas- 
 tering French ideas and traditions regarding 
 fruit hanging on trees. 
 
 You know the American boy's point of 
 view regarding fruit in our land, where or- 
 chards are big. It is half the fun of being a 
 boy. If the farmer catches the young ma- 
 rauders at work he chases them with whip 
 and bad words, or exercises his skill in throw- 
 ing stones. Boys put their thumbs to their 
 noses, give the traditional waggle with their 
 fingers, and cut for it. 
 
 Here in France it is a crime to steal fruit, 
 a crime for which one can be arrested, im- 
 prisoned, or fined and the law is enforced. 
 Until the harvest is over one cannot even 
 pick up an apple from the ground to which 
 it has fallen from a tree overhanging the 
 road, without risk of being punished. At 
 a certain date, fixed by the commune, the 
 town-crier beats his drum and announces the 
 harvest over, and after that date, fruit not 
 harvested can be picked up. 
 
 Of course the American boys had never 
 heard of this when they came. They know 
 all about it now. Some of them have had 
 
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 the fact very forcibly impressed on their 
 minds, to their deep disgust. 
 
 " What," exclaimed one youngster, " we 
 have come over to fight for these people, 
 and they won't let us pick up an apple? 
 What rot! " And it was just there that one 
 young American had it emphatically brought 
 home to him that he had not come over here 
 to " fight for these people," but to fight for 
 his own liberty, and that " these people " had 
 really been fighting for him for three years, 
 and he must hurry up and get ready to "go 
 in it" before "these people" were too ex- 
 hausted. I suppose it is absurd to put it that 
 way, because they are far from done up yet, 
 although if there were not something almost 
 superhuman in them, they would be. 
 
 Here we have been occupied, all of us, in 
 seeing what could be done to dress the chil- 
 dren for school this winter. 
 
 It is going to be a hard winter. 
 
 Many of these serious, thrifty women have 
 larger families than you think. We have 
 over sixty families in the commune who have 
 more than three children. There is one at 
 Joncheroy of eight, the oldest only twelve 
 and three pairs of twins. They run together 
 in summer, a dirty, gay, barelegged, bare- 
 footed troop, each in one ragged garment, 
 doing their little chores, picking up brush- 
 wood and dragging it home, with the tiniest 
 tot trotting after them. But when school be- 
 
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 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 gins, according to the French school regula- 
 tions, they must be cleaned and combed, and 
 shod, and I assure you they always are. But 
 it is hard work. Of course the French tra- 
 dition that puts all public school children 
 into the uniform black aprons is a great help. 
 
 In the three years since the war broke out 
 many of these women have had to spend 
 their savings. Many of them, with that 
 French love of owning land of which I have 
 written you, have invested their savings in 
 that way. A great many of them own an 
 extra house which they rent for 150 fr. to 
 250 fr. a year. But no rents have been paid 
 since the war began, and they can't eat their 
 houses, and would die before they would 
 sell. These are things that don't show on 
 the surface, and no one complains. How 
 can they when the refugees we always have 
 with us emphasize the fact that we who have 
 not lost our homes are lucky. So it was only 
 when it was time for the school to open that 
 it was discovered how many children had no 
 shoes, and the communal calsse de bienfai- 
 sance nearly empty. However, the Ameri- 
 cans came to our assistance, and the children 
 went to school. 
 
 Our food problem is going to be a hard 
 one. So far as I am personally concerned it 
 is better than it was last year, for I have a 
 greater variety of vegetables and plenty of 
 apples, and there again the women of the 
 
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 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 States have generously helped with con- 
 densed milk for the children and old people 
 and with large quantities of rice and prunes 
 and sugar and such things. So you see that 
 far away as I am from you in this quiet place 
 where we are always looking at the war, I 
 can still bear witness that the loving hearts 
 in the States are ever on the watch for our 
 needs. If it is more blessed to give than to 
 receive and I know it is there must be 
 many in the States who are happy in these 
 days of giving with both hands and full 
 hearts. 
 
 Tell me, over there, are you all for- 
 getting, as we are, how it used to be before 
 this war came? One thing I know, people 
 who expect when this is over to come back to 
 the France of before the war are going to be 
 mightily disillusioned. The France of the 
 old days is gone forever. I believe that all 
 over the world it will be the same. We none 
 of us shall get back to that, but I have faith 
 to believe that we are turning our faces 
 towards something much better. If we are 
 not, then all the great sacrifice has been in 
 vain. 
 
 It is getting cold and late, so this must 
 answer for to-day. 
 
 I hope this time I have talked about our 
 boys enough to suit you, though I am sure 
 you will always be calling for " more." 
 
 [ 106 ]
 
 XII 
 
 November I, 1917 
 
 IT would be laughable, if it were not 
 tragic, for me to recall how many times in 
 the last thirty-nine months I have said " these 
 are the worst days of the war." Well, each 
 month takes a step forward in endurance, 
 and each step forward bears witness to what 
 we can endure, if we must. Possibly the 
 future holds worse, but we don't know it. 
 
 The desertion of Russia tries our patience 
 even here in this quiet place. What must it 
 be like "out there"? Of course the Allies 
 have got to show great indulgence to Russia 
 it is that, or flinging the nation with its 
 great territory, undeveloped resources and 
 future wealth into the hands of Germany. 
 As it is, we can't do much except be patient 
 with them and arrange the matter after 
 we get through licking Germany. 
 
 Though I know, as I have known from 
 the first, that we were going to do it, I don't 
 deny that I study the map to-day with a nerv- 
 ous dread of what is before us on the road. 
 It becomes us to do that. I own to trembling. 
 Why not? We've got the first results of 
 the Russian downfall the terrific drive on 
 
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 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 Italy, and the loss of all they won in the 
 spring just so much work to do over 
 again. 
 
 Don't imagine for one moment that I think 
 that these things are disastrous. I don't. 
 But there is no use denying that they are 
 unfortunate, and that the loss of so many 
 men, so much material, and worst of all, the 
 methods by which it is done, are mightily 
 upsetting. It stirs still deeper the pacifist 
 sets and the cowards and cowardice has 
 no race. It sets the socialists running amuck. 
 It disturbs the army, of course, and that's 
 the worst of it. But can you wonder? I 
 repeat what I wrote you in a recent letter, 
 which you evidently had not received when 
 you wrote the one now before me received 
 yesterday, and dated October 5th, about 
 the time I must have been writing to you of 
 my visit to Juilly, that the political up- 
 heaval is not so important as you seem to 
 fear. 
 
 Anyway, it has comic opera episodes. 
 Here is one. 
 
 Leon Daudet, who, if he did not open the 
 ball, led the most important figure in the 
 dance, having dealt out domiciliary visits to 
 a number of prominent politicians, in true 
 revolutionary spirit, got the same thing 
 wished on him. In a counter attack he was 
 accused of preparing a royalist plot to over- 
 throw the republic. Of course, it never has 
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 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 been any secret that he would, if he could. 
 He does not love the present republic. Lots 
 of honest French people don't. Amelie 
 does n't. She is more royalist than the king. 
 But though Leon Daudet is no respecter of 
 accepted reputations, and has no bump of 
 reverence, he is no fool, and he is a far too 
 loyal Frenchman, and too ardently anxious 
 for an Allied victory, to undertake any such 
 stupid and impossible thing as a " restora- 
 tion," in these days of desperate fighting. 
 The accusation against him took the form 
 of the statement that a depot of arms des- 
 tined to put a royalist party in fighting trim 
 was found in his office. The depot of arms 
 was proved to be one of those ornamental 
 panoplies in which men delight as a decora- 
 tion. This contained among other things 
 five revolvers of various patterns, a dag- 
 ger in a sheath, two harmless weapons 
 marked as souvenirs of a royalist plot of 
 other days perhaps that of Deroulede in 
 the time of Felix Faure's death two coup 
 de poing Americain, and half a dozen old 
 pistolets of ancient history a pretty arma- 
 ment to equip royalist conspirators in these 
 days of the soixante-quinze and the hand- 
 grenade. Writers of comic opera ought to 
 take notice. Paris laughed, and so would 
 an audience. One thing is sure. Daudet has 
 scored the first laugh. It looks as if he 
 would score something more serious. We 
 
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 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 may see a procession of men whose faces 
 have been more or less familiar to the pub- 
 lic, and whose names are not unknown in 
 New York, up against a wall at Vincennes, 
 with a firing squad in front of them. I for 
 one hope so, for the good of the future.
 
 November 26, 191? 
 
 HERE we are, almost into December; one 
 could have no doubt of it, it has been so 
 cold, and I have absolutely no real fuel. We 
 have actually done what little cooking there 
 is over a fire of chips. Did you ever try to 
 do that? I suppose you have when you 
 camped out. That is a different thing. I 'd 
 adore to have you see Amelie. She arrives 
 with her felt shoes high ones in her 
 sabots. She has a knitted bolero over her 
 wrapper, a long knitted sweater over that, 
 and a big ulster to top her off, and a knitted 
 cap on her head. She does the cooking 
 such as it is in that attire. Of course this 
 means a fire for a couple of hours in the 
 morning the rest of the day no fire at all, 
 and cold suppers. It means going to bed 
 with the dark, and putting on mittens to 
 read in bed. In this inventive age, I do wish 
 some ingenious person would devise an auto- 
 matic book-holder, which would not only 
 hold the book at any angle, according to the 
 light needed, but turn the pages. 
 
 I 'd love to give you an atmospheric pic- 
 ture of what my little cold house looks like,
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 when I come downstairs in the morning. But 
 piercing chill though it is actually visible 
 cannot be pictured. 
 
 Of course I don't expect this condition to 
 last. I Ve cords and cords of wood ordered. 
 Some of it will come, I suppose, some day. 
 
 In all ways that I could I provided for 
 this. I am done up in flannel. I wear noth- 
 ing but velveteens, and am never without a 
 fur. I run about out of doors all I can 
 only it is so muddy. I have tried every year 
 to put sand on the garden paths, but have 
 never been able to get it hauled from the 
 He de Villenoy. If I only had had that, I 
 could follow what sun there is about the 
 house. 
 
 To sadden us all a little, our ambulance 
 has been closed, as are all the formations of 
 less than fifty beds, question of heat and 
 light. The tiny hospital has been a source 
 of great interest and diversion to all of us. 
 Ever since people knew it was here, every 
 one of the American organizations and a 
 great number of private people in the States 
 have taken a kindly interest in it the Red 
 Cross, the Comite pour les Blesses Frangais, 
 and so many others, like Mrs. Griggs of New 
 York, whose name became very familiar to 
 nurses and poilus, especially after she visited 
 them. In fact, the little Quincy hospital, 
 which always flew the Stars and Stripes on 
 all American fete days, was by its American
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 friends beautifully equipped and never 
 lacked for anything. 
 
 The boys were very happy there. I can't 
 tell you how they love being nursed in a small 
 ambulance. There is something so much 
 more intime, especially when they are con- 
 valescent, and can not only sit out in the 
 garden, but go to their meals in the huge 
 light refectory of the patronage of the town 
 a clean, square room, with well-scrubbed 
 deal tables about three sides, and the won- 
 derful cook herself a war widow pre- 
 siding over the big stove at the other end, 
 and all the white-clad nurses, including the 
 directress herself, distinguished by her blue 
 veil, presiding over the service. Needless 
 to say, the sort of cooking they got was quite 
 different from that possible in the huge hos- 
 pitals, and they appreciated it. 
 
 Well, it is closed, alas! and its history 
 entered in the record of the commune. We 
 shall all miss it. 
 
 As its end was not foreseen, there was con- 
 siderable material left over canned food, 
 condensed milk, as well as all the sheets and 
 clothing. So, three days after the closing 
 the commune having politely asked my con- 
 sent the town-crier beat his drum at the 
 cross-roads, and informed the people of the 
 two communes that the wives of men at the 
 front, war widows, and the refugees were 
 invited to present themselves at the Maine
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 next day, when the Maire would distribute 
 " les restes des dons Americains " remaining 
 at the ambulance. So the Stars and Stripes 
 were hung over the door of the Mairie, and 
 the distribution was made. 
 
 No one is going to feel the vide this will 
 make in our daily lives as much as Made- 
 moiselle Henriette, who, after three years of 
 arduous daily service, finds herself idle, and, 
 what she minds more, dressed as a civilian. 
 
 I imagine that we shall not keep her here 
 long. She has always consoled herself for 
 her humble position, while longing for a 
 front line hospital, with the fact that her 
 work was hard. So there is small prob- 
 ability of her reconciling herself to idleness. 
 
 This morning I had a splendid bonfire 
 burned up all the asparagus bushes in Pere's 
 garden. It was smoky work, but I got warm. 
 Now I am going to plant tulips, and pot 
 geraniums. This last is a joke. I do it every 
 year, but I rarely save any. I have no 
 proper place to put them away. I have tried 
 every place in the house and out, so you can 
 guess at the kind of cold we have here. This 
 year I have less space than usual, as the 
 arrangements for the winter cantonnements 
 are more extensive than they used to be. I 
 have had to clear out the cellar on the north 
 side, where I have always kept coal and 
 wood, to make a place there for twenty sol- 
 diers. So, if I get fuel, it will have to go
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 into the one on the west side, where I keep 
 my garden stuff. 
 
 We have had no cantonnement yet, though 
 there is a big one down the hill at Couilly 
 and St. Germain. 
 
 Yesterday I saw these men for the first 
 time. I went over to Voulangis by train, and 
 Amelie drove me to the station. On the 
 route nationals I met several soldiers stroll- 
 ing up the hill in a uniform that I did not 
 know, far the smartest French soldiers I 
 had ever seen, dark blue (almost black) 
 snug-fitting knee-breeches, tight tunics, brown 
 leggings and belts and black berets. Just 
 before we got to the foot of the hill I heard 
 music, and as we turned into Couilly we 
 found the street crowded, and saw, advanc- 
 ing from St. Germain toward the bridge over 
 the Morin, which separates the two villages, 
 a big military band filling the street from 
 sidewalk to sidewalk, the sun shining on their 
 brass instruments as the trumpeters whirled 
 them in the air. 
 
 It was a new experience for Ninette. I 
 don't believe she had ever seen anything like 
 it in all her long life. As it was impossible 
 to pass, I got out and went across the bridge 
 on foot. I had to thread my way through 
 the crowd, among whom were a great num- 
 ber of poilus in the same uniform, so I took 
 the first opportunity to ask what regiment it 
 was, to be told the Chasseurs Alpins. So
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 I have seen them at last, and a regiment 
 wearing a fotiragerc. 
 
 When I reached home that night I 
 drove from Voulangis I found Amelie just 
 putting Ninette up. I had left her at two 
 o'clock. I returned at seven. When I 
 asked where she had been, she told me that 
 she had put Ninette in the shed at the coal 
 man's, and followed the band to the square to 
 hear the music, the square is just across 
 the road, and that Ninette had enjoyed 
 the music, in fact she had danced all the time, 
 and was so tired that it had taken her nearly 
 an hour and a half to climb the hill. I sus- 
 pect that Amelie, who adores dancing, 
 judged Ninette by herself. 
 
 The atmosphere is rather vibrating here. 
 All this defeatist propaganda is trying to our 
 nerves and our tempers. It is logical enough, 
 but it is ringing the death knell of socialism 
 among the farmers. The real truth of the 
 tension, is, of course, the Russian situation. 
 There has been so much sentimentality about 
 Russia, and so much ignorance, and every 
 day seems to bring its own special disillusion. 
 At the time of the abdication of the Czar, 
 the event was given considerable dignity 
 here. Later, when the menace of the sepa- 
 rate peace began to loom up, with its libera- 
 tion not only of the soldiers on the Russian 
 frontier, but of the supposed-to-be millions 
 of German prisoners, optimists argued that 
 
 [ "6 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 the Germans who were in Russia at the time 
 of the revolution would be more likely to 
 sow revolution in Germany than docilely re- 
 enter the shambles. Error again. 
 
 My own head gets confused at times. 
 Can you wonder that these people about me 
 cannot see straight? We have all blundered 
 so. I cannot help asking myself if we shall 
 blunder on to the end. I really get weary 
 of hearing the peace terms of the Allies dis- 
 cussed. I know that it has to be, that it is 
 absolutely necessary, since the days of secret 
 diplomacy are over, that the truth of what 
 the Allied nations are struggling for and 
 must have should be kept eternally before 
 the eyes of the world lest they forget. 
 But I long so to think of nothing but licking 
 the Germans, and talking after that is done. 
 There are moments when I feel that every 
 one of us women and children as well as 
 men ought to be marching out towards 
 that battle-line if only to die there. I am 
 laughing while I write that sentence, for I 
 have a vision of myself limping along, carry- 
 ing a gun in both hands I could not lift 
 it with one and falling down, and having 
 to be carefully stood up again. We mere 
 lookers-on encumber the earth at this epoch 
 the epoch of the young and the active. 
 
 There was a time when we used to talk 
 of such things as nobility and chivalry. Both 
 are with us still. Poets and painters, ro-
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 mance writers and dramatists have glorified 
 both in the wars of the past, and shrined 
 them under a halo of immortality. The 
 future will do that for this war. 
 
 I am getting terribly impatient of words 
 of everything, in fact, but deeds. I am 
 beginning to feel as Amelie does. The other 
 day there was a criticism of a military opera- 
 tion in the English parliament, and she said, 
 impatiently : " Well, if I were Haig I would 
 simply reply, ' If you don't like the way I am 
 doing this thing, just get down off your cush- 
 ioned seats, and come out and face the guns 
 yourselves.' ' 
 
 She does not know whether the benches 
 in the House of Commons are cushioned or 
 not. For that matter, neither do I. It is a 
 short-sighted point of view, but I often feel 
 the same way myself.
 
 XIV 
 
 December 20, 1917 
 
 NEARLY a month since I last wrote. So I 
 suppose all through January I shall be getting 
 letters of reproach from you. I can't help 
 it, and I Ve not an excuse to throw at you, 
 simply had nothing to write about. Things 
 are happening every day, everywhere, but 
 I am not writing a history of the war, and 
 nothing happens here. We are simply hold- 
 ing on and smiling, and I suppose we shall 
 continue to do that until the boys from the 
 States are in real fighting trim. 
 
 The only piece of news at my house is that 
 my little kitty, Didine, is dead, and buried on 
 the top of a hill in Pere's garden under a 
 white lilac bush. It is absurd to grieve in 
 these days for a cat, but he was the only 
 affectionate cat I ever knew. I miss him ter- 
 ribly, especially in the evenings, when he 
 always sat on my knee while I read. 
 
 My English friends at the cantine of 
 Meaux have moved on toward the front to 
 a place called Serche, near Baisne, in the 
 Aisne, in the part of the territory liberated 
 last March. There they have a wonderful 
 foyer for two thousand soldiers, a cantonne-
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 ment library, concert hall, tennis courts, 
 tea rooms in fact everything which can 
 help the soldiers to feel at home and cared 
 for. 
 
 I had a letter from them yesterday, telling 
 me that they had arrived safely with their 
 saddle-horse and their dog, and that they 
 had a royal reception, that they had found 
 their little house all ready, a pretty de- 
 mountable structure for everything there 
 had been destroyed, painted green, and 
 most attractively placed. The letter added, 
 "There were flowers everywhere even 
 bouquets in each of our bedrooms but, 
 alas ! there were no wash hand-bowls." 
 
 I loved that. It is so adorably French. 
 
 I am sure that you are just as much im- 
 pressed as we are with the idea that the Eng- 
 lish have taken Jerusalem. Shades of Rich- 
 ard Coeur de Lion ! Just think of General 
 Allenby marching his army piously into the 
 Holy City, and writing his name in history 
 along with St. Louis and all the bands of 
 Crusaders. Yet we are all too occupied with 
 nearer things to do more than turn our eyes 
 in that direction, give a thought to the stir- 
 ring visions it calls up, and then mentally re- 
 turn to the nearer battle-field. 
 
 I am going up to Paris for Christmas. I 
 am urged, and there seems to be no reason 
 why I should not, or for that matter, why 
 I should. I will write as soon as I return. 
 [ 120 ]
 
 XV 
 
 January 15, !Qi8 
 
 AGAIN it is more than three weeks since 
 I wrote, but this time I really am not to 
 blame. 
 
 I wrote you that I was going up to Paris 
 to spend Christmas. I fully intended to be 
 back here before New Year's Day, which is 
 the great French fete day. It was very cold 
 when I left here, and every day the mercury 
 dropped a little lower, until it began to snow, 
 with the result that I was not able to leave 
 Paris until January 5th. 
 
 I had telegraphed Amelie that I would be 
 back on Thursday, the 27th, but the weather 
 was so bad that it was impossible, and I sent 
 word that I would let her know when to 
 expect me as soon as the snow stopped. 
 Several days went by before it seemed wise 
 to start, and then when I telegraphed, 
 Amelie replied that I was to stay where I 
 was until our roads were in better condition, 
 that the hill was a sheer sheet of ice, and that 
 neither the horse nor the donkey could pos- 
 sibly climb it. 
 
 So there I was stranded in Paris. By the 
 Friday after New Year's, I began to feel
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 pretty desperate, when suddenly there came 
 a call on the telephone, and there was Made- 
 moiselle Henriette in Paris. She said she 
 had just arrived, and that she was going back 
 in the morning; that the 21 5th infantry had 
 arrived and was cantonned in the commune, 
 that the Captain was going to send a military 
 wagon to the station in the morning to fetch 
 her, and that she had told Amelie that she 
 should bring me back, if I wanted to come, 
 and of course I did. 
 
 So Saturday at noon I was in the train, 
 where I discovered that the wagon was to 
 meet us at Esbly, not Couilly. Mademoi- 
 selle Henriette was a little upset when she 
 saw my surprise. You see she is young and 
 vigorous, and in good weather she never 
 thought of taking the train at Couilly. She 
 gaily footed it to Esbly, five miles away. She 
 had not even thought how much easier it 
 would have been for the horses to take us 
 from Couilly two miles of hill instead of 
 five. 
 
 At Esbly we found the wagon awaiting us. 
 You ought to have seen me boosted into it. 
 I sat on a box in the back, so that the adju 
 tant who drove and Mademoiselle Henriette 
 could shelter me a bit, we had no covers. 
 My, it was cold ! The wind blew a gale 
 from the north. The road was a sheet of 
 ice, and the poor horse pulled and tugged 
 and slipped. The steepest part of it was 
 [ 122 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 through the town of Conde, and I never real- 
 ized how steep that road was until I saw the 
 horse being led and pushed up it that terribly 
 cold day. 
 
 I reached home about frozen, to find the 
 house looking gay, and a huge fire in the 
 salon, but no Amelie. They told me she 
 had supposed we were coming by Couilly and 
 had gone on foot to meet us, with rugs and 
 foot-warmer. She got back about ten min- 
 utes after we did in such a state of perspi- 
 ration, lugging the big foot-warmer, full of 
 hot charcoal, wrapped in a big carriage-rug. 
 I expected her to fuss, after making a trip of 
 nearly four miles on foot, carrying such a 
 bundle. But she did not. I sat behind a 
 screen by the fire and thawed out. In spite 
 of the fire the house was a refrigerator. 
 Amelie told me there had been hot-water 
 bottles in my bed all day, as the sheets were 
 so cold she was afraid I would get a conges- 
 tion ; I did not. But I slept with a hot-water 
 bottle in my arms and a hot brick in each of 
 the bottom corners of my bed. 
 
 The presence of the 21 5th makes the place 
 very gay again. It is a crack regiment from 
 the north. Most of the men and fully half 
 of the officers are from Lille men who 
 have practically had no news from their 
 families since August, 1914. 
 
 I had a war tea the Sunday after I got 
 home six officers and Mademoiselle Hen- 
 
 [ 123 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 riette sitting round the table and we 
 talked morals and history, philosophy and 
 literature no war. 
 
 There are some charming men in the regi- 
 ment men who in civil life are bankers, 
 lawyers and manufacturers almost no pro- 
 fessional soldiers. In the ranks are some of 
 the most amusing poilus I have yet encoun- 
 tered. For instance, there is a bombardier, 
 with a gold bomb on his sleeve, though I 
 neglected to ask what it meant. He speaks 
 English, and when he heard that there was 
 an English-speaking woman in the commune 
 he felt that he ought to come and present his' 
 respects. He came, and gave me a few as 
 hearty laughs as I have had since the war 
 began. 
 
 He was a queer type. He was pure 
 French born in Lille of French parents, 
 but taken to England when he was very 
 young by a widowed mother, sent to school 
 there, and his home is still at St. Helier, 
 where he left a wife and baby. 
 
 I wish you could have heard him, in the 
 broadest cockney English, tell the tale of his 
 difficulties in getting himself enrolled in the 
 French army. 
 
 Born in France, brought up in England, 
 never knowing a word of French until he was 
 out of school, he had never taken out English 
 naturalization papers, and never intended to. 
 
 A few years before the war broke out 
 
 [ 124 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 at the age of eighteen, he left Jersey, and 
 came to France to offer to do his military 
 service. He spoke almost no French, and 
 fell in with an officer who did not care to 
 bother with him, as he did not seem to be 
 very well able to explain what he wanted. 
 He did not have the proper papers. He did 
 not know what he needed, or how to get 
 them. He only knew that he had arrived at 
 the age when a Frenchman ought to be in a 
 caserne. No one else seemed to care a rap 
 whether he was or not, so he went back to 
 Jersey, with his feelings very much hurt. He 
 had wanted to do his duty. No one cared. 
 So he went back to his farm, took off his store 
 clothes, put on his blouse, and practically 
 felt, " Devil take my native land." 
 
 Well, not long after that it looked as 
 though the devil was going to obey him. 
 Once more he went to Lille. Again he pre- 
 sented himself. This time war had begun, 
 and he was looked upon as " suspect." How 
 dare a man speaking English and French 
 equally atrociously, and with no proper 
 papers, claim to be a Frenchman? This 
 time he was madder still. The military au- 
 thorities did not know anything about him. 
 Apparently they did want him. A sympa- 
 thetic drill sergeant suggested that if he were 
 anxious to fight there was always the Foreign 
 Legion, and no questions asked. 
 
 "No, I'll be hanged if I do," he said to 
 
 [ 125 1
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 himself. " I '11 enlist in the English army." 
 So off he went to London. But in London 
 it was necessary to lie. If he told the re- 
 cruiting officer there that he was born a 
 Frenchman, of course he could not take him. 
 He began by saying he was English, born at 
 St. Helier, but he was not a neat liar, and he 
 soon got so twisted up that he was frightened, 
 broke down, and told the truth; explained 
 that he had twice been to France, but as he 
 had no birth certificate, was not even sure 
 of the date, etc., had never lived in France 
 since he was a baby, had no idea how to 
 go to work to put himself en regie, so, as he 
 wanted to fight, he had thought that England 
 might take him. 
 
 The recruiting officer in London was sym- 
 pathetic. He took down the facts, and told 
 the lad to go home and wait until the matter 
 could be straightened out. But the war was 
 a year old before he was finally called, and 
 entered as the rawest kind of a raw recruit. 
 
 The story itself is amusing, but you should 
 have heard him tell it half in cockney Eng- 
 lish, and half in barrack-room French. It 
 was killing. I heard more words that were 
 new to me than I have heard in an age. I 
 wanted to stop him every two minutes, and 
 either get a slang dictionary or call for a 
 word-of-mouth translation. But he talked so 
 fast, and gesticulated so that I managed to 
 get it. I nearly upset myself trying not to 
 [ 126 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 laugh while he described his early days of 
 hurried training. He visualized himself 
 standing the first day with the contents of his 
 sac about his feet, trying in vain to remem- 
 ber the names of all the articles, and to get 
 them back compactly into the sac, from 
 which the drill corporal had tumbled them. 
 He was even funnier when he told about his 
 efforts to conquer military etiquette, to 
 salute the proper person and recognize his 
 rank at sight, never to salute when he had 
 on no head covering, for every one to him 
 was " mister " and he had never even heard 
 of the shades in salutation. 
 
 But if he was awkward in many ways com- 
 pared to some of his comrades, the moment 
 he got a bomb or a grenade into his hand it 
 was another matter. There he had the ad- 
 vantage of having played English sports all 
 his life. I never realized that he was a fine 
 type until I saw him giving a lesson in bomb- 
 throwing out in the fields. When he straight- 
 ened up and swung his arm into the air, I 
 appreciated that he was a fine type and 
 graceful. 
 
 The intense cold shows signs of moderat- 
 ing. My tulips are beginning to come up. 
 
 At last Caillaux is in the Sante, waiting to 
 be tried for high treason. Well, it is a com- 
 fort. He ought to be left there in silence, 
 isolated and forgotten, until the war is over. 
 But, alas ! although this is really no time for 
 
 [ 127 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 an operation on the great scandal and clear- 
 ing up the terrible plotting of which he is 
 possibly the centre, it has to be done. We 
 have been bringing into force all kinds of 
 laws to prevent holding him in silence. 
 Merely the habeas corpus is enough. Some 
 of our most prized reforms are inconvenient 
 at times, aren't they? 
 
 [ 128 ]
 
 XVI 
 
 February i, 1918 
 
 THIS morning it looks to me as if all we 
 have been dreading since the Russians de- 
 serted us is likely to come true. One thing 
 is certain. The German offensive is not 
 going to be long retarded, and what is surer 
 still is that it is going to be preluded by a des- 
 perate German effort to terrorize the civil- 
 ians, and break the morale en arriere. Of 
 course that is another bit of false psychol- 
 ogy. There is nothing which pulls the 
 French together like a blow. 
 
 Of course you know that Paris has enjoyed 
 a strange immunity from air raids. While 
 England has been attacked night after night, 
 Paris has been spared. I 'd hate to tell you 
 of all the theories I have heard exploited in 
 explanation. I Ve had some theories myself. 
 There were people who believed that the 
 defences of Paris could not be passed by the 
 German air fleet. I had for a time the illu- 
 sion that perhaps this was true, until I was 
 told one day by an aviator that the German 
 fleet in the air could attack Paris whenever it 
 was ready, and, that while aerial methods 
 of attack had made great progress in the 
 
 [ 129 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 past three years, no method of defence was 
 by any means a sure protection. 
 
 On dit that the reason for the persistent 
 action against England is explained by the 
 hesitation of the French to follow England's 
 example and give the Germans tit for tat by 
 attacking the Rhine towns. As the German 
 civilians are much more nervous than either 
 the French or English it was necessary to 
 terrorize the latter if possible, and it has 
 not worked. Also, in spite of the reluctance 
 of the French, they have lately been follow- 
 ing England's sturdy lead. It has got to be 
 done. The curse will fall on the nation 
 which began it Germany. 
 
 I imagine that, when the cable carried the 
 news to you yesterday that, after a long 
 freedom from air raids, Paris had been seri- 
 ously attacked Wednesday night, and that 
 the raid had lasted well into Thursday morn- 
 ing, you little dreamed that I had stood in 
 my garden, and saw or rather heard, 
 it all. But I did, and I can assure you that 
 it was an experience that I never expected to 
 have. 
 
 On Wednesday night I went to bed early. 
 I must have got to sleep about eleven. If 
 I do not sleep before midnight there is a 
 strong possibility of my not sleeping at all, 
 one of my old-age habits. My first sleep 
 is very sound. 
 
 I wakened suddenly with the impression 
 
 [ 130 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 that I heard some one running along the ter- 
 race under my window. I sat up and listened, 
 half believing that I had been dreaming, 
 when I saw a ray of light in the staircase 
 my door was open. 
 
 I called out, " Qui est la?" 
 
 Amelie's trembling voice replied, " C'est 
 moi, madame" and I had the sudden wide 
 vision of possibilities, which I am told is like 
 that of a drowning man, for I realized that 
 she was not coming to me in the middle of 
 the night for nothing, when she appeared in 
 the doorway, all dressed, even to her hood, 
 and with a lighted candle in her hand. 
 
 "Oh, Madame," she exclaimed, "you 
 were sleeping? You heard nothing? " And 
 at that moment I heard the cannon. " Oh, 
 mon Dieu, Madame, what is happening out 
 at the front? It is something terrible, and 
 you slept! " 
 
 I listened. 
 
 ' That is not at the front, Amelie," I ex- 
 claimed. " It is much nearer, in the direction 
 of Paris. It's the guns of the forts." At 
 that moment a bomb exploded, and I knew 
 at once. " It 's the Gothas, Amelie. Give 
 me something to put on. What time is it?" 
 
 " Nearly midnight," she answered. 
 
 It took me less than ten minutes to dress 
 it was bitterly cold and I wrapped my- 
 self in my big military cloak, put a cap over 
 my tumbled hair, and a big fur round my
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 neck, grabbed my field glasses, and went out 
 into the orchard, which looks directly across 
 the fort at Chelles in the direction of Paris. 
 
 It was a beautiful night, cold and still, 
 white with moonlight, and the sky spangled 
 with stars. For three hours we stood there, 
 Pere and Amelie and I, listening to that 
 bombardment, seeing nothing ignorant of 
 what was going on. The banging of the 
 guns, the whirring of the moteurs, the ex- 
 ploding of shells seemed over us and around 
 us yet we could see nothing. It only took 
 us a little while to distinguish between the 
 booming of the guns at Chelles and Vau- 
 clure, endeavouring to prevent the Gothas 
 from passing, by putting up barrage firing, 
 and the more distant bombs dropped by the 
 flyers that had arrived near or over the city. 
 
 It was all the more impressive because it 
 was so mysterious. At times it seemed as if 
 one of three things must have been happen- 
 ing either that we were destroying the 
 fleet in the air, or they were destroying us, 
 or that Paris was being wiped out. It did 
 not, during those hours that I stood there, 
 seem possible that such a cannonading could 
 be kept up without one of these results. It 
 was our first experience, and I assure you 
 that it was weird. The beauty of the night, 
 the invisibility of the machines, our absolute 
 ignorance of what was going on, the hum- 
 ming of the moteurs overhead, the infernal 
 
 [ 132 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 persistent firing of the cannon and the terrific 
 explosion of the bombs, followed, now and 
 then, by a dull glow in the west, was all so 
 mysterious. As the long minutes crept by, 
 we began to notice details, for instance, 
 that the air battle moved in waves, and we 
 easily understood that meant several squad- 
 rons of German machines, and we could 
 finally, though we could see nothing dis- 
 tinctly, realize by the firing that they ap- 
 proached, met the guns of the forts passed 
 over or through the barrage curtain, or re- 
 tired, and tried again, then, having dropped 
 their bombs, swept more to the west, and 
 gave place to another attacking squadron. 
 They seemed finally to retire in the direction 
 of Compiegne and Soissons, pursued by gun 
 fire from the forts. 
 
 It was four o'clock when we finally went 
 into the house, leaving silence under the stars 
 and the moonlit night. Amelie stirred up 
 the embers, threw on a little wood, put the 
 screen around me, made me a hot drink and 
 I sat there to wait for daybreak. It seemed 
 strange to go out of doors in the morning, 
 and see nothing changed, after such a night. 
 
 We waited impatiently for the morning 
 papers. They contained nothing but the 
 mere fact that Paris had been bombarded by 
 Gotlms. There had been victims and dam- 
 age, but in comparison with the effort, the 
 result had been unimportant. Out of the 
 
 [ 133 1
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 twenty-eight German machines which had 
 taken part in the attack, only one had been 
 brought down that fell near Vaires, not 
 far from Chelles. 
 
 This was our first experience of the sort, 
 and I could not help feeling puzzled that so 
 much heavy firing could go on, and out of 
 twenty-eight machines only one be touched. 
 But that was only my first impression. I 
 knew when I came to think it over that it was 
 not easy in the night to do more than try to 
 keep the enemy off. The more I thought it 
 over the more I became convinced that up to 
 now there is no very effective way of prevent- 
 ing night air raids. 
 
 My letters which came this morning gave 
 me some details of the raid, saying enough to 
 let me guess what parts of the city were 
 reached. They penetrated as far as the 
 Avenue de la Grande Armee, and dropped 
 bombs also in the vicinity of the Halles, and 
 the Gare de Lyons. Every one writes that 
 Paris is perfectly calm, although it is evident 
 that the government judging by the rapid- 
 ity with which it is preparing systematic pro- 
 tection for its population, believes this to 
 be but the beginning of another desperate 
 attempt to break the morale of the country. 
 
 There are people at Voisins who claim to 
 have seen the Gotha that fell at Vaires. Per- 
 haps they did. I did not. 
 
 To-day has been a chilling day. This 
 
 [ 134 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 morning we went on bread rations one 
 pound a day. It is enough for me. 
 
 I have planted my climbing sweet peas. I 
 ought to have done it in October. I don't 
 know why I didn't, any more than I really 
 know why I bothered to-day. One must not 
 let one's self grow idle. I know that. But 
 I hate having life become mechanical. The 
 strain is beginning to tell, and I hate to feel 
 that. 
 
 C 135 ]
 
 XVII 
 
 February 20, 1918 
 
 THREE weeks again. Sorry. 
 
 Mademoiselle Henriette is getting ready 
 to go to Salonique, where nurses are needed. 
 Ever since our ambulance closed she has been 
 very restless, and it grows on her. She had 
 been so accustomed to wearing a uniform, 
 with three years' service brisques, on her left 
 arm, and to feeling herself a part of the 
 great army of defence, that to walk about in 
 civilian clothes seems to her stupid, and I 
 don't wonder. 
 
 Her discontent culminated the other day, 
 when we had a very interesting cantonne- 
 ment. The regiment arrived at nine o'clock 
 one evening, and there was a military mass 
 at the little church at Quincy at nine the next 
 morning. One of the captains, a priest, and 
 among the bravest men in a brave regiment, 
 preached a remarkable sermon. Every one 
 went, and of course the little church was not 
 a quarter big enough. The soldiers knelt on 
 the green in front of both doors, and even in 
 the road for the elevation. It was a very 
 touching sight. The regiment had just come 
 out of the firing line. 
 
 [ 136 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 Poor Henriette, in her tailored dress and 
 hat, felt terribly out of it, she who, a few 
 months ago, would have been kneeling 
 among the soldiers in her white coife, with 
 the red cross on her forehead. She was near 
 to tears when she remarked that no one in 
 the regiment knew that she, too, had given 
 three years of her life to the cause. So she 
 must get back into the ranks, and it looks like 
 Salonique, a hard post, but it means sac- 
 rifice, and that is what she wants. 
 
 Thus far this month the weather has been 
 delightful, and, though mornings and eve- 
 nings have been chilly, there have been many 
 days when I have not needed a fire, and be 
 sure I am grateful for that. 
 
 On St. Valentine's Day I went up to Paris 
 just to change my ideas. I had not been 
 up since that terribly cold spell which ended 
 early in January. So I had not seen the city 
 since the big air raid. Every one had writ- 
 ten me details about the changed appearance 
 of the city details as often comic as other- 
 wise. I was curious to see for myself. Curi- 
 osity killed a cat, you know. 
 
 Well, there are changes, of course, but one 
 has rather to hunt for them. Everywhere 
 if one looks for them large white cards 
 are hung on doorways. On them are printed 
 in large black letters the words " ABRIS 
 60 personnes" or whatever number the 
 cellars will accommodate, and several of the 
 
 [ 137 J
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 underground stations bear the same sort of 
 sign. These are refuges designated by the 
 police, into which the people near them are 
 expected to descend at the first sound of 
 the sirenes announcing the approach of the 
 enemy's air fleet. 
 
 More striking than these signs are the 
 rapid efforts being made to protect some of 
 the more important of the city's monuments. 
 They are being boarded in, and concealed 
 behind bags of sand. You 'd love to see it. 
 Perhaps you have, already, for I am sure 
 that some enterprising photographer is 
 busy preserving the record. Sandbags are 
 dumped everywhere, and workmen are fever- 
 ishly hurrying to cover in the treasures, and 
 avoid making them look too hideous. They 
 would not be French if they did not try, here 
 and there, to preserve a fine line. 
 
 The most important group on the facade 
 of the Opera is thus concealed. You remem- 
 ber it, on the north-east corner Car- 
 peaux's "La Danse." Of course you do, 
 because don't you remember we went and 
 looked at it together at the time Helene de 
 Racowitza's suicide recalled the woman who 
 posed for the figure of Apollon in the group 
 she who caused the duel in which Ferdi- 
 nand Lasalle was killed, and whose affair 
 with him inspired George Meredith's 
 "Tragic Comedians." Poor Helene, I im- 
 agine she was a much more feeble character 
 
 [ 138 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 than Meredith drew her, but she was a 
 beauty of the Third Empire sort, and the 
 shadow of great men fell over her, and made 
 her immortal as an idea, although she out- 
 lived husbands, and lover, youth, beauty, and 
 prestige. Still, one cannot pity too much the 
 woman over whom a famous author threw 
 a mantle of greatness during her lifetime. 
 It was unfortunate that she could not have 
 lived up to it. She tried hard at the time 
 that she wrote " Princesse et Comedienne," 
 but the difficulty was that in her memoirs she 
 got herself terribly mixed up with the liter- 
 ary portrait Meredith drew of her. 
 
 The Rude group on the Arc de Triomphe, 
 the only real work of art in its ornamenta- 
 tion, has also gone into retirement, and so 
 have the doors on the west front of Notre 
 Dame, and famous equestrian Louis XIV 
 groups from Marly-le-Roi, which adorn the 
 entrance to the Champs-Elysees, and the en- 
 trance to the Tuileries garden opposite. The 
 latter have funny little chalets built over 
 them. 
 
 You might think that rough work of this 
 sort would disfigure the city we love. But 
 on my word, it does not. I really believe I 
 love it all the better, dear, menaced Paris. 
 Perhaps it is because it has been and still is, 
 in danger, that we realize anew the immortal 
 charm. I cannot put into words just how I 
 feel about it, but I imagine you will under- 
 
 [ 139 1
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 stand. Every one of those hoardings and 
 all these sacks of sand seem like italics to 
 draw my attention to how dear it all is to 
 me. We are so prone to take the beauty we 
 find in life as a matter of course. 
 
 Possibly you, who have not seen Paris for 
 four years, might find more changes than I 
 do, who have watched it all the time. 
 
 I often wonder how it would look to you, 
 who only knew it in its better days. I have 
 no way to establish a standard. I have seen 
 the change, of course but only little by 
 little, and never losing any of the charm. If 
 it is really much altered I don't know it. 
 Just as one has to shake one's self hard to 
 realize the slow changes which time brings to 
 the faces of those whom we love, so am I 
 unconscious of the changes the war has 
 brought on Paris. I know that in some parts 
 of the city there are fewer people in the 
 streets. I know that in the centre of the city 
 one finds still much movement, though it has 
 changed its character. The soldiers of all 
 nations have done that. To me it has never 
 looked more beautiful than it does in these 
 days. Its loveliness simply strikes terror to 
 my heart for fear of what might be, now 
 that the Germans are so desperate. 
 
 My visit was not altogether a peaceful 
 one. 
 
 Perhaps I never told you that one of my 
 Paris friends, whenever she thinks I am stay- 
 
 [ 140 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 ing away from town too long, has a habit 
 of writing to me, and promising that if I 
 will come up to town they will try and ar- 
 range an air raid for me. I never had hap- 
 pened to be there during one. She used to 
 say, " You really have seen so much, that it 
 would be a pity not to be in one of these 
 raids before the war ends." Of course, that 
 was before the attack of January. Since 
 then, there has been no need to arrange such 
 a thing merely as experience. I have had it. 
 
 All the same; they brought it off on Sun- 
 day night the I7th. Thank you, I did not 
 enjoy it at all. It was an absolutely in- 
 effective raid, as far as doing any damage 
 went. But we did not know that while it 
 was going on. I would not have believed 
 that so much noise could do so little harm. 
 
 Of course the papers tell you how calm 
 Paris is. It is. But don't let that lead you 
 to suppose that an air raid is anything but a 
 very nasty experience. I imagine that very 
 few people are afraid of death to-day. Few 
 as the air raids have been, Parisians have 
 already learned that the guns for the defence 
 make most of the noise. The explosion of 
 the bombs, if rarer, is a more terrible sound. 
 But what is hard to bear, is the certainty 
 that, although you are safe, some one else 
 is not. 
 
 I suppose that if I don't tell you what we 
 did and how we passed the night, you '11 ask 
 
 [ HI ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 me later, and then I may have forgotten, 
 or had first impressions overlaid by other 
 events. 
 
 Well, Sunday evening we had just gone to 
 bed. It was about ten o'clock. I was read- 
 ing quietly when I heard a far-off wailing 
 sound. I knew at once what it was. My 
 hostess and I tumbled out of our beds, un- 
 latched the windows so that no shock of air 
 expansion might break them, switched off all 
 the lights and went on the balcony just in 
 time to see the firemen on their auto as they 
 passed the end of the street, sounding the 
 " Gare a vous," on their sirenes, the most 
 awful, hair-raising wail I have ever heard 
 like a host of lost souls. Ulysses need 
 not have been tied to the mast to prevent his 
 following the song of this siren ! 
 
 We were hardly on the balcony, when, in 
 an instant, all the lights of the city went out, 
 and a strange blackness settled down and 
 hugged the housetops and the very sidewalk. 
 At the same instant the guns of the outer 
 barrage began to fire, and as the night was 
 cold, we went inside to listen, and to talk. 
 
 I wonder if I can tell you who are never 
 likely to have such an experience how it 
 feels to sit inside four walls, in absolute dark- 
 ness, listening to the booming of the defence, 
 and the falling of bombs on an otherwise 
 silent city, wakened out of its sleep. 
 
 It is a sensation to which I doubit if any
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 of us get really accustomed this sitting 
 quietly while the cannon boom, and now and 
 then an avion whirs overhead, or a venture- 
 some auto toots its horn as it dashes to a 
 shelter, or the occasional voice of a gen- 
 darme yells angrily at some unextinguished 
 light, or a hurried footstep on the pavement 
 tells of a passer in the deserted street, brav- 
 ing all risks to reach home. 
 
 I assure you that the hands on the clock- 
 face simply crawl. An hour is very long. 
 This raid of the iyth lasted only three quar- 
 ters of an hour. It was barely half-past 
 eleven when the berloque sounded from the 
 hurrying firemen's auto the B-flat bugle 
 singing the " all clear," and, in an instant, 
 the city was alive again, noisily alive. 
 Even before the berloque was really audible 
 in the room where we sat, I heard the people 
 hurrying back from the abris, doors 
 opened and banged, windows and shutters 
 were flung wide, and the rush of air in the 
 gas pipes told that the city lights were on 
 again. 
 
 I don't find that the people are at all panic- 
 stricken. Every one hates it. But every 
 one knows that the chances are about one 
 in some thousands, and takes the chance. 
 I know of late sitters-up, who cannot change 
 their habits, and who keep right on playing 
 bridge during a raid. How good a game it 
 is I don't know. Well, one kind of bravado 
 
 [ 143 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 is as good as another. Among many people 
 the chief sensation is one of boredom it is 
 a nuisance to be wakened out of one's first 
 sleep; it is a worse nuisance to have proper 
 saut de lit clothes ready; and it is the worst 
 nuisance of all to go down into a damp cellar 
 and possibly have to listen to talk. But, oh 
 my! what a field for the farce-comedy writer 
 of the days after the war. It takes but little 
 imagination to conjure up the absurdities of 
 such a situation that the play-maker can com- 
 bine in the days when these times can be 
 looked at from a comic point of view. 
 
 I came back from town on the i8th. I 
 found everything quiet here. The only news 
 is that my hens are beginning to lay but 
 so are every one's. While my hens did not 
 l a Y> eggs went up to fifteen cents a piece. 
 To-day, when I get three dozen a week, I 
 can buy them, two for five cents. The eco- 
 nomics of farming get me. There must be 
 a way of making hens lay all the year round. 
 It is to be one of my jobs next year to learn 
 the trick. 
 
 [ 144 ]
 
 March g, 1918 
 
 WELL, we have been having some very 
 droll weather, and the weather is a safe 
 topic, especially when you seem to read be- 
 tween the lines of my letters that I am get- 
 ting demoralized, and at what you choose to 
 call an unnecessary moment, with so many of 
 "our boys" landing every week. That's 
 all right, but though they are here, they arc 
 not ready, and there you are. 
 
 But weather? 
 
 I told you that February was a very pretty 
 month. It often is in France. We had some 
 lovely nights, when I used to go out in the 
 moonlight, and look up in the starry dome 
 and pick out the constellations I knew. But 
 I seemed the only one here who enjoyed 
 them. Every clear night seemed to offer an 
 open road to the Gothas. It is a pity to live 
 in a time when a lovely night simply stands 
 for a menace. As long as the February 
 moon lasted Amelie went home in a nervous 
 tremble every evening. She simply hates the 
 night attacks, although there is not the least 
 real danger here. 
 
 The thing that torments me is the feeling 
 
 [ 145 1
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 that this aerial activity presages the German 
 offensive. We all know it is coming our 
 aeroplanes have announced that the Germans 
 are concentrating their forces on our front 
 but when where on that long line? 
 If any of them knows at headquarters, they 
 are not, naturally, telling. 
 
 I am afraid that no one was sorry when, 
 on the first, the snow began to fall. It lasted, 
 off and on, five days. Every night Amelie 
 said, as she closed the shutters, " Well, let 
 us get a good night's rest. The Gothas can- 
 not go to Paris to-night." When it ceased 
 snowing, early Wednesday morning, there 
 was a foot on the ground. But the sun came 
 out, and by evening there was no snow at 
 all, and Amelie was sad again. 
 
 On Thursday that was the yth, I 
 worked all day in the garden, setting out 
 rose bushes, and though it was a beautiful 
 night, everything was calm. But last night 
 was a trying one. It began earlier than the 
 one in January, and it did not last as long, 
 but it was worse while it lasted. It was only 
 a little after nine o'clock, and I was on the 
 terrace, and the house was not shut up, when 
 the first gun of warning from the forts was 
 fired. Some one up the hill called, "What's 
 that?" and another voice replied, "Paris." 
 
 I hurriedly closed my shutters, and put 
 out the lamp I had just lighted, and went 
 into the garden to watch and wait.
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 The battle of last night was quite different 
 from the previous ones. This time, there 
 were no aeroplanes in the air, except the 
 Bodies'. The forts in front of us Chelles 
 and Vaujours not only used their artillery 
 to put up a barrage, they had their search- 
 lights on most of the time, and sent up at 
 intervals a series of fusees eclair antes so 
 pretty as they followed one another in a 
 line they were usually four in a series 
 and now and then a rocket. It might have 
 been fireworks only the Gothas went right 
 over our heads in three distinct waves, flying 
 so low in an early evening, not at all dark, 
 that we frequently saw them, when caught 
 by the rockets or searchlights. We could 
 not be sure when they succeeded in passing, 
 but the explosion of bombs in Paris told that 
 soon enough, while the noise of the machines 
 over our heads told when they were actually 
 turned back. 
 
 I must tell you an amusing thing. Amelie 
 has always insisted that she could tell a 
 Boche machine by the sound of its mote,ur. 
 Perhaps she can. She says always, " Listen, 
 now! Can't you hear that Boche? His 
 motdur grunts just like a pig" (of course 
 this is funnier and more significant in French 
 comme un cochon), "but ours make music 
 they sing!" Pretty idea? Well, the 
 beauty of it is, I repeated it to an aviator the 
 other day as a joke. He looked at me seri- 
 
 [ 147 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 ously and replied, " But it is absolutely true." 
 Evidently I am sometimes stone deaf. 
 
 It was midnight when I came in, and that 
 is how it happens that I am writing to you 
 very early in the morning just daybreak, 
 because, I suddenly decided, in a sleepless 
 night, that I needed a change of scene. The 
 only one available is to go to Paris, and talk 
 it over in English instead of French. So I 
 am sending these few words for fear that if 
 I am detained longer than I plan and in 
 these days one never knows what may hap- 
 pen there will not be again too long a 
 lapse in my letters. 
 
 Oh, I really must mention the British going 
 to Jericho, or you will think that I have my 
 eyes so fixed on local things that even my 
 mental vision cannot look over the horizon 
 line. Nice idea, isn't it the Australian 
 cavalry riding into Jericho ? We Ve wished 
 Jericho on so many people in our time that 
 it is comforting to think that, finally, some 
 one has really gone there and history has 
 recorded it. 
 
 [ 148 ]
 
 XIX 
 
 March IT, 1918 
 
 YOUR letter just received remarks that I 
 seem to do a deal of "gadding" in these 
 days. Well, I told you in my last that I was 
 going again, and I did. I went the day I 
 wrote to you, that was the 9th, and came 
 back day before yesterday. Apparently I 
 must have forgotten to tell you that, after 
 all these months, the Commander of the 
 Fifth Army Corps had decided to give me a 
 permis de cir cider good for three months. 
 That is how it happens that I can " gad," as 
 you call it. I am afraid that you cannot 
 realize just what it means after years of such 
 restrictions as I had to support, to be free 
 to move without explaining each time, fixing 
 the date a fortnight in advance, and then 
 waiting in uncertainty as to whether the 
 simple request would be granted or not. It 
 inspires one to move on a bit, when it is not 
 absolutely necessary, just for the joy of feel- 
 ing free. 
 
 On the way down the hill to Couilly on 
 Saturday, the day I left, we met the 8Qth 
 Infantry marching in from Lagny, where 
 they had been resting for some weeks, to 
 
 [ H9 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 canton on our hill, and I was half sorry that 
 I was leaving, especially as air raids are of 
 almost nightly recurrence, and Amelie, who 
 hates them, worries when I am away. It is 
 useless for me to explain to her that in town 
 I stay in a part of the city which is practically 
 safe well to the south-west, in an apart- 
 ment on the second floor of a six-story build- 
 ing. Bombs which fall on a house rarely go 
 through more than three stories, and those 
 that burst in the street seldom damage above 
 the first floor. Amelie is always, in these 
 days, looking for the surprising and the un- 
 expected. I fancy she would feel happier 
 if she could be assured that at the first sound 
 of the alerte I would make for an abri with 
 an electric lamp in my pocket, a camp-stool 
 in one hand, a shovel in the other, and a 
 pickaxe over my shoulder. Then there 
 should be a maid behind, with a bucket of 
 water, a boule chaude, a flask of cognac, a 
 cushion for my back, and a rug for my knees 
 in fact, " all the comforts of home." But 
 she knows that I would much prefer to be 
 killed outright than suffocated in a cave. 
 
 As I had anything but a comfortable time 
 at home the night before I left, I really 
 could not see what difference it made where 
 I was. One side of the fir de barrage seemed 
 to me as good as the other, though I will con- 
 fess that I prefer to listen out of doors, in 
 
 [ 150 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 the air, than shut up in a room, even when 
 honours are easy as to danger. 
 
 The last words Amelie said to me were 
 " I do hope the Gothas won't go to Paris 
 with you this time." But they did. 
 
 However I had a good night Saturday, 
 and passed a quiet Sunday, resting in a cosy 
 room, free from any responsibility, and talk- 
 ing about anything that was not war, and I 
 enjoyed it. But I paid up for it that night, 
 when, just as I was getting into bed, that 
 abominable sirene went wailing through the 
 street, and almost at the same moment the 
 bombs began to fall. This was even before 
 we heard the barrage, and then, for three 
 long hours and more, the cannon boomed, 
 the machine guns spat, and the bombs ex- 
 ploded. It was a simply infernal racket. 
 
 If you want an example of how some of 
 the simple people take it, here is one. The 
 bonne in the house where I visit is a girl 
 from Nimes, who used to live in a convent. 
 Needless to say that she is very religious. 
 She has no sense of fear. Perhaps she does 
 not know enough to be afraid, maybe I 
 wrong her. She sleeps in the top of the 
 house. The only thing she, who loves her 
 bed, hates, is being waked up. Her orders 
 are to come downstairs, when the alerte be- 
 gins. But she rarely does. On that night, 
 for some reason, possibly because there was 
 a bad fire, she came down. The house was
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 chilly, so she was told to lie on the sofa in 
 the dining-room. She obeyed, and fell asleep 
 at once, and peacefully slept right through 
 it all. 
 
 When it was over I went to the door and 
 called her, told her that it was over, and that 
 she could go up to bed. 
 
 She rose, sleepily, looking a bit dazed, and 
 then said: "Is it over, Madame?" Then 
 she piously blessed herself, and in a hurried 
 voice, just as you have heard people mur- 
 mur their prayers sotto voce, she added, 
 " God pity those less lucky than we have 
 been," and went back to bed. I am positive 
 that she was asleep in five minutes, and as I 
 already know those who claim to have slept 
 through raids it may be possible that I am 
 wrong about people not becoming accus- 
 tomed to them, and that, if they go on fre- 
 quently, we may all sleep right through. 
 
 I suppose that you know that the govern- 
 ment conceals, as far as possible, all the dam- 
 age done by these air raids. The newspapers 
 give no details. The part of the city dam- 
 aged is never mentioned. The official an- 
 nouncement contains merely the fact that the 
 raid began at a certain hour, that there was 
 or was not material damage done, when it 
 ended, and whether or not there were vic- 
 tims. Of course the people in the vicinity 
 hit by the bombs know, and the muzzled 
 newspapers know, but you would be sur- 
 
 [ 152 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 prised at the small excitement there is. The 
 object of the silence is, of course, to conceal 
 from Germany the result of these raids. 
 I Ve my doubts if that is possible. It seems 
 to me that nothing can be concealed from 
 them. I 'm not sure that, in some diabolical 
 way, they don't know what I am writing to 
 you this very minute. But if the reticence 
 does not achieve that object, it proves very 
 effective in circumscribing excitement, which, 
 under the old reporting methods, would have 
 been inevitable, and the effects of the raid do 
 not become the one topic of the day's con- 
 versation in the streets. This raid was an 
 especially disastrous one, as there was a fire 
 in an important part of the city. Yet it was 
 only by the merest accident that, forty-eight 
 hours later, I passed through the famous 
 quarter which was most damaged, and al- 
 though it was wonderfully cleaned up, the 
 fire department goes to work at once, and 
 even daylight which follows the raid finds 
 many traces removed it seemed to me that 
 for half a mile on both sides of the Boule- 
 vard St. Germain, where it runs between 
 the government buildings, there was not a 
 whole pane of glass yet there was no ir- 
 reparable harm done, and the loss of life 
 was not heavy. 
 
 Amelie met me at the station when I came 
 home, in a very nervous frame of mind. She 
 literally yanked me out of the train, and 
 
 [ 153 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 said emphatically: "Well, thank God, here 
 you are. You are not going to Paris again 
 until these raids are over. It makes us all 
 too nervous. You are better off at home." 
 
 When I got up the hill and saw what had 
 happened here I did not blame her for being 
 nervous, although I confess that I could not 
 see that one place was any improvement on 
 the other. Thirty bombs and a torpedo or 
 two had been sprinkled along the valley from 
 Vaires to Crecy-en-Brie. A big bomb fell 
 in the field on the other side of the route 
 nationale, and made a hole fifteen yards 
 square and nine yards deep. Five bombs 
 fell on Bouleurs, and a torpedo, which did 
 not explode, fell the other side of Quincy in 
 what is called the " terre noire" The bomb 
 which fell near the chateau shook the whole 
 hill, and it was quite evident that it had 
 shaken Amelie's nerves, and that she had 
 not recovered. 
 
 The result is that there is a general fit of 
 trembling everywhere, and it is the fashion 
 here to sleep in the caves. There is a ma- 
 chine gun set up at the Demi-Lune, the water- 
 mains on the top of the hill the Paris 
 water from the Ourcq passes there have 
 been examined, as have our local mains, 
 Couilly has running water and hose at- 
 tached. The firemen, of whom I have never 
 heard before, have materialized. All this 
 active preparation for a local defence ought 
 
 [ 154 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 to calm the people, but, of course, it does 
 not. It only emphasizes the fact that it is 
 necessary, and to them, waiting so long in 
 suspense for the beginning of a spring ac- 
 tion, seems to presage hard days. 
 
 There have always been rigid rules about 
 lights here from the first air raids, so long 
 ago. They have been forgotten, with the 
 result that thirty people were fined to-day 
 for uncovered lights, and the rules are made 
 more rigid than ever. I have been notified 
 that my shutters are not sufficient, and have 
 to hustle to get some sort of heavy inside 
 curtains for a house which at this moment 
 seems all doors and windows. The truth 
 is, the part of my house where the lights 
 show is the guest chamber, never used except 
 when the soldiers are here, as they are now. 
 
 All circulation in the roads after dark is 
 forbidden. Wagons cannot carry lights, nor 
 foot-passenger lanterns. It has been the 
 habit for people from Couilly to come run- 
 ning up the hill, lantern in hand, to watch 
 the raids on Paris from here, and there is a 
 theory that it was these lanterns on the road 
 which drew the bombs on the hill Sunday. 
 It may be, but as there was a big cantonne- 
 ment of troops here that seems a better ex- 
 planation, while it is not unlikely that some 
 of the Gothas which failed to get through 
 the barrage, not wishing to return to their 
 base, carrying their bombs with them, may 
 
 [ 155 1
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 simply have dropped them any old place. 
 All these things are guesses, of course. 
 
 The weather is lovely. I am getting a lot 
 of work done in my garden among other 
 things, sand laid in all the paths, after 
 trying for four years. The poilus did it for 
 me. It will make life much easier, as I can 
 walk in the garden in winter. It will also 
 be a comfort to Amelie, as I shall not track 
 in the mud, and neither will Khaki and Dick. 
 
 [ 156 ]
 
 XX 
 
 March 28, 1918 
 
 CAN it be less than a fortnight ago that I 
 wrote to you? My letter-book says so, but 
 it is hard to believe. I seem to have lived a 
 century since. 
 
 The cables have told you the mere facts, 
 of course. You know that the long-expected 
 offensive presaged by the concentration of 
 the German hordes from the Russian fron- 
 tier began on the 2ist, when they were flung 
 against our lines, from Cherizy in the north 
 to Panisiaux Bois in the south, and that, in 
 six days, the Allies have lost all their hard- 
 earned advances of three years. In six days 
 all the sacrifices of three years have been 
 rendered vain, and last night our line was 
 sixty miles, in some places, west of where it 
 had been on the morning of March 2ist. In 
 the lost land are the scenes of so much hard 
 fighting, land over which the Allies had crept 
 inch by inch all lost in six days, Peronne, 
 Bapaume, Ham, Roye, Noyon and oh! how 
 many tragic hilltops, and how many spots 
 where our beloved dead lie buried! 
 
 But even though you read these things, 
 you have no idea of what the week has 
 
 [ 157 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 meant to us living so near it, to us, who, day 
 after day, have followed the brave boys in 
 the advance, and felt, as they felt, that no 
 inch of ground gained could be lost again. 
 
 The hours of those first days will always 
 be unforgettable hours of tragedy. I have 
 many times written of the dread we have 
 felt of some such thing ever since the Ger- 
 mans were in a position to remove their de- 
 fensive army from the east. But never, in 
 my greatest anxiety, did I dream of this. 
 
 March 2ist was a beautiful Thursday. 
 
 Louise and I were working in the garden. 
 I was setting out pansies in the bed under the 
 elderberry bushes, on the side of the hill. 
 
 It was during the morning that I began 
 to hear far-off guns, but I took little notice, 
 until after noon, when the booming became 
 so heavy that the very ground in which I had 
 my hands seemed to tremble under me or 
 was it my hands that were trembling? I 
 don't know. 
 
 It lasted all day, and the guns were still 
 thundering when I went out on the lawn 
 before going up to bed, to look off to the 
 north. 
 
 At intervals I heard it all night, and once, 
 in the night, I went out to look, and could see 
 the lights in the sky, and now and then a 
 rocket. I heard the voices of Pere and 
 Amelie, and knew that they were hanging 
 out of their window, watching the north also. 
 
 [ 158 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 I cannot tell you what the sleepless sus- 
 pense, and the waiting for the morning was 
 like. I was still in bed, waiting for Amelie 
 to arrive on the morning of the 22nd, when 
 I heard some one running along the terrace, 
 and a voice called: "Vous etes eveillee, 
 Madame? " 
 
 I went to the window. 
 
 There stood my next-door neighbour, 
 white as a sheet. 
 
 " Oh, Madame," she cried, " the Germans 
 have attacked our line on a front of ninety 
 kilometres. We are retreating on the whole 
 line. My God, my God!" And she went 
 on down the hill to carry the news to Voisins. 
 
 Even while I was standing, stupefied, I 
 heard the drums beating the assemblage gen- 
 erale in Voisins, for the 89th Infantry are 
 still with us. 
 
 By the time I was dressed the boys were 
 coming in relays to say " good-bye," and to 
 announce that the camions were coming at 
 eleven. 
 
 The morning was a repetition of that of 
 last spring, when the n8th advanced to 
 Soissons. 
 
 It was impossible to work. No one could. 
 It was just after noon that the camions 
 began to arrive. 
 
 As the trees are not yet leaved out, I could 
 see, from the lawn, the long line of grey 
 camions drawn up at equal spaces from each 
 
 [ 159 ]
 
 other all along the route to Meaux, and, at 
 intervals, the soldiers, sac au dos, standing 
 in groups ready to mount to their places. 
 
 It was two o'clock when they began to 
 move, and from that time, night and day, 
 until Sunday morning of the 24th, the line of 
 advancing troops, cannon, artillery, field- 
 kitchens, was absolutely unbroken. They 
 occupied all the roads about us, even that on 
 the canal. Along the route national* and the 
 route du canal of Meaux they moved, rum- 
 bling at top speed, about ten yards apart, 
 and along the route towards Esbly, through 
 Conde, wound all the horse-drawn vehicles 
 and the cavalry. Overhead hummed the 
 aeroplanes, keeping watch. 
 
 Every day the news that came was bad. 
 Every day the Allies were being driven back, 
 and last night they were within twelve miles 
 of Amiens, already evacuated. 
 
 To make the whole situation sadder, by 
 Sunday night, the refugees, driven for the 
 second time from their homes, began to pass 
 through over all our routes. That is what 
 brings panic. It would carry it as far as 
 Paris, if Paris had to see it, but in the city 
 the movement is concentrated about the Gare 
 du Nord, and the Gare de 1'Est, and there 
 the organization is wonderful. In the entire 
 evacuation I am told that the American boys 
 are doing heroic work. 
 
 All the week I have fought against panic 
 
 [ 1 60 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 here. Faith, you understand, I am sure, had 
 received a hard blow. Fear seemed sud- 
 denly to have taken root everywhere, a thing 
 I have never seen here before, fear that 
 the Germans were too strong in numbers 
 still, and the Americans not only unprepared, 
 but not yet numerous enough to turn the bal- 
 ance, for in the first few days before Amiens 
 the Allies fought, at times, one to six, and 
 some say, at an even greater disadvantage. 
 
 To make the situation all the harder for 
 the civilians for they had to get hold of 
 their nerves, and they did it, the Germans 
 threw all their resources against us at once, 
 not only at the front against the armies, but 
 against the civilians in the rear; it was the 
 very exaggeration of their warfare of terror. 
 
 On Saturday morning, the third day of the 
 battle, at about half-past seven as I was 
 sitting in the garden listening to the guns, 
 I heard an explosion in the direction of 
 Paris, and, while I was wondering what it 
 could mean, the church bells all along the 
 valley began to ring out an alerte. I had 
 not heard a sound even resembling a moteur 
 in the air and the sound from Paris was not 
 in the least like that made familiar by the 
 air raids. Besides, the Germans have never 
 attempted an air raid by daylight, although 
 the English have. It could not have been 
 more than a half hour later that there was 
 another sound exactly like the first in the 
 
 [ 161 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 same direction. But this time there was no 
 alerte, and there was no noise of the guns for 
 the defence of the city against avions. At 
 regular intervals all day, while we read the 
 trying news from the front, eighty divi- 
 sions of German soldiers thrown against the 
 British we heard that sound from Paris 
 repeated. 
 
 About half-past four in the afternoon 
 Amelie's nephew, a lad of sixteen, who 
 works in an ammunition place, arrived from 
 Paris his train over an hour and a half 
 late with the news that Paris was being 
 bombarded from the air that the attack 
 began a little after seven that there had 
 been no alerte until after the bombardment 
 began, and, that up to the time he left, no 
 German avions had been heard by the listen- 
 ing posts anywhere, and yet once in about 
 fifteen minutes a bomb fell. 
 
 That was all very mysterious. 
 
 I asked him if much damage had been 
 done, and if there was any panic. 
 
 He said he had heard that several people 
 had been killed, but there was no panic. 
 When the sirenes went through the streets 
 after the first bomb, people ran, as usual, for 
 the abris, but as silence followed they gradu- 
 ally came out into the streets, and stood 
 about, gazing up into the air. No sign of 
 any air machine any Boche had been 
 seen. When the lad left Paris there was a 
 [ 162 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 spirit of curiosity rather than alarm, and the 
 only harm he had actually seen was a news- 
 paper kiosk, near the railway station, de- 
 stroyed, and a hole in the ground. That 
 looked serious enough, considering the situa- 
 tion. But " a miss is as good as a mile." 
 
 The next day, Sunday a day too beauti- 
 ful to look on such horrid deeds we got 
 the explanation. It seemed inconceivable, 
 but it is evidently true. The latest war ex- 
 ploit of the Huns is a gun set up so the 
 aviators say somewhere near La Fere, 
 where the Yorkshire boys fought their last 
 battle before retreating here in September, 
 1914, a gun which is bombarding Paris 
 at a distance variously stated at from sixty- 
 five to eighty miles, either distance seems 
 equally incredible, but it is evidently true. 
 The military authorities are said to have it 
 placed. The question is to destroy it. But 
 you probably heard all about this by cable. 
 
 The son of one of my neighbours who is 
 at home on leave he is an aviator to-day; 
 he was a farmer in 1914, said, as we were 
 listening to this gun yesterday, for it is still 
 at work : 
 
 " Madame, this is war. If we want to 
 win, we have got to get rid of all our civilian 
 ideas. If nations do not want to put up with 
 things of this sort, why they must find an- 
 other way than war to settle their disputes. 
 No one would be in the least sentimental 
 
 [ 163 1
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 about killing a tiger and its whelps. Why 
 pretend to a finer feeling about an enemy 
 more dangerous than a tiger an enemy so 
 dangerous that even when we get him down 
 
 and we shall I don't see how the world 
 can go on unless we exterminate him, even if 
 it takes this generation. If we, stupidly, do 
 not, then we must suffer for it later. Be sure 
 of one thing, if the Baches get us down, 
 they '11 wipe us out. The whole earth is not 
 big enough for both of us." 
 
 Anyway, there is a point of view for you. 
 
 On the fourth day of the bombardment of 
 Paris, while every one was divided between 
 anxiety about the battle in the north and 
 pride at the superb spirit of desperate resist- 
 ance of our armies, I got a letter from Paris 
 which gave us all a good laugh for I trans- 
 lated for Amelie, knowing that she would 
 tell it everywhere and better it in the tell- 
 ing. It spoke of the splendid spirit of the 
 bombarded capital, which had already re- 
 turned to normal life tramways running, 
 street-life calm, school-children in the radius 
 of the bombardment being taken out of dan- 
 ger; and it told of the first effort to announce 
 the beginning of the daily bombardment by 
 an alerte to be given by the city police, who 
 were ordered to beat a drum in the streets 
 
 a sort of city revival of our country town 
 crier. The Sergent de Ville, who has his 
 
 [ 164 ]
 
 THE PEAK or THE LOAD 
 
 amour propre, protested. He did not know 
 how to drum, drumming is a metier like 
 any other. The city replied, "Never mind 
 that. Put the drum on. Take these two 
 sticks, and go along pounding. We've no 
 time to give you lessons. Every one will 
 know what it means." 
 
 They were properly humiliated, but they 
 had to obey. Away they had to go, beating 
 their drums, and beside them marched the 
 gamins of Paris, pounding on tin cans, and 
 whatever would make a noise. Of course 
 all Paris roared with laughter. The blush- 
 ing Sergents de Ville returned to their posts, 
 and they never went out any more as drum- 
 mers. Isn't that deliciously Paris? Too 
 bad Mr. Hohenzollern could not have seen it. 
 
 But though this made a short diversion 
 here we did not laugh long. Yesterday it 
 looked dangerously like a panic again. For 
 a few hours it seemed as if all our efforts 
 could not prevent people here from evacuat- 
 ing the place, without orders. If the news 
 had not been better this morning I hate to 
 think what might have happened. 
 
 Last night we heard no guns. This morn- 
 ing's communique announced that the Ger- 
 man advance has been practically stopped 
 at all events the Allies are holding them 
 the breaches in the line have been filled it 
 is unbroken but after a retreat of nearly 
 
 [ 165 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 sixty miles, and all they have worked for and 
 won inch by inch, lost from Noyon north, 
 except a bit of Flanders. 
 
 It is a sin to look back, I know. Our road 
 lies in the future. I hope no one over there 
 whom I love will ever have to fight depres- 
 sion as I have fought it since a week ago 
 to-day. I suppose the turn of you across the 
 water is coming. Still, you will never have 
 to see poor women and little children flying 
 from their homes, as we see them every day. 
 They never complain. They are grateful 
 for the slightest sympathy. They invariably 
 tell you of cases they know of people so much 
 worse off than they are. 
 
 I hope you are not worrying about me. I 
 could not write you all these details if I did 
 not know was not sure that long be- 
 fore you read it, the situation will be changed 
 for the better, that the cable will have reas- 
 sured you, so that all this will only be inter- 
 esting to you, who want to know always the 
 truth about my life. 
 
 They tell us at the Mairie that, while the 
 Boches may advance a little at one point or 
 another in the line, the push is absolutely 
 over, and that it has been out of all propor- 
 tion costly for the Germans. With that we 
 have to be content. We must wait for his- 
 tory to tell us of the glorious episodes of the 
 desperate battles, of the achievements of the 
 cavalry which closed the breaches in the line, 
 
 [ 166 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 and how the French 5th Army Corps our 
 brave boys of the Seine and Marne held 
 the road down the valley of the Oise to the 
 beating heart of France Paris for the 
 second time. How long? 
 
 [ 167 1
 
 XXI 
 
 April 15, 1918 
 
 WE are droll, we humans. 
 
 Although the battle is still going on out 
 there every one here seems to have forgotten 
 those panicky hours of the last week in 
 March. It was that first quick retreat in the 
 north which upset them all with the unspeak- 
 able dread that perhaps we could not hold 
 them. The moment when it became evident 
 that, though the Allies had to retreat, the 
 line was not smashed, every one bucked up 
 and life became just what it had been all 
 these forty-two and a half months before. 
 People seem even to have forgotten the 
 dread of those days. 
 
 The second phase of the battle was over 
 a week ago, and, though we have lost some 
 ground, the line is still an unbroken wall, and 
 Germany's situation unchanged except 
 that she is a little nearer Paris. 
 
 We've had some queer weather most 
 uncertain. It has rained, sunshined, snowed, 
 sunshined and frozen. I am afraid that 
 means another year without fruit, which is a 
 disappointment, as the fruit trees flowered 
 superbly. 
 
 [ 168 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 The long-distance cannon continues to fire 
 on Paris the grosse Bertha, they call it. 
 We hear every shot from here. The cannon 
 at the front still pounds away, and during the 
 nights the battle-front is often strangely 
 illuminated, a dull glow, like that which I am 
 sure you have often seen in the sky over a 
 foundry, and not unlike that which, at times, 
 hangs over Vesuvius. Now and then we see 
 star rockets and different kinds of fusees. 
 But I no longer go out at night to watch, 
 though I cannot induce Pere and Amelie to 
 sleep. The truth is that I have got so that 
 the cannon do not keep me awake. Amelie 
 insists that she cannot sleep, but as her room 
 is on the south side of the house, I believe 
 that is only because she persists in getting up 
 and hanging out of the north window to see 
 what is going on, thus deliberately prevent- 
 ing herself from sleeping. 
 
 I keep myself very busy. It is the only 
 way. I go up to Paris whenever there is any 
 need, much to Amelie's disgust. She never 
 draws a long breath, she says, until I get 
 back, on the theory that a bomb from that 
 long-range gun will fall on the train one day, 
 or on me in the street. But as the chances 
 are about one in a million I '11 take that 
 chance. I was in Paris three times last week 
 going up twice by the seven o'clock train, 
 and coming back at night. Of course, only 
 important business would have induced me 
 
 [ 169 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 to make that effort, as it meant taking my 
 coffee at half-past five, and I don't like that 
 any better than I ever did. 
 
 In spite of everything I had heard, I found 
 Paris normal. It is a very great pity that 
 the Germans, who are told that Paris is being 
 bombarded every day, and probably suppose 
 it is being gradually destroyed, cannot see 
 the effects of the bombardment. I was on 
 the boulevards the first day I went up, when 
 a bomb fell and exploded, making so heavy 
 a detonation that it seemed very near. It 
 really was across the Seine. No one stopped 
 walking, though every one did exactly what 
 I did pulled out a watch to see the hour. 
 That was all, though it was only a short time 
 after the Good Friday feat of the grosse 
 Bertha, when a bomb fell on the church you 
 and I know so well, and where we used to 
 go in the old days, and sitting near the tomb 
 of Madame de Maintenon's ribald first hus- 
 band chair-bound old Scarron listen to 
 the very service that was going on when the 
 bomb fell. What with the bomb, and the 
 panic that followed, there was heavy loss of 
 life, and because of the number of victims, 
 and the fact that many were well-known 
 people, for the Good Friday office of the 
 Tenebrae is a smart religious function, the 
 accident made a good deal of noise in the 
 world, and it was impossible to conceal it. 
 But it is ridiculous to emphasize the fact that
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 the dirty Germans deliberately fired on a 
 church on a Holy Day during an office, as 
 the reaching of such a target was pure acci- 
 dent. The emplacement of the big gun is 
 fixed. It reaches a certain distance into the 
 city. It can evidently be turned east and 
 west, so that the menaced points seem to He 
 in an arc, reaching roughly from Montrouge 
 to near the Gare de 1'Est, and passing by a 
 line just behind where I used to live 
 through the " Garden of Lies," I imagine, 
 and across the Seine near the Louvre. 
 
 Twice while I was in Paris I had to pass 
 through this line, while the gun was firing, 
 to go out through the fortifications. I was 
 on my way to a suburban hospital, and had a 
 sick woman in the motor-car. The big gun 
 fired a corking shot while we were crossing 
 the Seine to run up by the Luxembourg Gar- 
 dens. I looked at my watch and calculated 
 the distance to the Porte, but I had not the 
 smallest sensation of the suspense I expected 
 to have. Three hours later I came back by 
 the same route, only making a slight detour 
 to avoid a tree that a shot fired since I passed 
 out of the gate had broken off. 
 
 The only marked difference that I saw in 
 the quarter was the silence in the Luxem- 
 bourg Gardens, where the children were no 
 longer playing. Apropos of the children, 
 you might suppose that living in a bom- 
 barded city, being in so many cases taken out
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 of bed and carried to abris in the night, might 
 at least create a panic among them. It does 
 not seem to. On the contrary many of them 
 appear to think it all a lark. 
 
 In the danger zone, of course, Paris, which 
 takes great care of her children for no- 
 where are children more loved or happier 
 than they are in France has sent the 
 school-children, with their teachers, into the 
 country. But there are still plenty of chil- 
 dren in the city. 
 
 One day when I was in town I saw a group 
 of youngsters playing and making so much 
 noise that I had to stop and watch them. 
 It was in a garden in a safe part of the city, 
 and it took two minutes to see what they 
 were playing. They were playing " Les 
 Gothas" One boy was a watcher at a " lis- 
 tening post," who gave the alarm, "They 
 come!" Another was the fireman in his 
 auto, rushing along, and sounding his sirene. 
 One was the gunner at his post of D. C. A. 
 putting up a barrage, "bang, bang, bang." 
 A group were Boche avions making a ter- 
 rible series of explosions in all parts of the 
 garden. When it was over, the bogus dead 
 and wounded were lying all over the place, 
 and a tiny little fellow rushed about, sounding 
 the "All clear," on a tin trumpet. Even 
 then it was not over, for along came the 
 clanging bells of the ambulances and the vic- 
 tims were picked up. They did the thing 
 
 [ 172 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 with great spirit, imitating all the noises 
 admirably, with children's apt talent at 
 mimicry. 
 
 I never go to Paris but I wish that you 
 were with me. Each trip into the city has 
 its new experience. 
 
 The railway station is one of the most in- 
 teresting places in the world to-day. Our 
 line carries most of the soldiers going to and 
 from the front. 
 
 At Vaires, just outside of the outer line of 
 forts, is the immense Camp des Permission- 
 alres. All the men coming in from the 
 front on their regular eight days' home-leave 
 once in four months, must stop at Vaires to 
 have their papers examined, and from there 
 go on to their destinations, and many of 
 them stay there during their leave, for obvi- 
 ous reasons. At the expiration of their 
 leave, they report there to be sent back to 
 their posts. The camp is immense. Line 
 after line of tracks has been laid, extending 
 almost as far as one can see, for the big mili- 
 tary trains run right into the camp from the 
 main line. Miles and miles of barracks, and 
 offices for re-equipping soldiers, stretch off 
 into the distance, and there is never an hour 
 of the day or night, when a train-load of 
 poilus is not coming in or going out. 
 
 As this is only a short distance down the 
 line between here and Paris it is one of the 
 most interesting points on my trips to town.
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 The big station in Paris, with its various 
 Red Cross works, the Americans have a 
 very well-organized one there and moving 
 throngs, is even more interesting. It is alive 
 with movement with tragedy and comedy 
 and to-day it is a tower of Babel, with the 
 American military policeman in his red 
 bands and his conspicuous U. S. A. always in 
 evidence. 
 
 I never can resist lingering a minute to see 
 the soldiers leaving the station. There are 
 always crowds of women and children wait- 
 ing at the barriers for the poilus have 
 their especial entrance and exit and a 
 throng always presses round the gate through 
 which they must pass, not only those who 
 have come expecting usually in vain to 
 meet their own, but the curious who have 
 just come to see the boys from the front. 
 The looker after material artistic, realis- 
 tic, or otherwise, lovers of the grotesque, 
 hunters after the picturesque, lovers of laugh- 
 ter, morbid seekers after tragedy, will find it 
 all there, as well as, now and then, something 
 of the beautiful, and occasionally a bit of the 
 heroic. But the seeker after what is ordi- 
 narily known as " scenes " will lose his time. 
 France may have once been what we used 
 to call her, " hysterical." She is certainly 
 not even emotional to-day, so far as I can 
 see. 
 
 Sometimes I think that the big station is 
 
 [ 174 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 even more picturesque on the side where the 
 poilus are waiting to go back. At those 
 times the big courtyard in front is packed 
 with them. When they are coming in from 
 the front, they simply seem to rush through, 
 taking little notice of the crowd so interested 
 in them and providing the atmosphere invol- 
 untarily. But when they are going back to 
 the front it is a different matter. 
 
 Do you find that puzzling? Well, the 
 poilus arriving on home-leave are tired, often 
 disgusted, or indifferent. " Home-leave " 
 looks like Heaven to them. But they go 
 back gaily. The truth is, as a rule, they are 
 glad to go back. It is not that they are not 
 tired of the war. They are. Every one is, 
 except our boys, who are nearly four years 
 behind the game. It has lasted too long for 
 the poilu to have anything but dogged toler- 
 ance for it. When the regular time arrives 
 for him to "come out" he welcomes it, but 
 in the three and more years that he has been 
 cut off from normal life he has become the 
 inhabitant of another world. He speaks an- 
 other language a specialized tongue, 
 and, in spite of everything, he almost invari- 
 ably gets homesick on leave. 
 
 I suspected this, little by little, as I watched 
 the men coming in from the front they are 
 no longer boisterous, and then watched 
 them go singing back. So one day I said to 
 Petit Louis, a boy in our commune, a gunner, 
 
 [ 175 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 who always comes to pay his respects to me 
 when he arrives on leave, and to say " good- 
 bye " when " going in " again. 
 
 "Well, Louis, how is your soixante- 
 quinze?" 
 
 " Fine, the darling," he laughed. 
 
 Then I said that I supposed he was glad 
 to be at home. 
 
 He puckered up his brows, shrugged his 
 shoulders, made one of his queer little ges- 
 tures with his hands, and said : 
 
 " Well, I don't know. Sure, I am glad to 
 see the woman and the kids, and to sleep one 
 night or so in a bed, but I don't know 
 why it is, I get bored with it in a day or two. 
 I am used to a different kind of life. I miss 
 my chums. I miss knowing exactly what to do 
 what I Ve got to do whether I want to or 
 not. So you see, after two days of walking 
 about, talking with people who seem to un- 
 derstand just nothing at all about what is 
 going on out there, I am bored. I miss being 
 dead tired at night. I miss the noise. After 
 two or three days I count the hours until I 
 can get back." 
 
 I can understand that. It made me think 
 of what a man said to me in Paris in the early 
 days of the war. 
 
 " My father used to go, once a year, to sit 
 over a dinner with his comrades of the regi- 
 ment in '70. My sons will cherish their com- 
 rades and live over with them this great war.
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 Men of my generation we have nothing 
 to talk about." 
 
 It was not worth while to remind him that 
 after this is over the men who will be heard 
 talking loudest will be those who have never 
 seen a trench or fired a gun. Here in our 
 little commune the people who can tell you 
 the wildest tales of the days of the invasion 
 are those who ran away. If anyone were to 
 come here to-day, in a spirit of research, it 
 would not be the half dozen of us who actu- 
 ally stayed here in September, 1914, who 
 would tell hair-raising tales. It would be the 
 others. The stories have rolled up like the 
 famous snowball. It has opened my eyes in 
 a sense about the difficulties of writing 
 history. 
 
 One of the striking features about this 
 war is that the active soldiers almost never 
 talk with the civilians about the war. In a 
 sense, it is forbidden, but the reason goes 
 deeper than that. The soldier and the civil- 
 ian seem to-day to speak a different lan- 
 guage. It almost seems as if a dark curtain 
 hung between the realities of life " out 
 there," and the life into which the soldier 
 enters en repos. 
 
 Whenever they are talkative, it is of some- 
 thing rather spiritual than material. The 
 last time I went up to Paris I had an experi- 
 ence of that sort. I was settled in my com- 
 partment alone. The train was about to 
 
 J
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 start when the door was yanked open. A 
 tall, middle-aged officer brought up his hand 
 to salute, flung his bag in, entered after it, 
 banged the door, and sat down just as the 
 train moved. He cast a keen glance at me, 
 then unbuckled his belt and made himself 
 comfortable. The first time he caught my 
 eyes he leaned over, and said : 
 
 " I imagine that you are the American 
 lady who lived up on the hill at Huiry ? " 
 
 I owned up. 
 
 " I have heard of you," he said. " I have 
 a friend who was quartered in your house." 
 
 Then he settled down to chat. He seemed 
 to need it, which is unusual. He appeared 
 to be about forty-five, a lieutenant. He 
 asked all sorts of things about the States 
 how long it would take their army to get 
 ready? What sort of soldiers did I think 
 they would make? How many did I think 
 were over? And so forth. 
 
 I did my best, but I could not tell him how 
 many were over, and we would not be really 
 ready until the army was here. The only 
 thing of which I could actually assure him 
 was that the boys from the States would, 
 with a little experience, make as fine soldiers 
 as the war has yet seen. On that point I was 
 absolutely sure, and I gave it to him, with 
 emphasis, that, in my opinion, old Kaiser 
 Bill would have no greater disillusion in the 
 war than the United States would furnish
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 him, in proving to him that it did not take a 
 lifetime of drilling to create a patriotic army, 
 and that a patriotic army was better than a 
 professional one. 
 
 With a sigh of content he leaned back, and 
 I realized again how great a factor in the 
 morale of the French the coming over of the 
 boys from the States was. After a short 
 silence he smiled at me, and said: 
 
 "Ridiculous a war. You see, in the 
 days before this came I was what one calls, 
 with considerable contempt now, ' an intel- 
 lectual.' I did not believe in force. I be- 
 lieved in the spiritual development of the 
 individual. But in days of peace does any 
 man know what is really in him ? I Ve given 
 my only son," and he touched the black band 
 on his sleeve. " Thank God his mother went 
 first. I Ve done my duty as best I could," 
 and he touched the red ribbon on his breast, 
 with the barred one of military medals be- 
 side it. " But I often wonder if all educated 
 men have to make the same struggle that I 
 do. Often, when the moment comes to ' go 
 over ' I wonder what my men would think if 
 I were to cry out, ' Fire in the air 1 It is 
 nobler to be killed than to kill.' ' He looked 
 out of the window a moment before he 
 laughed and added, "Absurd, isn't it? Be- 
 cause I know that a war of defence and for 
 principle, and for the hopes of the future, is 
 a holy war."
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 Here the train began to slow down. 
 
 "Helloa! Vaires already? I hope that 
 I have not bored you ? " And as he buckled 
 his belt, and picked up his bag, he added, 
 "It is so rarely that I talk to a woman 
 I Ve no family that I rather lose my head. 
 A thousand excuses. Good-bye." And we 
 shook hands like old friends. 
 
 I watched him as he walked rapidly away. 
 A lieutenant at forty-five ! That meant that 
 he was a volunteer. 
 
 I have been sitting here, off and on, all day, 
 writing this. That shows my need of com- 
 munion in these trying days, when we are 
 asking ourselves where the next attack is to 
 be, and hoping that it will not take us by 
 surprise. 
 
 I smile when I remember that in the first 
 hard days of the first week in March I tried 
 to comfort the people about me by saying: 
 "Courage! This is the beginning of the 
 final act." So it is, I suppose. But there are 
 to be more scenes in it than I thought then. 
 They are still strong, those Huns. 
 
 I do hope that when I write so frankly of 
 the emotions of each day here you do not get 
 the impression that anyone has lost faith in 
 the final issue. I don't think they have. It 
 is only that they are not so sure as they were 
 up to the opening of this offensive that this 
 special part of France may not have to be 
 [ 180 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 sacrificed as so many places have been. If 
 it is well, never mind. In our hearts, even 
 trembling, we instinctively believe in a sec- 
 ond miracle. Yet why should we? 
 
 C 181 ]
 
 XXII 
 
 May 24, igi8 
 
 WE are still sitting as tight as we can, 
 waiting for the next offensive move, which 
 has held off longer than was anticipated. 
 The absolute uncertainty as to the point in 
 the line now menaced, and the inevitable 
 nervousness which comes from waiting every 
 night for an aerial attack, and listening all 
 day for the big cannon to begin firing on 
 Paris, makes each hour of the twenty-four a 
 bit trying. Of course the last of the three 
 grosse Berthas was destroyed by the aviators 
 on the 3rd. But we know that it will not 
 stay out of action forever. 
 
 I have kept busy planting, cleaning house, 
 arranging all sorts of extra curtains, but, 
 luckily the nights are getting very short and 
 the Gotha raids do not force me to be her- 
 metically sealed for long at a time. It is 
 hardly dark at half-past nine, and it begins 
 to get light before four. I have already 
 learned to go about in my shuttered house in 
 the dark when an alerte gets me out of bed, 
 though there is no need. But an odd sensa- 
 tion comes over me during an attack, espe- 
 cially as the batteries for the defence sur- 
 [ 182 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 round us now In a semicircle there are five 
 of them. When they all begin to fire, I feel 
 as if my little house were the only visible 
 thing in the landscape, and as though, if I lit 
 up, even behind shutters and curtains, I 
 should be seen. If that is not the wth power 
 of vanity, I don't know what to name it. 
 
 I expect you will get tired of hearing 
 about air raids, but really, if I do not tell 
 you about them I should be at a loss to know 
 of what I could write to you. They are of 
 almost nightly occurrence, and each one is 
 different. We had a double one last night, 
 or one in two acts covering four hours 
 and a half, with an entr'acte of three quar- 
 ters of an hour. 
 
 It was about eleven o'clock. I was read- 
 ing quietly when I heard the guns from the 
 fort. I intended to stay comfortably in bed. 
 It had been understood between Amelie and 
 me that, under no circumstances, was she to 
 come to me. In the first place, it is forbid- 
 den by orders, and in the second, now that 
 the barrage surrounds us, there is danger 
 from spent shot from the guns of the forts. 
 But at the end of half an hour I. could not 
 resist going out to try to see what was hap- 
 pening. I had hardly got into the garden 
 before the guns ceased firing, and I went 
 back to bed. It was only a little over an 
 hour later, when boom went the cannon 
 again, and the raid lasted until nearly day- 
 
 [ 183 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 light. This time I went out at once. It is 
 impossible to resist the impulse. In spite of 
 all the regulations there was a group in the 
 road above my house, at a point where they 
 can look right over the fort at Chelles into 
 the horizon line over Paris, and from which 
 point they can see and locate each search- 
 light and can often see the explosion of the 
 shells. I suppose they will continue to do 
 this until a bit of spent shrapnel hits some 
 one in the head, and demonstrates to them 
 that it is not safe. 
 
 It made a rather long night, but when the 
 last gun fired, just before daybreak, I was 
 still sitting on the lawn. All through the 
 night I had heard the military trains on the 
 railroad rushing along the valley, and, when 
 the dim coming of day enabled me to see 
 them, I noticed that a scouting engine pre- 
 ceded each train, as in the early days of the 
 mobilization. So I was not surprised a few 
 hours later to learn that a bomb had fallen 
 within fifty yards of the tunnel at Charlifert. 
 
 While I was still sitting there, Amelie 
 joined me. She was all dressed, and I knew 
 that she had not been in bed at all. 
 
 It was not quite four o'clock. A beautiful 
 day was breaking. The cuckoo was talking. 
 A blackbird began to sing. Then the spar- 
 rows and the swallows yawned and chirped, 
 and a thrush piped up. Overhead, the 
 avions de chasse were still scouting. Out 
 
 [ 184 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 at the big camp, lying along miles of the 
 fields, across the Marne, flechettes, thin 
 white lines of light, mounted like silver 
 arrows straight into the air at regular inter- 
 vals, to guide the aviators back to their 
 landing field. Now and then, a coloured 
 light in the air announced a flyer ready to 
 descend, then, in a moment, the big lights on 
 the field would flare up, and in the coming 
 daylight we would see a machine circling 
 down. We sat there, until, at half-past four, 
 the last homing avion was in. It was no use 
 to go to bed at that hour, so, as the days are 
 hot, I weeded and watered the garden, set 
 out a few begonias which Amelie went to 
 Meaux for yesterday, and some of the seed- 
 lings zinnias, soucis, and old-fashioned 
 balsam. I promise myself to go to bed with 
 the chickens to-night to make up. 
 
 I note that you send your love to Khaki 
 and Dick. I have given your message to the 
 Grand Due, but Dick is very unpopular at 
 this moment, and civilities are suspended be- 
 tween us. 
 
 I think I told you that Dick had got so 
 that he never barked at a poilu? The army 
 might come and carry off the house, and me 
 in it, he would consider it all right. Like 
 the Grande Duchesse he loves the military. 
 Well, lately, life has been very dull for him. 
 Since he cannot run free without a muzzle, 
 his one idea is to escape, and go in search of 
 
 [ 185 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 his adored poilus, since they don't just now 
 come to see him. I expect they let him lick 
 out their gamelles. It saves washing them. 
 Anyway, last week there was a regiment at 
 Quincy. Dick disappeared. He was gone 
 for nearly a week. I kept hearing of him, 
 but the regiment had been gone nearly forty- 
 eight hours before he reappeared. Amelie 
 opened the door for him. He made a dash 
 upstairs and tried to jump on the bed to give 
 me an affectionate morning greeting, as he 
 is allowed to do when he is good. I repulsed 
 him severely, and tried to have an explana- 
 tion with him. I demanded, at least, to 
 know where he had been since the regiment 
 departed. He was very reticent. He looked 
 at me, and scratched his head behind his ear 
 in a very knowing manner had brought a 
 military flea with him, I suppose, and ex- 
 pected that to satisfy me. It distinctly did 
 not. So he was sent down to his kennel and 
 chained. I hope he knew why. Still, as he 
 had evidently had a good time, he probably 
 felt that it was worth while being chained up 
 for a day. 
 
 However, the explanation I could not get 
 from him followed almost at once. He 
 had evidently waited about in Quincy hoping 
 some more soldiers might arrive, and in the 
 waiting time he had been overcome by 
 hunger, and gone marketing for himself 
 on tick, and his bills followed him home. 
 [ 186 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 He had eaten a franc-twenty-five centimes' 
 worth of sausage at the charcuterie. He had 
 spoiled a pound of cheese at the cremerie. 
 He had decamped with a bone worth fifty 
 centimes at the butcher's, which would have 
 been allowed him if he had not returned and 
 helped himself to a costly chop- one franc- 
 fifty. On the morning of the third day, 
 no regiment arriving, he evidently decided 
 that life was too difficult, and that he had 
 better return to his regular boarding-house, 
 where, at least, meals were certain, and wait 
 until more soldiers and more gamelles ar- 
 rived. I paid the bills of the prodigal, of 
 course, but I did not kill any fatted calf for 
 him. Not that he minded that, for, to tell 
 you the truth, he rendered up some of the 
 stolen goods soon after his return, and then 
 rolled himself up to sleep it off. 
 
 While I am speaking about Dick, I must 
 tell you another amusing thing. He has dis- 
 covered the aeroplanes. For a long time, 
 whenever a machine flew low, as they often 
 do, he has rushed out and barked furiously 
 all over the place. Just for fun, one day, I 
 held him by his collar and tried to make him 
 look in the right direction. I never suc- 
 ceeded. He looked everywhere but at the 
 proper place over his head. But one day, 
 standing with Amelie and me in the garden 
 while a big triplane was passing, he discov- 
 ered it himself. He began barking, running 
 
 [ 187 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 madly after it, and trying to jump the hedge. 
 Since then, he has learned where to look 
 when he hears them, and he always runs the 
 length of the garden, eyes in the air, head 
 erect, yelping and jumping. Of course, he 
 thinks it is a big bird, though he never barks 
 at birds. But birds don't make such a racket. 
 
 I have seen some wonderful flights of 
 avions lately some twenty in battle forma- 
 tion. It is a wonderful sight here where 
 the sky space is so extensive. One of the 
 prettiest flights the other day was so high 
 that, if it had not been for the noise the 
 moteurs made, I should not have detected 
 them at all, they looked so tiny in the blue 
 depth of that vast expanse no larger than 
 the swallow flying under them, thousands 
 and thousands of feet below. 
 
 Kind of you to congratulate me on drop- 
 ping out of the political note. As for that, 
 I was stirred when Caillaux went to live at 
 La Sante, and I shall get excited again when 
 he goes on. For all the smaller men who 
 are moving out of the line of vision I am 
 little concerned so that they go and en route 
 close the pincers on the chief. Political trials 
 are delicate affairs in the democratic world 
 in which a man is said to have a right to his 
 opinions, but in times of war there are things 
 more important than opinions. The dis- 
 cipline to which an army defending the coun- 
 try must submit, and failure to do which 
 [ 188 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 incurs the penalty of death for the soldier, 
 surely applies in some way to civilians. Un- 
 til it is demonstrated that it does, there can 
 be no consolations for the terrible affair of 
 last May, or for the tragedy of Coeuvres. 
 That is all. 
 
 [ 189 ]
 
 XXIII 
 
 May 30, 1918 
 
 IT has been a very trying week. Indeed, 
 as I look back to the long months of war, I 
 realize that it was only when, on the last day 
 of January, Germany began the effort of 
 which this week is only one phase, that we 
 really began to appreciate the frightfulness 
 of her endeavour. Since that day, no one 
 within hearing of the front has had a day 
 of tranquillity, and no one in France an hour 
 free of anxiety. For that matter, no one in 
 the world, capable of understanding or sym- 
 pathy, can have been calm. But it is surely 
 a different thing to read about these days 
 than to take part in them. I cannot write 
 you about the life here in detail, because, as 
 I have already assured you, things are all 
 changed by the time you read the letters, and 
 you know long before you get them what 
 turn affairs have taken. And then, there is 
 always the censor. 
 
 There has hardly been a night since I 
 wrote you last without an air raid, and on 
 the night of the day I last wrote you, we were 
 showered with spent shrapnel. It fell on the 
 roofs at Voisins and I am treasuring for you, 
 
 [ 190 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 as a personal souvenir of me and the war, a 
 large jagged bit which struck the shutter of 
 my bedroom window and bounded on to the 
 terrace. 
 
 On the day before the long-awaited offen- 
 sive began on our front, on the historic 
 Chemin des Dames, everything was quiet 
 here. It was a Sunday. We had had five air 
 raids in about eight days. The weather had 
 been very hot, and I had felt a bit shaky. 
 But on Saturday, that was the twenty-fifth, I 
 had a telegram from Paris telling me that a 
 friend was leaving for Bordeaux on Mon- 
 day, and, as she could not get a sauf conduit 
 to come to me, begged me to come up to 
 town, if only for an hour. So I was up at 
 five, and at six Pere was driving me down to 
 the station to take the seven o'clock train. 
 We always have to allow plenty of time for 
 fear of being delayed on the road by military 
 camions. 
 
 It was a lovely morning, full of sunshine, 
 but with the fresh breeze blowing from the 
 north-east still, as it has for weeks. As we 
 turned from the Chemin Madame into the 
 route nationale, we found ourselves face to 
 face with a procession of artillery camions 
 extending as far as we could see in the direc- 
 tion of Meaux, and down the hill to Couilly, 
 where, one after another, they continued to 
 come round the curve from St. Germain dur- 
 ing our entire descent to the station. The
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 camions had cannon of all calibres mounted, 
 each followed by a load of gunners, and 
 every little way came ammunition-trucks 
 and rolling kitchens. Every cannon's nose, 
 as it stuck its carefully capped muzzle be- 
 tween the heads of the chauffeur and mechani- 
 cian was wreathed with flowers, and every 
 camion carried a huge bunch of red peo- 
 nies or roses, with daisies and some blue 
 field flowers always making the French 
 colours. The gunners all had clean, smiling, 
 Sunday faces, but, as Ninette ambled down 
 the hill in the cloud of dust made by the 
 camions groaning and rumbling up it, I felt 
 that this tremendous movement of artillery 
 must be the prelude to the offensive, and that 
 the movement just here must mean that it 
 was the line from Soissons to Reims which 
 was threatened. I said nothing to Pere. I 
 was coming back in the middle of the after- 
 noon. 
 
 I made an easy trip to Paris. Although 
 it was Sunday, there was no crowd. Nor 
 was there any unusual movement of troops 
 on the line. I found the streets more ani- 
 mated than usual. It was three weeks since 
 the long-range gun, which had so long bom- 
 barded the city, had been silenced. It looked 
 as if a great many people who had left Paris 
 during the March offensive had returned. 
 The animation in the streets was not that of 
 even a year ago, but it was anything but a 
 [ 192 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 dead city or a sad city to me. So I forgot all 
 about my impression of the morning, until, 
 as I was driving back by the road from 
 Esbly, in the middle of the afternoon, the 
 picture suddenly returned to me, and I in- 
 stinctively turned to look across the Marne, 
 and listened for the guns. Not a sound. 
 Perhaps I was mistaken, I thought. 
 
 We had a peaceful night. I went out 
 early the next morning. All was silent. But 
 while I was having my coffee there was one 
 heavy shot I jumped. It was once more 
 that big gun firing on Paris. There was no 
 doubt in my mind that was the accompani- 
 ment, or the prelude, to the new battle. But 
 still we heard no sound of artillery in the 
 direction of the front. The only explanation 
 seemed to us was that the attack was, after 
 all, not here but on a part of the line farther 
 north perhaps again in Picardy where the 
 attack of March had carried the Germans 
 nearer the sea and nearer still to the railroad 
 communication so important to the British. 
 So you can imagine our surprise when the 
 news came that the attack, which had begun 
 at three o'clock in the morning, was against 
 the line in front of us from Montdidier in 
 the west, with Compiegne and the route to 
 Paris down the Oise valley, Chateau Thierry 
 and the route down the Marne, Reims and 
 Chalons, as objectives. 
 
 The big gun, which had begun to bombard 
 
 [ 193 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 Paris at half-past six in the morning was still 
 firing at half-past six at night, and at half- 
 past ten at night there was an air raid which 
 lasted about an hour and a quarter. 
 
 With all one's pluck held tight in both 
 hands, and our morale builded up on the 
 same principles that are handed out to the 
 soldiers, you must agree that there is some- 
 thing appalling in this determined, reckless 
 exhibition of brute force. Even although I 
 am not a bit sentimental about this, I must 
 remark that it seems to be stupid. The 
 demonstration does not seriously alarm any- 
 one it surely demoralizes no one. It must 
 be pretty costly. Besides that, the amount of 
 harm it does is infinitesimal in comparison 
 to the effort. One life sacrificed in that way 
 is one too many, but more lives are lost 
 almost any day by the ordinary accidents of 
 life than by this superman effort of frightful- 
 ness. As for the air raids they get less 
 and less effective, as the air defence is elab- 
 orated by actual experience. 
 
 Trying as the week has been, it has been 
 absolutely different from that of the big 
 battle of March. We have hardly heard a 
 gun. Dead silence has reigned here, and 
 that silence has been terribly trying. We 
 have known that it was largely an infantry 
 battle, and all the time the wind has blown 
 steadily from the north-east what Amelie 
 calls " le vent des Boches" because it is a 
 
 [ 194 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 wind which brings their gas over. But that 
 is the prevailing wind here at this season, 
 and the Germans have made a great study 
 of meteorology, as a military science. In 
 the drive towards Amiens in March, the 
 heavy guns played a big part, and for days 
 and nights the earth shook with the artillery 
 play even as far south as this. To-day, the 
 fourth of this battle, the silence is almost 
 terrifying. I keep saying to myself, " Will 
 the heavy artillery never get to work?" 
 
 We have lost Craonne, and the Chemin 
 des Dames, and how many a tragic hilltop? 
 Day after day we trace the battle-line as well 
 as we can, and, as it approaches us, the only 
 consolation is that though it bends and curves 
 and stretches, it does not break. The Ger- 
 mans have again crossed the Aisne and the 
 Vesle, and were last night at Fismes, which 
 the English retook in October, 1914, some- 
 thing like twenty miles nearer to us. Reims 
 is holding out superbly. But for that matter, 
 with its tremendous underground structures, 
 it is practically impregnable. I don't believe 
 it can be taken except by a siege, but the 
 Germans are encircling it and rapidly ap- 
 proaching Chateau-Thierry, which threatens 
 our railroad communications. 
 
 It was only last week that I had a letter 
 from you in which you said: "Of course 
 they will attack again. They must or own 
 themselves defeated. But they will not be 
 
 [ 195 1
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 so strong." Hm! They were 650,000 
 against 80,000 when this battle began. Of 
 course, that was before our reserves were 
 brought up. I sit trembling for fear of a 
 panic again. I cannot blame these poor 
 people. They are as loyal as possible, but 
 our roads are again crowded with refugees 
 flying from the front. It is a horrid sight. 
 
 Wednesday a man rested at my gate. He 
 had been obliged to leave his farm when 
 the surprise attack forced the army back so 
 quickly Sunday that civilians had no time to 
 save anything but their lives. He had left 
 his big modern reaping machines they had 
 to be destroyed to keep them from falling 
 into German hands. He had left two thou- 
 sand pounds of beans, requisitioned by the 
 army, there was no time to move them, 
 and they were not paid for burned that 
 the enemy might not get them. And he is 
 only one of thousands, and it is inevitable 
 that, after the first excitement, must come 
 the sense of personal loss. I could under- 
 stand that, for this is the second time he 
 had been driven out. 
 
 It was hard to find just the right thing to 
 say especially as I was safe so far. No 
 personal sacrifice has been asked of me. So 
 I said finally: "Don't be discouraged yet. 
 All these things will be arranged, and your 
 children will have a better world to live in. 
 Besides, the American boys are coming over 
 
 [ 196 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 as fast as they can get here. There are 
 nearly a million here now, I should think." 
 
 He shook his head. "Too late," he re- 
 plied. " What are a million against the three 
 millions the Huns have brought from 
 Russia?" 
 
 Well, there you are, and can you blame 
 him? 
 
 It was Wednesday that things began to 
 look serious here. On that day the scenes 
 of 1914 began to repeat themselves. The 
 better class began to fly. The humbler 
 farmers and peasants began to hide their 
 belongings. Caves and subterranean pas- 
 sages were again filled with furniture, bed- 
 ding and household treasures, even clothing. 
 Some of the richer farmers began to drive 
 their cattle south, and some people even 
 wheeled their possessions in wheelbarrows 
 to the quarries at Mareuil, where work had 
 stopped, owing to the bombs that have fallen 
 there. 
 
 It was in vain that I argued that there 
 was no immediate danger; that we should 
 get warning if it were necessary to go; that 
 the roads were sufficiently blocked already 
 by those who had been driven out, and by 
 the army, without our adding further to the 
 confusion. The peasants and the farmers 
 would listen, if you set them the example, 
 you can count on them, but not so well on 
 those who have a place to go to, and money 
 
 [ 197 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 in their pockets to get there. Besides, I 
 really was " talking through my hat," and 
 I thought to myself, " If I am a bad prophet 
 they may mob me, and serve me right for 
 interfering." 
 
 In the meantime Amelie sat tight. I had 
 her fixed with my eye, and she had not 
 forgotten 1914. 
 
 Thursday that was yesterday was the 
 hardest day. All night the confusion on the 
 road was terrible. Sleep was impossible. 
 On that day, while every one was rushing 
 about hiding things too busy to do any 
 work in the fields a group of refugees 
 arrived here. As a rule, we, who are off 
 the main road, see them at Quincy and 
 Voisins, and Couilly, and go out to help 
 them. But just before sunset yesterday one 
 of the children of the hamlet came running 
 to the gate with the news that a group of 
 emigres were crossing the hilltop by the 
 Chemin Madame. Of course if they were 
 taking that road, they were coming here. 
 It leads nowhere else. The first impulse of 
 every one seemed to be to hang back. Refu- 
 gees here, where every one was so nervous, 
 seemed to them the last straw especially 
 at the moment when they felt pretty sure that 
 another day or two might see them all refu- 
 gees themselves. But they are children, 
 these simple people. So when I started hur- 
 riedly up the road, without a word, to meet 
 [ I9 8 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 them, they all followed, as I knew they 
 would. I thought of how it must feel to be 
 driven out of one's home, and to enter, at 
 sundown of a hot day, into a little hamlet 
 like this, not knowing what kind of a recep- 
 tion awaited one was it to be a welcome, 
 or only curious looks from indifferent eyes? 
 
 As I reached the corner I met coming 
 across the hill a procession of five loaded 
 farm wagons, drawn by big sturdy farm 
 horses. Beside the train marched a middle- 
 aged man and half a dozen boys. In the 
 wagons rode the women and children, and by 
 them ran a couple of dogs. The man walk- 
 ing at the head of the group, with a heavy 
 stick in his hand, looked about fifty, and 
 was apparently the leader. When I smiled 
 him a welcome, he took off his hat, and then 
 we shook hands ceremoniously, and then the 
 Huiry-ites all followed suit. For a moment 
 I thought it was going to be a real function, 
 and I was about to tell him that I was not 
 the Mayor of Huiry, but a foreigner, when 
 I was spared the trouble. He spotted me 
 at once, and said: "Vous etes Americaine, 
 n'est-ce pas? " So much for my accent. He 
 explained that he knew the accent. He had 
 left a lot of our boys where he had come 
 from, north of Compiegne. 
 
 When I asked him what we could do to 
 make the party comfortable, he explained 
 that he had been told that there was room 
 
 [ 199 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 on the hill to shelter his horses for the night, 
 and that that was all they needed. If we 
 could give the old grandmother and her little 
 grandchild a bed, the rest would camp, and 
 then he added: "We don't want to put any 
 one out. We can pay for everything. But 
 the horses must rest for one night, as we 
 have been on the road since sunrise yes- 
 terday." 
 
 You should have seen how quickly it was 
 arranged. I took in the grandmother she 
 was not as old as I am, by the way and 
 the little child, whose father had been killed, 
 and whose mother is a nurse in a hospital in 
 Paris, and a pretty blonde girl, who proved 
 to be the aunt, and inside half an hour the 
 horses were stabled, the wagons under cover, 
 and beds ready for every one, and a kitchen 
 found in the house across the road from me, 
 which was empty. 
 
 You can get some idea of what these 
 people are like when I tell you in a jiffy the 
 women turned up the skirts of their best 
 dresses, got out their big aprons, and went 
 to work to get their dinner. They had every- 
 thing with them chickens, rabbits, vege- 
 tables, tinned things, bread, and even char- 
 coal. A kind welcome had made them cheer- 
 ful, and before nine o'clock they were all 
 established at an improvised table on the 
 roadside, eating, chatting and laughing. It 
 was a sight that did us all good. 
 [ 200 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 It was not much after ten when the women 
 went to bed, leaving the men to clear up and 
 re-pack. It was a family of neighbours 
 rich shop keepers, hotel keepers, and their 
 farm hands, and farmers. One man told 
 me that he alone had left fifty thousand 
 francs' worth of materials behind him, and 
 his only prayer was that the Allies had been 
 able to take it or destroy it. There was no 
 sign of class distinction. They were all one 
 family, and had all such pretty manners. 
 The baby about three came to offer her 
 little hand when she was put to bed, and 
 lisp her " Bon soir, Madame, et bonne nuit" 
 and one after another of the group came 
 into the garden to say good-night. 
 
 The elderly man remarked that it would 
 be pleasant to sleep out of the sound of the 
 guns. I had to laugh, as I replied : 
 
 " Well, I am sorry that we cannot promise 
 you that. We are just in front of the guns 
 of the outer forts of Paris, and we get a 
 Gotha visit almost every night." 
 
 But that idea did not disturb them. They 
 had been accustomed to so much worse. And 
 sure enough, we had hardly got into bed, 
 when, at about twenty minutes past eleven, 
 the guns began to fire from the forts, and 
 for an hour and a quarter the noise was 
 infernal. 
 
 I was up early this morning, but, as I 
 wanted to keep the house quiet, in order that 
 
 [ 201 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 my tired guests might sleep, I came upstairs 
 to write to you. The news is bad the 
 Germans are in Soissons again, and the Allied 
 army is still retreating south and west. Poor 
 Soissons! This makes the third time its 
 people have had to get out. I remember so 
 well that day in the end of August the 
 twenty-ninth, I think in 1914, when the 
 British lost it the first time. But a fortnight 
 later people were returning, though they did 
 not stay long, as the following January the 
 Germans began bombarding it, and it was 
 not until March, 1917, that the town was 
 again safe for civilians, and now, for the 
 third time, these poor people are wanderers 
 again. 
 
 Well, my guests are beginning to move 
 about. Amelie is calling me to my coffee, 
 and I will finish this later. 
 
 Later 
 
 All sorts of things have happened since I 
 went down to breakfast. I have only time 
 to add a few words to this. News has come 
 that the railroad is cut for civilians at 
 Meaux. There is no certainty that even that 
 communication with Paris will not at any 
 moment become impossible. I am leaving 
 for Paris only for twenty-four hours at 
 five o'clock. 
 
 I will write to explain from there. In the 
 meantime there is no need for you to worry 
 [ 202 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 yet. In case of any change in my plans I 
 shall cable so that you will know where I am. 
 I shall time the cable to reach you before 
 this letter does so that you will not be left 
 in any uncertainty. In case you have received 
 no word by wire when this reaches you, you 
 are to understand that I am back here, and 
 all is well. 
 
 [ 203 ]
 
 XXIV 
 
 5 Villa Victor Hugo, Paris, June I, 1918 
 
 WELL, here we are, in practically the same 
 situation as on that memorable September 
 day in 1914, when Amelie and I made our 
 rush to Paris, to return the same night and 
 find the British army at the gate, at the end 
 of that tragic two weeks' retreat from Mons. 
 
 This is what happened. 
 
 The cordial welcome that my neighbours 
 gave the refugees who arrived Thursday 
 on the hilltop braced them up and consoled 
 them at the end of their two days' pilgrim- 
 age in the heat and dust, and their calm and 
 courage braced us all up. But alas ! the bad 
 news of Friday morning spoiled all that. 
 When I went into the garden after my coffee, 
 I found them in the road at the gate, with 
 their heads over a newspaper examining a 
 map of the front. I was not especially sur- 
 prised when the leader came into the garden 
 a little later, and said: 
 
 "Well, Madame, although you were all 
 so kind as to urge us last night to rest here 
 to-day and not go on until to-morrow, we 
 have decided that it is hardly wise. We are 
 leaving at once, and making for Melun. The 
 [ 204 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 roads are crowded now, and it seems to us 
 most unsafe here. We hope to reach Melun 
 during the night." 
 
 Two hours later they were gone. 
 
 Not long after, while I was sitting in the 
 garden, listening to the confused noises from 
 the moving trains of refugees on the road, 
 and trying to make up my mind calmly what 
 it was wisest to do, Amelie came out, and 
 began to argue the matter with me. To my 
 surprise I found that her mind was fixed on 
 having me go to Paris at least, and wait 
 there for the turn of the tide for turn it 
 must. I don't really know why it must, but 
 I feel that it will. All her arguments did 
 not seem sound, but some of them were wise 
 enough. 
 
 She argued that every one had gone but 
 the farmers and peasants; that the situation 
 was different from that of 1914; that then 
 I belonged to the most powerful of the neu- 
 tral countries, whereas to-day I belonged to 
 the most hated of Germany's enemies; that 
 even if we were not invaded we risked being 
 bombarded; that in case of a bombardment 
 they could all live in the subterranean pas- 
 sages, and not mind it too much, but that it 
 would be unnecessarily uncomfortable for 
 me; that I could still get to Paris with a 
 trunk, but in case of a hurried evacuation 
 later I would have to go without clothes 
 and finally, as a crowning argument, she said, 
 
 [ 205 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 "We all want you to go, and we shall feel 
 less anxious when you are in a safer place." 
 
 I heard her out, but I was doing some 
 pretty tall thinking. One thing was certain 
 I had to have money. Was n't history re- 
 peating itself? It was already taking three 
 and sometimes four days to get a letter into 
 Paris, and almost as many to get one out. 
 That meant that it would take nearly a week 
 to get money by mail, and communications 
 might be cut at any minute. Besides, Amelie 
 was quite right on one point, it might be 
 prudent for me to have a trunk in Paris, so 
 that, in case we were ordered out, I could 
 at least find clean clothes at the end of my 
 voyage. 
 
 Finally I cut the argument short. 
 
 "All right, Amelie," I said. " I '11 go up 
 to Paris. But I shall come right back as soon 
 as I get some money, see how things really 
 are in Paris, and leave my trunk." 
 
 " Good," said Amelie, jumping up. "Pack 
 the trunk at once. There is a train at five. 
 I '11 harness in an hour. That will give you 
 time enough, and we must allow for the 
 crowd on the road." 
 
 I protested that the next morning would 
 do, but she insisted that it was possible that 
 the next morning I might not be able to get 
 away. I didn't believe it, but, in the end, I 
 took the five o'clock train that was day 
 [ 206 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 before yesterday, the day on which I last 
 wrote to you. 
 
 We started away silently, except that I 
 assured every one who came out to say good 
 bye to me that there was no good bye, as I 
 was coming back, surely no later than Mon- 
 day. But as we drove across the Chemin 
 Madame I was surprised to find that Amelie 
 was crying, a thing she rarely does. When I 
 leaned forward to smile into her face she 
 quite broke down. 
 
 ' You must not try to come back. None 
 of us want you to. It is too dangerous. 
 After this is all over we can find one another 
 again. We will do all that we can to save 
 your house and all your things." 
 
 "Nonsense," I replied, "of course I am 
 coming back! You are to go to Couilly to 
 fetch me at two o'clock on Sunday, and, in 
 case I am not there, at the same hour Mon- 
 day, when I shall surely be there. In the 
 meantime, if I can telegraph, I will. Do you 
 understand?" 
 
 " I understand that you are coming if you 
 can get back" 
 
 " Fudge," I replied, but I knew that I was 
 taking that chance, so I hurriedly gave her 
 certain instructions in case our hill was evac- 
 uated; emptied what money I had on me into 
 her lap; carefully wrote out a couple of 
 addresses, in and out of Paris, where she 
 
 [ 20? ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 could reach me; arranged what was to be 
 done about all the beasties in case worse 
 came to worst, and the one consolation I felt 
 was that in case Amelie was right and I 
 wrong about the situation I could certainly 
 serve them better by going than staying. If 
 a bombardment drove them down into the 
 caves I should be an embarrassment to them. 
 If military orders drove them into the roads, 
 why there were a horse and donkey and two 
 covered wagons, and again they would be 
 more at ease without me, while outside the 
 zone I could help them better than inside, 
 and prepare a refuge for them. 
 
 But as I stood on the steps at the station 
 watching Amelie drive away I knew that 
 she was still crying her mind made up 
 for the worst. I simply refused to consider 
 that it could happen. I was not gay. Who 
 could be ? You never saw such a sight as the 
 gare was. The refugees who had arrived 
 thus far on foot, with their pitiful bags and 
 parcels, were being taken on by the rail- 
 road. Hundreds of women and children 
 from Couilly and St. Germain and Quincy 
 were flying, taking beds and all sorts of 
 boxes and bundles with them. It was 1914 
 all over again, only a hundred times sadder. 
 
 At Esbly, where we changed cars, it was 
 even worse. 
 
 The train from Meaux was over an hour 
 and a half late. The platform was piled 
 [ 208 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 with boxes and bundles, trunks and baby-car- 
 riages loaded with parcels, baskets and 
 rolled-up bedding. The crowd was as sad- 
 looking as the baggage women leading 
 children and dogs, carrying bundles of all 
 sorts, and string-bags in which shoes and 
 bread were conspicuous. There were birds 
 in cages, and cats crying in baskets. The 
 sight did not tend to make anyone gay. 
 
 It was a strangely silent crowd that stood 
 during that hour and a half of weary wait- 
 ing while train after train of rolling stock 
 from up the line was hurried towards Paris, 
 and train after train of military material was 
 rushed through to Meaux. When the train, 
 which should have come at twenty minutes 
 to six, finally pulled in at almost half-past 
 seven it seemed to me that I was back at that 
 day in 1914, over forty-five months ago. 
 
 If the trip to town had not had some en- 
 couraging moments I am afraid that I might 
 have arrived in Paris in a mood not far re- 
 moved from that in which I had left Amelie 
 at Huiry. 
 
 The crowd in the packed compartment, in 
 which I found a place, was interesting. 
 There was a family from Nancy, which had 
 been stopping at Meaux, there was an in- 
 firmiere from the big military hospital, Val 
 de Grace, and people flying from Meaux, 
 and the principal topic of conversation was, 
 quite naturally, the "boys from the States." 
 
 [ 209 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 The greatest anxiety of every one but the 
 nurse was that the delay of the train would 
 force them to remain over night in bom- 
 barded Paris. 
 
 We should have been in Paris before 
 seven o'clock. We got there at ten minutes 
 to nine. 
 
 All along the line we had been side-tracked 
 or held up to let long military trains have the 
 right of way trains packed with poilus 
 those closed cars marked " hommes, 40, 
 chevaux, 8;" you remember them? with 
 men sitting in the open doors, their feet 
 hanging out, all smoking and laughing, trains 
 camoufle with splashes of green and dirt- 
 coloured paint; trucks on which were mounted 
 all sorts of cannon, their noses in the air, 
 trains of ammunition wagons, trains of trucks 
 carrying huge gas-tanks with all sorts of 
 cautionary directions in huge letters, and, 
 finally, as we drew out of Vaires and stopped, 
 we came alongside of the first train blinde 
 and the first tanks I had ever seen. The 
 huge armoured train camoufle ', of course 
 consisted of four enormous cars, and each 
 had its lower car for the gunners. On the 
 lower roofs sat the men, singing and laugh- 
 ing most of them in their shirt-sleeves 
 extraordinary for French boys and each 
 car had its mascot. On one was a white 
 lamb, with a ribbon about his neck. On one 
 was a monkey. On one was a white poodle, 
 [ 210 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 who looked as if he had just had a bath. On 
 the fourth was a bird in a cage. 
 
 Somehow all this bucked me up tremen- 
 dously. Every one was hanging out of the 
 car windows. There was a hearty exchange 
 of courtesies. There was no sign of any- 
 thing but high faith and cheery good humour 
 on the faces of any of these men, who, inside 
 a very few hours, would probably be in the 
 thick of it. I drew a long breath as I 
 thought to myself, "Well, the French are 
 not all dead yet. With spirit like this they 
 ought to be able to stem the tide." 
 
 The scene at the station in Paris beggared 
 all description. Never since the war began 
 have I seen anything like it. The baggage 
 was piled, pell-mell, on the platforms. It 
 had been apparently many days since there 
 had been any empty space in the baggage 
 rooms. One had to pick one's way through 
 it to find an exit. I found an old porter who 
 knew me to carry my bag, and gave him a 
 receipt for my trunk. He shook his head 
 and advised me not to try to get it that night, 
 as it would surely be hours before I could 
 find it, and by that time it would be impos- 
 sible to get a cab, as it would be dark, and 
 cabs do not care to make long trips after 
 dark, when a Gotha attack is an almost 
 nightly occurrence. There seemed to be 
 nothing else to do, although, as I looked 
 about, I saw no reason why anyone could not 
 
 [ 211 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 help himself to a good-looking small trunk 
 like mine and walk off with it. 
 
 When we got outside there was no cab in 
 sight, and a crowd waiting. So the old man 
 told me to stay right where I was not 
 budge, no matter what happened, even if he 
 should be ten minutes. So there I stood fixed 
 in the twilight, watching the scene. Now 
 and then a taxi-auto would come in through 
 the gate. Instantly twenty people would 
 rush to meet it. It was a real case of short 
 distance sprinting and no favour. 
 
 But that did not interest me as much as the 
 big camions of the American Red Cross 
 which have done most of the rescue work 
 during this evacuation. The refugees who 
 arrive at this station, after they have been 
 fed and cleaned, are carried by these big 
 camions to the stations on the lines going 
 out to the south and west. It was exciting 
 for Parisians to see these great open 
 camions, with sturdy American lads in their 
 sombreros, in their shirt-sleeves, with the 
 sleeves rolled to the elbows at that, stand- 
 ing braced on widespread feet, with their 
 arms folded, as the autos bumped over the 
 pavements. 
 
 It was not ten, but twenty, minutes before 
 my old porter finally came back, riding on 
 the running-board of a taxi. I was glad to 
 see him, I can tell you. It was already dark. 
 It was ten o'clock when I reached my desti- 
 
 [ 212 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 nation, and I had left home at four, and had 
 had no dinner not that this is very impor- 
 tant in these days. 
 
 I had not even got through talking when 
 the alerte sounded. But this is getting to be 
 a common occurrence, so that it would not 
 be worth recording, if it had not been a 
 rather unusual raid. It was quarter to 
 eleven when the first gun fired, and fifty-five 
 minutes later came the berloque. But while 
 the "all clear" was being bugled in the 
 streets there came a second alerte, and for a 
 few minutes the sirene and the B-flat bugle 
 did a duet, and I assure you it was comic. 
 People who had started from the abris said 
 the whole thing was very funny the bugler 
 lowered his bugle, the fireman began toot- 
 ing his horn, people who had come out of 
 the cellars ran back anyway, here are 
 more points for the future makers of farce- 
 comedy. 
 
 After it was all over we stood for a while 
 on the balcony listening to the church bells 
 ringing out the message "all clear" in the 
 suburbs. It sounded so pretty. It is a pity 
 that so alluring a sound in the night should 
 be associated with anything so sinister. On 
 our hill, the alerte is given by tolling the 
 bells. I don't enjoy that. We have no " all 
 clear " signal. We know when the forts stop 
 firing that it is over. 
 
 As soon as I had my trunk in Paris I 
 
 [ 213 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 wanted to go right home again. I found real 
 comfort in the fact that if I were driven out 
 of my home I should have at least a change 
 of shoes they are so costly just now sev- 
 enty-five francs a pair for shoes that in the 
 old days cost twenty-five. But since I was 
 in town it seemed wise to look the situation 
 over carefully and provide for possibilities. 
 One thing was certain if I were actually 
 forced out by military operations, with which 
 neither fear nor my own wishes had anything 
 to do, why then Paris would be no place to 
 stay. 
 
 There is not in my mind the smallest 
 chance of Paris ever being taken or besieged. 
 But there is a chance that, if the Germans 
 pass Compiegne, they can mount the guns 
 which bombarded Antwerp, and still pound 
 Dunkirk, and Paris may, for a few days, be 
 seriously bombarded. In case of that possi- 
 bility becoming a fact, I imagine that few of 
 us foreigners would be allowed to stay in 
 Paris, and I have spent all day to-day, which 
 is Sunday, arranging for that eventuality, 
 that is to say, all except what has been spent 
 writing you this long letter. 
 
 [ 214 ]
 
 XXV 
 
 June 4, 1918 
 
 WELL, here I am at home again, and I 
 have been very busy ever since I got here, 
 most of the time chuckling. Life is not all 
 tragic, and it is only a breath over the line to 
 laughter, as usual. 
 
 I came back on Monday, the second, as 
 I said I should. The drive on Paris at both 
 Chateau-Thierry and Compiegne seems to 
 be held up. The Boches are in Chateau- 
 Thierry, and they have crossed the Marne 
 at Dormans, southeast of Chateau-Thierry, 
 but they are still outside Compiegne. Yes- 
 terday was the eighth day of the big battle, 
 and it almost appears to be a rule that an 
 eight days' drive is about all an army can 
 stand. 
 
 The trip back was what it always is in 
 these days, as almost the only soldiers I meet 
 on the train are the boys from the States. 
 But they are not much given, just now, to 
 talk. They know little about the country, 
 and their one desire seems to be to get on to 
 the job, get it done, and get home. Besides, 
 in spite of anything one can do, there is a 
 different feeling in one's heart towards them. 
 The French and English seem hardened to 
 
 [ 215 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 it, and take it all as a matter of course. The 
 boys from the States do not, yet. 
 
 I found Amelie waiting at the station. 
 She was visibly surprised to see me. It was 
 quite evident that she had not expected me. 
 She drove me up the hill quite sadly, and 
 her only comment was: 
 
 " Now you '11 have to do it all over again. 
 I was comfortable, knowing you were safe, 
 and now I Ve got to go through it all again." 
 
 When I got to the house, the moment I 
 opened the door I discovered one reason for 
 her discomfort at my return. The house 
 was dismantled. My first impulse was to 
 scold, but when I realized how hard they 
 must all have worked, and with what good 
 intention, I decided to laugh loud and long 
 instead. 
 
 I wish you could have seen the house. 
 There was not a curtain. There was not a 
 dish in the dining-room nor in the kitchen. 
 The mirrors were down, and pictures on the 
 floor, faces to the wall. My winter clothes, 
 all the bed and body linen and even kitchen 
 towels had been packed, and everything car- 
 ried up the hill and hidden underground. 
 My first impulse as I looked about the dis- 
 mantled home was to be very cross, but, be- 
 fore I opened my mouth I looked into the 
 library. There stood my books all along the 
 walls. She had not dared touch them. The 
 hearty laugh the sight simply knocked out 
 [ 216 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 of me gave me time to appreciate it. As 
 soon as I could get my face straight I said: 
 "Oh, Amelie, Amelie! And you said, in 
 1914, that nothing would ever induce you to 
 do a thing like this again! " 
 
 "Well, mistress," she replied, "it's your 
 things I Ve hidden this time," which was per- 
 fectly true. Her own home had not been 
 touched. 
 
 There was no reply to be made to that ex- 
 cept that I was grateful to her for leaving 
 me something to read and my typewriter. 
 She had hidden the phonograph. 
 
 She explained that she saw no way to hide 
 the books, as there were not cases enough 
 or time enough and she reasoned that if 
 the house were destroyed, and evidently she 
 had made up her mind to that, I could go on 
 without books, but that I would be glad to 
 have bedding and dishes and clothes. I saw 
 her point of view. She did not see mine. 
 
 So you can guess how I am living. Amelie 
 has made me up one bed with her sheets. I 
 drink my coffee out of a bowl, and stir it with 
 a pewter spoon. I have two plates and a 
 knife and fork from her house. I know a 
 little of discomforts of which, up to now, I 
 have had none. I am going to support it a 
 few days. I really have not the heart to 
 order all that hard work done over again at 
 once, especially as Amelie is not yet sure that 
 I may not have to leave.
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 The atmosphere is anything but calm here. 
 Meaux was bombarded yesterday, and more 
 harm done in an hour than during the entire 
 battle of the Marne. In addition, one of the 
 first regiments du choc, the boys who fell 
 back in the first hours of the attack of 
 May 27 less than two hundred are left of 
 the regiment came here to rest before re- 
 tiring further to reorganize. Naturally they 
 arrived in a sadly demoralized condition, in 
 a commune rather demoralized already. It 
 was an unfortunate combination. It was the 
 first time that the poilus had ever brought 
 anything but courage, hope and gaiety into 
 the place. 
 
 Yet let me tell you a strange thing. Even 
 with Amelie, whose mind is made up that we 
 are to be invaded, that idea does not for a 
 moment mean that she believes in a defeat. 
 It does not do even to say to her " the Ger- 
 mans are so strong." Any speech like that 
 arouses her anger. She replies with a vicious 
 emphasis : 
 
 'They are no stronger than we are. If 
 they are, why have they not beaten us, when 
 they were ready, and we were not, when they 
 are so much more numerous than we are, and 
 have three times as many guns? " And they 
 have, you know. But that does not prevent 
 one from dreading an invasion all the same. 
 
 As long ago as the first weeks of the war 
 I wrote you that I could not foresee a defeat 
 [ 218 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 for France, and that I believed that even if 
 her armies were beaten back to Bordeaux, 
 with their backs against the Biscay, I was 
 convinced they would still hold out. Of 
 course they could not have, if all the world 
 had not come to their aid, but is n't it a legit- 
 imate matter of pride that France, as a na- 
 tion and as a people, has made herself so 
 dear to the affections of ihe world, and the 
 cause for which she stands so just, that 
 twenty governments have ranged themselves 
 beside her, so that even though Paris be 
 taken, even though the army of France be 
 wiped out, Germany would have no chance 
 to win, for all the United States will come 
 over before that can happen. 
 
 I sometimes wonder if it is possible for 
 you to understand just what it means to be 
 French to-day? The men from the States, 
 great as their sacrifice is, leave their women 
 and children in security. The men of France, 
 standing out there in that battle-line, have 
 not that comfort, for, while they are offering 
 their lives for the cause, right over their 
 heads the enemy is sending death to their 
 very firesides. Startling idea, isn't it? 
 
 Our roads are full of moving artillery 
 Americans passing everywhere, and the en- 
 thusiasm for them grows every day. 
 
 The heavy artillery was very noisy at 
 noon. But we are so used to that that we 
 are nervous without it. When we don't hear 
 
 [ 219 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 it every one here thinks nothing is doing, and 
 that, in spite of the fact that we all know 
 the present battle is a battle of movement, 
 an infantry battle, the sort of battle in which 
 the French are most at home. 
 
 It looks to-night as if Compiegne were 
 safe, although it has suffered badly from the 
 artillery fire. Do you remember the last 
 day we were there, and lunched at the hand- 
 some new hotel at the entrance of the forest, 
 with its wide verandah and its awnings so 
 much more English than French, and how 
 we drove through the forest to take tea at 
 Pierrefonds ? I remember it was a hunts day, 
 and every little way, down the long vistas of 
 trees, we saw the huntsmen dashing across, 
 and heard the horns. It is a lovely memory. 
 Though the town is so badly hurt, we are 
 told the palace, with its souvenirs of Napo- 
 leon III, has been spared by order of the 
 Kaiser, as it was there he planned to make 
 his last rest on the route to Paris, to put on 
 his white uniform de parade, and take his 
 automobile for the fortifications, where his 
 war-horse was to wait him and carry him 
 into Paris, and through the Arc de Tri- 
 omphe, another of those illusions already 
 twice destroyed, since he waited outside 
 Nancy, ready to enter. It has been a close 
 shave each time, but " a miss is as good as 
 a mile." 
 
 22
 
 XXVI 
 
 June 22, 1918 
 
 THINGS have not changed much since I 
 wrote you. The battle seems for the mo- 
 ment stationary, but we all know that it is 
 only held up until the Germans can re-organ- 
 ize another coup. As that of March 2ist 
 extended from Cherizy to the forest of 
 Coucy, and that of May 27th along the 
 tragic Chemin des Dames, from the defences 
 of Soissons to Reims and across the Marne 
 the other side of Chateau-Thierry, about 
 thirty miles from us, we are unusually nerv- 
 ous right here as to the direction of the next 
 attack. If it should be in the direction of 
 Meaux it would be all up with us. 
 
 By a strange chance it is on the sector 
 which includes Chateau-Thierry that the 
 boys from the States are holding the line and 
 holding it bravely brilliantly. Isn't it 
 odd to think that while they are all along the 
 line it should be at the point where an ad- 
 vance would menace my house that the " boys 
 from home " should be doing their most con- 
 spicuous work? The people about me are 
 really sentimental on the subject. You 
 would think, from their attitude, that I had 
 
 [ 221 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 especially ordered the arrangement. Per- 
 haps I will be mobbed if they don't hold on ! 
 
 We hear the guns intermittently. There 
 is an almost daily movement of American 
 troops over the route to Meaux. I do not 
 see them. We have been dealt three air 
 raids since I last wrote, and now, as we have 
 a tir de barrage from five points in an arc 
 about us, the noise of the guns of defence is 
 terrible. 
 
 Almost every day a new group of refugees 
 arrive. We have a large number from Acy, 
 near Soissons, and within a mile or two of 
 Sarches, where the Englishwomen who used 
 to be at Meaux, and of whom I think I wrote 
 you, went last fall to organize a big foyer. 
 Somehow, in all the excitement of the last 
 month, it was not until the people from Acy 
 arrived that I realized that, of course, 
 the big foyer at Sarches must have been 
 destroyed. 
 
 It was. 
 
 A week ago last Tuesday they surprised 
 me by walking into the garden. They had 
 come over from Meaux, where they stopped 
 in the retreat, to help in the hospital, where 
 they were short of nurses. I am afraid they 
 were surprised when they found me here. 
 They insisted that I was not to stay, that the 
 Americans at Meaux sent word that, if I 
 were still here, I was to be told that I was 
 " crazy to stay." 
 
 [ 222 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 They had passed through a terrible ex- 
 perience, seeing all they had organized so 
 well, and all they had collected and arranged 
 libraries, music rooms, tennis courts, dear 
 little houses and gardens destroyed, and 
 had made a tragic retreat over roads full of 
 empty gun-carriages, flying women and chil- 
 dren, retreating soldiers, exploding ammuni- 
 tion as the retiring army destroyed its stores 
 to prevent the Germans from getting what 
 could not be carried. They arrived, nerve- 
 tired, at Meaux to go right into the crowded 
 hospital, just in time (they were on night 
 service) to stand to their posts when the air 
 raid on the morning of the third of June did 
 such damage only a short distance from the 
 ambulance. It was no wonder that they 
 were a bit pessimistic about our chances here. 
 They were sweetly sympathetic about the 
 house and my library, and wanted me to 
 make an effort to get military automobiles to 
 come and take away my treasures before it 
 was too late. 
 
 But for that I had no ambition. Military 
 automobiles have too much work to do which 
 is more important, and I thought it would be 
 time enough, if ever, when we were warned 
 to get out. 
 
 " But you will get no warning," they ex- 
 claimed; " if you wait for that it will be too 
 late." 
 
 But my mind was made up. I have often 
 
 [ 223 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 wondered what would become of all the stuff 
 I have collected about me when I have done 
 with it. Don't you remember, even in the 
 old days before I came out here, I used to 
 laugh about it with you? A poor person's 
 library, got together haphazard, is like one's 
 collection of friends, no one else wants it. 
 I 'd hate the idea of its being sold, and turn- 
 ing up for years after in the dusty boxes on 
 the quais, as I have, in my time, found the 
 books of others. Well, if it were to go up in 
 srnoke, as my sacrifice for the victory, I 
 shan't care. In fact, it will be a fine end, and 
 settle one anxiety in my mind. 
 
 They insisted so much about, at least, my 
 leaving that I was glad to be able to tell them 
 that I was going to Paris next day, and I did 
 not tell them that I was coming directly back 
 but I did. 
 
 I was glad I went, for I had a most inter- 
 esting trip, and saw thousands of our boys. 
 I don't see much of them unless I do move 
 about a bit, for they just rush by here to 
 Chateau-Thierry. 
 
 I went up last Friday. On the route de 
 Meaux, as I drove down to the station, I 
 found the road simply full of camion-loads 
 of the boys from home. As Ninette walked 
 slowly along the line, I leaned out to call my 
 greeting to the boys in English. I wish you 
 could have seen their smiling faces. It took 
 Ninette half an hour to go from the top of 
 [ 224 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 the hill down to the station, and I did my best 
 to give them a solo acclamation all the way, 
 and they returned the compliment. 
 
 As my train ran into Esbly, we passed car- 
 load after carload, side-tracked outside the 
 station, all in their shirt-sleeves, sitting in the 
 cattle-cars which carry the French troops, 
 eating their breakfast in picnic fashion. I 
 longed to run back down the track to greet 
 them, but I had not time, so I bought up all 
 the English papers I could get a few Paris 
 Heralds and Daily Mails and sent them 
 down by the station-master, who was only 
 too glad to make the trip. 
 
 The excitement in the station was intense. 
 Every one was crowded on the end of the 
 platform from which the train-load of Amer- 
 icans could be seen. You would have 
 thought, from their air, that the war would 
 be over day after to-morrow. You should 
 have seen their faces and heard the tone of 
 their voices when they spoke of " ces braves 
 garqons de I'dmerique." I told you at the 
 time that war was declared in Washington 
 that we were a lucky people. Our boys have 
 come over to cast the deciding vote in a long- 
 tied struggle. They are going to get credit 
 for that decision. Please God they '11 play 
 up to the enthusiasm there is for them, 
 and modestly do full justice to the great sac- 
 rifices which have prepared the road for 
 them. 
 
 [ 225 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 It is lucky that in these days I rarely read 
 in the train the road is too interesting 
 otherwise I should have missed seeing the 
 groups of lads from the States bivouacked 
 all along the line, lying on the banks or 
 grouped about eating. I rode most of the 
 way at the open window, waving my greet- 
 ings, and they not only always waved back as 
 cordially as if they had known I was a fellow 
 citizen, but often rose to their feet to do it. 
 
 I found Paris quiet, it was the fifteenth, 
 and the big gun had ceased firing on the 
 twelfth, and there had been no air raids for 
 nine nights. But on Sunday night there was 
 a terrible one, in which there were lives lost 
 and a big fire started. It began at twenty 
 minutes after eleven and lasted until one 
 o'clock long enough to spoil the night. 
 
 On the train Monday I read the news that 
 the big offensive for Venice had begun, so 
 there is one more cause for hourly suspense, 
 but the worst seemed to be over in three days 
 this time the Italians are holding. 
 
 The weather has been queer. For a month 
 here we had practically no rain, and every- 
 thing is drying up. My lawn is a pitiful 
 sight, but that is no matter. What does 
 matter are the potatoes and beans. 
 
 Last night we had a most remarkable sun- 
 set. I never saw anything at all like it, or 
 anything of the sort that was so strangely 
 beautiful. The western horizon was like the 
 [ 226 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 flames of a huge fire copper and gold with 
 a background of sullen red. From the point 
 where the sun was sinking started broad 
 clouds like banners, extending in even rays, 
 like the spokes of a wheel, up to the zenith 
 and paling down to the east. These cloud 
 rays were almost white on one edge and 
 blackish gray on the other. They were even 
 in width, and as evenly spaced as if done with 
 a compass, and they curved with the dome of 
 the heavens. Every one was out on the hill 
 to watch the spectacle, and if I had seen it in 
 a picture and not with my own eyes, I could 
 not have believed it to be a true bill. 
 
 [ 227 ]
 
 XXVII 
 
 June 29, 1918 
 
 I GOT up this morning feeling as if I had 
 never had a trouble in the world. All my 
 nervousness had disappeared in the night. 
 I 'd like to think that it presages something 
 remarkable. I am afraid it only means that 
 I slept from ten to six without budging, 
 which is unusual. You can guess how sound 
 my sleep was when I tell you that there was 
 a raid last night, and I never heard it. I am 
 generally a light sleeper. I never expected 
 to arrive at sleeping through a bombardment. 
 But I have. So it may be that I am getting 
 used to it. I am willing, for it 's small serv- 
 ice I can render listening to the racket. I 
 can't stop the bombs, nor bring down the 
 Gothas, though if wishing it on them would 
 accomplish it they would long ago have been 
 all annihilated. 
 
 It has been rather a busy and picturesque 
 week. 
 
 Last Sunday that was the twenty-third 
 we had the 3O4th dragoons camped here 
 for the night the very biggest cantonne- 
 ment we have ever had, and I had the Cap- 
 tain in the house. 
 [ 228 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 They arrived at six o'clock, and it was one 
 of the hottest days I ever saw. They had 
 been in the saddle since four in the morning. 
 
 The quartermaster and a couple of cor- 
 porals had been here all day preparing the 
 cantonnement. We had eighty horses in the 
 little railed-in pasture on the top of the hill, 
 which we never thought was too big for 
 Ninette and Bijou, and fifty in the smaller 
 one where we used to put the goat. These 
 two little pares, as Pere calls them, are on 
 either side of the devise, a bit of City of 
 Paris land following the line of the Paris 
 water conduits from the Ourcq to Paris, and 
 across it runs a footpath, always kept clear, 
 which is barred at regular distances so that 
 it resembles a hurdle-course, though it is only 
 for pedestrians. 
 
 I never had such respect or understanding 
 for the tremendous work required to keep an 
 army going as I had while I watched that 
 regiment arrange itself just for this etape of 
 ten hours. Every one knew just what to do. 
 In less than an hour after the head of the line 
 came into the courtyard at Pere's where the 
 kitchens and big commissary wagons were set 
 up, all was in order. 
 
 I sat on a big stone beside the road and, 
 while the horses were being led in a line to 
 the watering-troughs, I saw the speed with 
 which posts four feet high attached with 
 heavy cords were driven into the ground some 
 
 [ 229 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 ten feet apart along both sides of the footpath. 
 To these posts such of the horses as could 
 not be stabled or put into our little enclosures, 
 were attached by their halters. It took al- 
 most less time than it takes me to write it for 
 saddles to be removed, nose bags to be ad- 
 justed, and there, close around the four sides 
 of the enclosures, and almost shoulder to 
 shoulder down either side of the footpath, 
 the horses ate, while saddles were being in- 
 spected and piled in regular heaps in the 
 centre of the enclosure and against the bar- 
 riers on the outside. Every one was busy, 
 there was plenty of blague falling about, but 
 no one seemed to get into anyone's way, and 
 by nine o'clock everybody was eating. 
 
 My ! but it takes lots to feed them. They 
 threw whole beeves out of the big camion, 
 an old Paris tram-car, if you please, with 
 windows replaced by wire screenings, inside 
 which the beef and mutton hung up just as it 
 does at the butcher's, while whole kegs of 
 beer had a camion of their own, and the 
 vegetable kettles were almost as big as 
 barrels. 
 
 While the dinner was preparing, and a 
 huge dish of eggs which it took two men to 
 carry was being cooked in my kitchen, the 
 men washed up wherever they could find a 
 place. I suppose you have heard that the 
 poilu never washes unless he has to. It is a 
 standard joke. There are exceptions. You 
 
 [ 230 J
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 ought to have seen the court at Amelie's, and 
 what I sarcastically call my basse cour. 
 
 Long ago, when I thought I 'd raise geese 
 I never told you about that, perhaps? 
 one of my follies for lack of a brook I 
 bought a huge, flat, round bathtub. It was a 
 metre and a half in diameter. When I gave 
 up raising geese the tub was put in the tool 
 house, and there it stood on end. The poilus 
 found it. Just as I was coming through the 
 long garden at Amelie's, which runs beside 
 the chickens' home, with only a high grillage 
 between, a loud voice warned me with: "At- 
 tention. Defense d'entrer. Salle de bain 
 privee" and I got through the gate in time 
 to avoid a study in the nude. Amelie ex- 
 plained when I got through that they were 
 sprinkling one another in the tub with the big 
 watering-pot. 
 
 They were still eating when I went to bed. 
 
 As I closed up for the night I thought to 
 myself " It is dollars to doughnuts that the 
 Gothas will come to-night." And just before 
 eleven they did, and the barrage was not 
 silent until midnight. 
 
 Amelie told me in the morning that the 
 boys simply put out their lights, and finished 
 cleaning and repacking in the dark. 
 
 Just imagine how much actual work all 
 this means, when I tell you that at three 
 o'clock the next morning they were up and at 
 work, and at half-past three they were in the 
 
 [ 231 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 saddle, and the long line of cavalry and the 
 big commissary wagons and the ammunition 
 train, with its mule-drawn mitrailleuses, were 
 trotting and rattling on the road again. 
 
 We had one day's rest and then the iO2nd 
 artillery came in for the same sort of a re- 
 pose. It was a different kind of cantonne- 
 ment, of course, as there were no horses ex- 
 cept those of the officers; everything else 
 men, cannon, ammunition, equipment was 
 carried on camions and in lorries. But the 
 little road in front of my house has never 
 been so picturesque. All along that road 
 from the turn above the well at Amelie's to 
 that below where it goes into Voisins, in 
 front of Mademoiselle Henriette's, a line of 
 camions carrying guns was drawn up, and in 
 the open space in front of my gate the am- 
 munition wagons were simply packed. In 
 this etape there were no kitchens and no com- 
 missary. The men each carried one day's 
 rations, and the officers rode down to the 
 hotel at Couilly to dine. 
 
 I thought, as I looked out of my bedroom 
 window, that night, "La! la! if the Gothas 
 get this to-night they will make a mess." 
 But they did not. And before daylight the 
 next day they were off. 
 
 We are still waiting for some sign of the 
 next movement at the front, and of course 
 all this military activity means something. 
 
 The artillery had hardly got away when 
 [ 232 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 news came that the 2ist dragoons were com- 
 ing in, and while I was talking to the Cap- 
 tain's orderly, who was arranging the offi- 
 cers' quarters here, and I was explaining the 
 kitchen to the cook for four officers were 
 to eat in the house I got a telegram from 
 Paris telling me to come up without delay, 
 as I was wanted at the Embassy. So I had 
 just time to welcome the Captain as he rode 
 in, and catch the noon train. 
 
 I went directly to the Embassy, where I 
 was informed that, at the request of the 
 French Government, all strangers were being 
 asked to leave Paris as well as the war zone. 
 The explanation given was that while no one 
 thought it possible that the Germans could 
 get to Paris, it was possible perhaps prob- 
 able that Paris would be bombarded. As 
 far as I was personally concerned they con- 
 sidered my situation untenable, as even a 
 slight advance on the Marne would bring 
 me within fifteen miles of the firing line, 
 where I would be an embarrassment to the 
 army, in fact, though they put it more 
 politely, a nuisance. All my papers had to 
 be examined and vised, and I had to select 
 a place to go, which was properly written 
 against my name in the list of Americans 
 allowed, in the last combing out, to remain 
 in France, and then I was told that, as I 
 lived in the zone des armees, and travelled 
 at the pleasure of the Fifth army corps, I 
 
 [ 233 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 would have to go to the French bureau which 
 controlled circulation on the railroads, and 
 get a French vise. 
 
 Before we left the house we had agreed 
 that if it became necessary to leave the town 
 we would go to Versailles, as a first etape. 
 It is outside the fortifications to the south- 
 west, and in case of need it would be easier 
 to retreat west from there than from the 
 city proper. Of course what the authorities 
 are really trying to do is to avoid the possi- 
 bility of a panic at the railway stations at 
 the last minute in case the town is bombarded. 
 There are plenty of people who will not take 
 this warning seriously, but a great number 
 will, and the fewer people there are in the 
 city the better. 
 
 The passport department had been 
 crowded. It was evident that they were 
 combing people out carefully. I had only 
 escaped hours of waiting on the stairs by 
 being discovered by an old Boston friend 
 who needed a witness to swear to her iden- 
 tity. But, even with that advantage, which 
 admitted me long before my turn, the process 
 was a long one, and my papers were exam- 
 ined by at least six men before I escaped 
 and pushed my way downstairs through the 
 waiting crowd. I had been telegraphed for 
 by a friend as we were called alphabetically. 
 
 From the Embassy I went to the French 
 bureau on the rue de Rivoli. There I found 
 
 [ 234 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 the waiting line extending down the street 
 and round the corner, and at that hour of 
 the day the sun shines right into the colon- 
 nade. There I stood in the heat, in a push- 
 ing line, for an hour before my turn came 
 to even enter the building. When I finally 
 got in and found my proper man, I was told 
 that my papers were in perfect order, that I 
 could go to Versailles whenever I desired. 
 And I was told that the sooner I left Paris 
 the better. I took the advice forty-eight 
 hours later, but I did not go to Versailles, 
 I came back here. I tell you all this just to 
 show you what it is like to be here now. 
 There is an even chance either way, that's 
 all. 
 
 I stayed in town Wednesday and Thurs- 
 day night, and came home yesterday. On 
 both nights there was a bad air raid. That 
 on Wednesday destroyed a big shop which 
 we both know, and that on Thursday was 
 the noisiest I have heard since March, and 
 one of the most destructive. It began at 
 half-past nine and lasted until midnight, and 
 the bombs seemed to be distributed over a 
 wide area. Just as in the big March raid I 
 had happened, by accident, on one of the 
 bombarded regions, so yesterday morning I 
 went through another on my way to the 
 station the Place Vendome. But all the 
 damage I could see was a terrible destruc- 
 tion of window glass. There was hardly a 
 whole pane in the square. 
 
 [ 235 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 On arriving at Couilly I found the road 
 up the hill full of ammunition camions, and 
 Ninette climbed up with the huge camions 
 full of big obus crawling by. I own to have 
 felt foolishly nervous as they jerked slowly 
 along. I felt as if, should one backslide or 
 topple over, I should see Kingdom-come be- 
 fore this cruel war was over. Of course I 
 knew they wouldn't, but we have had some 
 queer accidents on that road since the great 
 activity which has never ceased began on 
 May twenty-sixth. 
 
 I found the 2ist dragoons had gone. 
 Amelie said they had seemed very happy 
 the officers and I imagine they had a bet- 
 ter time than if I had been at home, for they 
 had the freedom of the house and no fear 
 that they were putting its mistress out. 
 Amelie said they did not leave the garden 
 at all that they read and played cards and 
 wrote and chatted all day, and had their 
 coffee out on the lawn; but I found a little 
 note, tucked into the drawer in the salon 
 table, from the Captain, saying: 
 
 " Please read here the cordial thanks and 
 respectful homages of a Captain who was 
 bitterly disappointed that his charming host- 
 ess, as soon as he had set eyes on her, 
 disappeared." 
 
 Really, aren't they wonderful? It is not 
 only that they feel the necessity to do that 
 sort of thing, but that they are so uncon- 
 [ 236 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 scious and do it so well, and sign it all up 
 with their names and rank. 
 
 I told you that I was feeling very chipper 
 when I began this, and I am. I wish I knew 
 why. It is not only that; I simply ordered 
 Amelie this morning to set my house in 
 order. I don't care how many people she 
 gets to help her. It must be done at once. 
 She argues that since things are put away 
 they may as well stay until we are sure of the 
 next move, but I say " No," and when I say 
 it loud like that I am always obeyed. 
 
 Besides, just to show you how well I feel, 
 I have decided to go to Paris both for the 
 Fourth and the Fourteenth of July. Paris 
 is going to make our Independence Day a 
 national fete, and on the Fourteenth I shall 
 know that somewhere you will be watching 
 the States celebrating Bastille Day at the 
 same time that I am standing somewhere in 
 Paris cheering the Allies. Well, of course, 
 not exactly that, because really I shall be in 
 the streets while you are still sleeping at two 
 in the morning, and I shall be at tea when 
 you see your procession start, but that 's not 
 important. The Allied spirit of the thing 
 is what matters. This is a great decision for 
 me. You know how I hate a crowd. But 
 there will be few more things of this sort 
 left for me, and I do feel that perhaps this 
 is the first scene in the last act. You see 
 how very much on the right side of the bed 
 I got out this morning. 
 
 [ 237 ]
 
 XXVIII 
 
 July 12, iQi8 
 
 WELL, I can tell you this is dry season. 
 If it were important I should grieve over 
 my garden. You should see my dahlias. I 
 don't ask them to be superb until later, but 
 they never came up in such a state as they 
 have this year. The slugs ate them as fast 
 as they came out of the ground, in spite 
 of the fact that, armed with the tongs, I 
 picked them up carefully twice a day. Such 
 dirty slimy things, all sizes and all colours, 
 from little pale white things and ditto black 
 up to big fat yellow fellows and ditto brown, 
 with horrid heads like seals and bulging 
 eyes, which they draw in and close when you 
 touch them. In spite of all that hard and 
 disagreeable work the first leaves were all 
 eaten and the first buds to open are small, 
 because of the lack of water, and worse than 
 that, they are half eaten away by the slugs. 
 But never mind, I had the fun of playing at 
 gardening, and now I can busy myself doc- 
 toring them. We have had every variety of 
 weather this week. It was piping hot on 
 Sunday, it blew hard on Tuesday, was clear 
 and sunny like an autumn day on Wednes- 
 [ 238 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 day, it showered on Thursday, it opened and 
 shut on Friday, it pours to-day. Variety, 
 anyway. In spite of the terrible drought 
 of which the farmers complain with reason, 
 and which has dwarfed all my posies and 
 scorched my lawn yellow, the grain looks 
 well, and I have never heard the larks sing 
 as they sing these mornings and evenings, as 
 I watch them mounting and mounting, their 
 rippling notes falling out of the clouds long 
 after the bird is invisible. And there are so 
 many finches. There is one who sits and 
 gives a real concert on the ridge-pole of the 
 house every day, and I am just as nice an 
 audience as I know for him always with 
 an eye that Khaki does not sneak up there, 
 for I suspect Khaki and doubt if he makes 
 any distinction between birds that sing and 
 birds that don't, when he goes a-hunting. 
 
 You ask me if the winter is going to be a 
 hard one. Well, to tell you the truth, except 
 that I know it is to be another winter with 
 the army " out there," I have not thought 
 much about it. Anyway, what were hard- 
 ships for four winters will not be so bad this 
 winter, because I am used to them, and ex- 
 pect nothing else. I am getting in wood 
 every day. It is easier to get it than it has 
 been in the previous war years, and I am 
 buying it everywhere, and shall as long as I 
 can find any place to put it. What the army 
 is going to say I don't know, for there is a 
 
 [ 239 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 board on my gate which announces billets 
 for one officer and twenty men, and I am 
 afraid my wood is filling up the soldiers' 
 bedrooms. But I suppose we '11 find some 
 way out of it. Perhaps the army will settle 
 it by taking my wood away. 
 
 We have heard the artillery at the front 
 almost every day since I last wrote to you, 
 but the newspapers say nothing which ex- 
 plains. The soldiers, going through, say 
 " Don't worry. All is going well. In eight 
 days you can expect to get good news," and 
 that has to content us for the present. 
 
 On Monday of last week we had an air 
 raid, which began at quarter before eleven 
 and lasted until nearly two the next morning 
 that was the first day of this month 
 and the next morning, at half-past seven, 
 while I was in the garden, there was a heavy 
 tir de barrage, but it appeared to be directed 
 to the protection of Meaux, though it was 
 impossible to be sure, in spite of my hearing 
 the Boche machine distinctly. As spent shot 
 began to rattle on the roof, I thought it pru- 
 dent to take to cover. 
 
 The next day I went up to Paris to pass 
 the Fourth, as I wrote you I should. Before 
 I left I made sure that our two communes 
 and Huiry itself had American flags, and 
 left Amelie to fling the Stars and Stripes to 
 the French breezes over the gate here and 
 under the bedroom windows, and on the 
 [ 240 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 road side of her house. That is all the fete 
 there will be here, but it is enough. 
 
 The Fourth was a lovely day. Every one 
 had anticipated, and even the papers had not 
 hesitated to say, that it was more than likely 
 that the Boches would consider the national 
 fete-day of the States, to be gloriously cele- 
 brated in the streets of the French capital, 
 as a legitimate opportunity to bring into play 
 again their long-distance cannon. But the 
 Kaiser, if he expected that possibility would 
 keep anyone from going into the streets to 
 see the boys from the States march down the 
 Champs-Elysees, had another disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 We had no desire to hear the discourses 
 nor to see the statesmen sitting in the official 
 tribunes the former we could read later, 
 and the latter were an old story. We had 
 instead a desire to see the crowd in the street 
 and the movement and watch the reception 
 of the troops at various points of the short 
 march from Washington's monument at the 
 head of the newly christened Avenue Presi- 
 dent Wilson to the Strasbourg monument on 
 the Place de la Concorde. 
 
 The streets in the vicinity of the line of 
 march were crowded, and everywhere, even 
 in the quiet and deserted streets of the other 
 quarters, were the American flags. There 
 was no shop too small to show one. Bonnes 
 on the way to market had the Stars and 
 
 [ 241 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 Stripes on their market baskets. Every taxi- 
 cab was decorated with the flag, and so 
 was every decrepit old sapin. It floated on 
 the tram-cars and the omnibuses, it hung 
 out of almost every window, and at the 
 entrance of the big apartment houses, already 
 closed but for the presence of the concierge. 
 Crippled soldiers distributed tiny flags on 
 all the streets. We took ours, two steps 
 from the door, from a one-legged chasseur 
 Alpin, who ran about on his peg as lively as a 
 cricket, and as gay only twenty-two he 
 told me, three years' service stripes on his 
 sleeve, and a croix de guerre and medaille 
 militaire on his breast, and he laughed in my 
 face when I looked grave as he pinned a flag 
 on me, and remarked, " Don't you mind, 
 I 'm not done with them yet;" and away he 
 hopped across the street to pin an American 
 flag on some one else. 
 
 We took a cab and drove along the line 
 looking, from our higher elevation, over the 
 heads of the crowds behind each barrier, as 
 no one could approach without a ticket to 
 within a block in any direction of the grand- 
 stand there was only one. My object was 
 to see the cortege passing down the Champs- 
 Elysees from the Rond Point to the Place de 
 la Concorde. So we drove to the Avenue 
 Gabriel, and, close to the garden entrance to 
 the Presidential residence we got out and 
 walked across the garden between the Ambas- 
 
 [ 242 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 sadeurs and the Alcazar, now given up to the 
 American work for the aid of the French 
 wounded. You remember just the place, for 
 I know we went there to dine together ten 
 years ago. You remember? We sat at a 
 table in the balcony just opposite the stage, 
 and had what you called " the best table 
 d'hote dinner for the price" you had ever 
 eaten, and watched a good variety show 
 or at least I did. I remember that you were 
 more interested in the women walking about 
 in the couloirs, and the wonderful clothes. 
 Alas ! those days are gone. 
 
 On arriving near the Avenue some one 
 helped me mount on to a bench, where, over 
 the heads of the throng massed at the curb, 
 I could look up and down the Avenue, with 
 an American aviator, in a Liberty machine, 
 doing stunts over my head just above the 
 tree-tops, and I assure you I had my heart in 
 my mouth most of the time. 
 
 The crowd that packed the line of march 
 was almost as picturesque as the procession. 
 As far as the French went it was, of course, 
 largely women, children, and white-haired 
 men, with a sprinkling of poilus on leave, 
 convalescent soldiers the crippled soldiers 
 had a reserved stand near the head of the 
 route and a great number of English and 
 American men in khaki the Red Cross and 
 Y. M. C. A. units, the commissary men, who 
 have their headquarters in the Avenue, and a 
 
 [ 243 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 sprinkling of uniforms of all the nations in 
 arms. The shouts and cheers went up in 
 waves as the cortege started far away, but 
 in the Avenue itself only began when the 
 head of the line appeared preceded by the 
 band. Then the cries of " Fivent les Ameri- 
 cains" " Fivent nos Allies" were cut with 
 the "Hip, hip, hurrah!" of the Americans, 
 and it culminated v/hen the division of the 
 Marines, in their battle-stained uniforms, 
 their soiled but trim knapsacks on their backs, 
 and their battered " tin hats " (the boys who 
 cleared the Bois de Belleau), came into sight. 
 I thought then that the kind of crowd which 
 was gathered that day could not make any 
 more noise than they made for the Ameri- 
 cans, who, with their guns on their shoulders, 
 marched as steadily as veterans, though their 
 faces were the faces of boys. But I was 
 mistaken, for, with a fine spirit that I loved, 
 they had justly reserved their most ardent 
 acclamations for their own war-worn troops, 
 and the shouts of " Vvvent nos poilus" " Five 
 la France" were as near hysterical as any- 
 thing I have seen in France since the war 
 began. I saw women laughing and crying at 
 the same time, and only able to wave their 
 hands in greeting. 
 
 After it was all over, we found our taxi 
 again and drove back up the Avenue. It 
 looked so gay, with the crowds laughing and 
 chatting and flowers everywhere. Paris had 
 
 [ 244 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 needed to see its armies and cheer the boys 
 from the front. It did them more visible 
 good than all the heroic talk can ever do. 
 I know it did me. 
 
 I had loved seeing so many of our boys, 
 not only in the procession, but the crowd in 
 the street. I love seeing good soldiers as 
 they are proving themselves how little 
 they stand on ceremony in private life. The 
 officers nod to one another instead of salut- 
 ing. A common soldier or a corporal says 
 " Hulloa, old man," to his lieutenant, with 
 whom he probably went to school. Even in 
 public an officer will sometimes stand uncov- 
 ered as he talks in the street to a girl friend. 
 It is only something so solemn as the passing 
 of the colours that brings the American boy 
 erect, his heels together, his shoulders 
 squared, his hand at just the proper angle 
 of salute, and when it is over, he slaps his 
 hand on his leg in real regimental fashion 
 and limbers up to the characteristic Ameri- 
 can slouch again. 
 
 I remarked to an American officer one 
 day, as he lifted his hat to greet me, that 
 he was most unmilitary, and his reply was: 
 " Hell ! We American soldiers are only 
 camoufled civilians;" and that is terribly 
 true, added to which they have not worn 
 a uniform long enough to be unconscious in 
 playing the role of a soldier. 
 
 In spite of all the expectations of an attack 
 
 [ 245 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 of some sort, the big cannon made no sign, 
 and there was no air raid that night. 
 
 I came back on the sixth, which was last 
 Saturday. I had hardly got my hat and coat 
 off when a French officer arrived at my gate 
 to arrange for the cantonnement here of the 
 American boys coming out from the secteur 
 at Chateau-Thierry lads who fought at 
 Bois de Belleau. You should have seen the 
 face of the young American sergeant when 
 I addressed him in English, and told him 
 that I was an American. I don't know which 
 of us was the most excited. 
 
 The French officer, who spoke no English 
 and depended on me to help him out, told me 
 that there were seven Americans here to ar- 
 range the cantonnement for fifteen hundred 
 
 a Town Major, a quartermaster, and a 
 few corporals and sergeants, and that the 
 rest were expected Monday morning. They 
 were coming by road, marching on foot, and 
 expected to take two days, in fact they were 
 supposed to have already " come out." They 
 are to rest a few days and go up to Paris the 
 morning of the Fourteenth, to be decorated 
 
 the Marines won their fourragere in the 
 Bois de Belleau and to march in the 
 procession. 
 
 The weather was terribly hot, so when 
 
 Monday came and went and there was no 
 
 sign of the American Marines every one was 
 
 as disappointed as I was, but we all explained 
 
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 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 it by the intense heat, which would make 
 marching nearly forty miles no joke to tired 
 soldiers just out of a battle. But Tuesday 
 and Wednesday passed, and the advance 
 guard of the battalion who had arrived here 
 with only three days' rations began to worry 
 a little. They were getting a new kind of 
 taste of war. In the meantime they drifted 
 round one after another to see me, play the 
 phonograph and chat. I am afraid they 
 were rather bored. They spoke little French, 
 though they got on well with the French, and 
 they had guard duty to do, and the Town 
 Major kept strict discipline. But here it is 
 Friday night, and I am leaving for Paris to- 
 morrow to see the celebration of the Four- 
 teenth. I do want to see the armies of all 
 the Allies in the Avenue du Bois, otherwise I 
 would not go until the Americans have come 
 and are comfortably settled. 
 
 Amelie is not at all content. She is afraid 
 that she cannot properly replace me. She 
 has made me write a note in English which 
 she is to show any American soldier who 
 comes to the door. It is just a line saying 
 that they are welcome and are to consider 
 the house as " a little piece of home," and 
 make themselves comfortable accordingly. 
 She stood over me while I wrote it on a big 
 sheet of paper, imploring me to write it 
 " very large and very distinct," which shows 
 you what Amelie thinks of my handwriting. 
 
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 She has pinned it on the blotter. She knows 
 how to say " cum een," and I can imagine 
 her taking them by the sleeve, and leading 
 them up to the desk to read the proclama- 
 tion. She has made me write " Mildred 
 Aldrich, American," as a signature. 
 
 By the way, Amelie's English does not 
 march very rapidly. She can still say " I 
 spek Engleesh vairee veil, oh yees." She 
 says they understand her, but she does not 
 get their reply, and is disappointed when I 
 am not by to hear and tell her what they said. 
 She has also learned to say " Got cigarette? " 
 with a strong interrogatory inflection. You 
 see Amelie loves her cigarette, but she does 
 not like Egyptians, the only thing available 
 just now, when the ordinary French cigarette 
 is not sold to civilians. That works very 
 well. The boys understand, and if they have 
 a cigarette they give it to her. But they 
 more often have a pipe and tobacco. I have 
 told Amelie that she must not do this, as 
 the boys have none too much tobacco for 
 themselves, and I thought I had broken her 
 of it. But the other day there was an officer 
 calling and she went out to look at his big 
 car and admire the chauffeur she thought 
 him so chic and I heard her getting off 
 her " Got cigarette? " When he had gone I 
 reproached her, and she looked grieved as 
 she explained that she did not want his ciga- 
 rettes besides he did not have any. When 
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 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 I desired to know why she had taken the 
 trouble to ask if she did not want any she 
 replied: " Histoire de parler anglais!" 
 
 I thought that was lovely. 
 
 I have an idea that the American Marines 
 are not coming at all. There is a tremen- 
 dous activity everywhere about us. You 
 know, now, since the Germans reached the 
 Marne again, we are not only zone des 
 armees but we are arriere front, and never 
 since the war began has the military move- 
 ment about us been so constant. There are 
 hours of the day when we simply cannot 
 drive on our roads at all. All this means 
 something, and, although I am going up to 
 see the first real war celebration of the Four- 
 teenth, I am going with a feeling that if 
 something does not happen while I am gone, 
 something will all the same happen soon. 
 
 You realize, of course, that the next move 
 settles our fate here. So long as the Ger- 
 mans hold Soissons Paris is menaced, so long 
 as they hold Chateau-Thierry the Marne 
 valley is open to them. In either case our 
 situation is critical. If the next move sees 
 the Germans not only held, but pushed back, 
 all danger to us here is, I am convinced, 
 ended forever. 
 
 But whichever way it turns is only locally 
 important. Even if Paris is taken, even if it 
 were possible to wipe out the French army, 
 Germany's situation would not be changed 
 
 [ 249 J
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 and never will be until she has wiped out the 
 States. But every time I think about it the 
 condition of France seems to me the more 
 remarkable all her men in the war or in 
 war works, all the rescued population of the 
 invaded districts from the frontier to the 
 Somme and the Marne crowded into the 
 south and west, and millions of Allied sol- 
 diers from other countries, with thousands 
 of Red Cross workers of all sorts, and hun- 
 dreds of thousands of German prisoners, and 
 here we are trying to lead a normal life, and 
 coming precious near to doing it. And 
 strangest of all, the majority of the people 
 are more sane and happier than they have 
 ever been. It is a great disaster. Of course 
 it is. But we are all terribly alive, and it is 
 not at such epochs that the world ever 
 bothers itself to write symposiums on " Is 
 Life Worth Living?", or speculates about 
 " La Lutte pour la Vie." 
 
 Thanks for the newspaper clipping con- 
 taining the pen portrait of me sitting on the 
 wheelbarrow on the platform of the railway 
 station at Esbly, on the day I went to Paris 
 to carry my trunk, " with tears in my voice if 
 not in my eyes." I am afraid that touch was 
 the pretty young journalist's poetic license 
 she was pretty, you know. I am sorry the 
 
 Picture struck you as " pitiful and pathetic." 
 really am. Come now, what would you 
 have had me do, sitting there among that 
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 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 crowd of women leading children by one 
 hand and lugging such of their poor effects 
 as they had saved? You surely could not 
 have expected that I would do a song and 
 dance simply because, up to date, my home 
 was safe. I was sad. How could I have 
 been anything else? Only a few hours before 
 I had seen a poor flying woman carrying a 
 dead baby in her arms, and among other ob- 
 jects of my journey to Paris was a visit to the 
 American Red Cross to beg some layettes for 
 newborn babies in our commune emigrees 
 of course and stuff to make underclothes 
 for women and children who had arrived 
 with only what they had on their backs, for 
 in that retreat of over thirty miles, from 
 Noyon to Chateau-Thierry, between May 
 zyth and June 4th these poor people were 
 taken by surprise and had no time to save 
 more than their skins and what covered them. 
 Will that explain the "tears in my voice" if 
 they were there? 
 
 You ask me for news of Mademoiselle 
 Henriette. Is it possible that in all the ex- 
 citement of the days since the retreat of 
 March 21 I forgot to tell you that she had 
 gone? She is at Salonica. She left here in 
 March the very first if I remember. Any- 
 way I have looked up her first note a post- 
 card from Toulon, dated March 3, in 
 which she says : 
 
 "We sail to-morrow. It is Sunday, and 
 
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 I have just attended mass on deck. It was 
 pretty and very impressive. Standing in the 
 midst of officers, soldiers and sailors, I had 
 once more the illusion that I too was on 
 active service, and felt once more at home. 
 We are sailing without escort, under the pro- 
 tection simply of the Red Cross, although we 
 have on board a neutral an officer of the 
 Spanish navy." 
 
 Odd that I should have forgotten to tell 
 you this at the time. She is now at Zeiten- 
 lick, where the service is very hard; but it 
 is interesting and she is at an age to enjoy 
 novel experiences, even when they have to be 
 paid for with mighty hard work. 
 
 [ 252 ]
 
 XXIX 
 
 July 22, 1918 
 
 THIS has been such a week of mixed emo- 
 tions that I have not been able to settle down 
 to write. 
 
 I got your cable of congratulation on the 
 " great victory " last night. I shall say what 
 I think of that later. It may surprise you 
 to know that I am not in the humour. We 
 are calm and confident here. We are not 
 throwing our hats in the air yet. The ten- 
 sion has been terrible, and it is a comfort to 
 know that to-night there is not a German on 
 the south bank of the Marne, and we hope 
 they have crossed it for the last time. 
 
 I wrote you, if I remember, the night be- 
 fore the Fourteenth, when I was preparing 
 to go up to town to help celebrate the great 
 day. I went and I enjoyed it. 
 
 It was drizzly weather, and when, at nine, 
 I prepared to go out and find a place so near 
 the Porte Dauphine that I could see the Al- 
 lied armies enter the city from the Bois, I 
 found that no one wanted to go with me, on 
 the plea that it would be prettier to see it 
 with my eyes than go out in a crowd plus a 
 
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 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 drizzle, which of course was flattering but 
 covered a lazy spirit. 
 
 Luckily it stopped raining, and the air was 
 fresh, the sky a little overcast, and there was 
 no dust. It was an ideal day for comfort. 
 
 I stay in Paris only five minutes' walk 
 from the entrance to the Bois at the end of 
 the Avenue du Bois. I never saw the city 
 look more beautiful. Nothing had been 
 done to conceal or disfigure its beauty. 
 There were no seats put up along the route, 
 and the only tribune was on the east side of 
 the Avenue near the Porte just an en- 
 closed space hung in the traditional red, with 
 reserved seats for the President, the diplo- 
 matic corps and the city's guests. 
 
 On the same side of the Avenue, a little 
 nearer the Porte, was the colour-stand. All 
 along the street on both sides were the chairs 
 that are always there, only more of them, 
 and a simple wooden barrier behind them 
 prevented people from pushing into the space 
 thus reserved. There was no bunting on 
 any of the houses nothing in the way of 
 decoration, but the flags of all the Allied 
 nations. 
 
 Every inch of space was taken. When I 
 arrived at my place, just behind the colour- 
 stand, the presidential party had already ar- 
 rived, and I passed behind a long line of the 
 most wonderful automobiles I ever saw (and 
 did not much wonder at hearing some one 
 
 [ 254 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 remark, "Well, it seems there is still some 
 essence in Paris! "). 
 
 Just then the head of the procession began 
 to issue from the trees of the Bois, and ap- 
 proach the Porte. The light was just right 
 for it, and the forest of moving bayonets 
 made a wonderful picture, which I shall 
 never forget. Most of the people in the 
 great crowd had evidently, like me, never 
 seen many of the armies, though most of 
 them had, like me, I suppose, seen individual 
 soldiers of all the Allies. I am sure the 
 American papers have given you a full de- 
 scription of the great cortege in which the 
 armies of all the Allies-in-arms for the 
 world's liberty marched for the first time in 
 the city the whole world loves, and which 
 even her enemies envy, and doubtless, by the 
 time you get this, the cinemas will have 
 shown it moving on the screen, for I counted 
 almost as many machines at work as there 
 were nations in the show. But what they 
 cannot give you is the colour, which was at- 
 mospherically French, and how much that 
 says, you who love France know, nor can it 
 give you the thrills. I simply adored seeing 
 the flag of each nation approach, and the 
 colours on the Allied stand dip to receive 
 each nation's salute, and the soldiers in the 
 crowd as far as I could see rising to atten- 
 tion with their hands at salute as the flags 
 passed. 
 
 [ 255 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 Along the barrier, behind the seats, sol- 
 diers, mostly American, British and Italian, 
 who were not marching, stood erect braced 
 like bareback riders in their perilous posi- 
 tion, and they managed to stand rigid as 
 statues to salute the colours a fine ath- 
 letic display. 
 
 The handsomest men in the line were, to 
 my mind, the Italians. Their greenish grey 
 uniform is a beautiful colour, and their hats, 
 higher in form than those of the other Allies, 
 are terribly smart. But the sturdy Serbs and 
 the Poles with their new flag, and the Czechs, 
 who sang as they marched, were greeted with 
 thundering cheers. As the Americans were 
 the clou of the Fourth of July, the British 
 carried off the honours of the Fourteenth. 
 They made a wonderful showing, so trim, 
 marching as if they had never done anything 
 but parade duty, they who have fought like 
 the bulldogs they are. There were English 
 and Irish, Scotch and Welsh, there were 
 Australians, New Zealanders, the armies of 
 Egypt and India and South Africa. It was 
 a fine show, and none of them were more 
 cheered than the tall ruddy men in kilts 
 marching to the crooning of the pipes. It 
 was so hard to realize that this was a demon- 
 stration in the midst of a war, at a time when 
 the enemy was nearer the fortifications of 
 the city than they had been in forty-six 
 months, in a city which had known forty days 
 [ 256 ] '
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 of bombardment by a German cannon, and 
 could not be sure that the forty-first might 
 not come before the procession disbanded. 
 
 It was this spirit that I had gone out to see 
 and I had seen it. 
 
 This was the sort of experience one cannot 
 hope to get more than once in a fortunate 
 lifetime, the sort of thing that centuries have 
 not seen, and centuries may never see again. 
 It was the very essence of the spirit which is 
 to carry a righteous cause to victory, and 
 which future ages will have good reason to 
 bless. 
 
 As a detachment of French cavalry 
 brought up the rear for the French divi- 
 sions had been scattered through the line, 
 acting as escort to their comrades-in-arms, 
 which I thought a pretty idea the crowd 
 broke up quietly, and, while the echoes of the 
 cheers came back to me, receding with the 
 music as the cortege continued its route, I 
 walked slowly back to the house, strangely 
 comforted. 
 
 We all knew that we were on the eve of 
 another German offensive, and with the con- 
 sciousness of the great bound forward of 
 two of the previous ones, it was impossible 
 to be quite free from nervousness, or from 
 the feeling that Paris was in danger. But 
 we had seen the men who were to meet the 
 attack, and seen nowhere anything but cour- 
 age, so why should we worry? 
 
 [ 257 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 Personally, I can say that nothing has 
 done me so much good as the two look-ins 
 I have taken in Paris in the past ten days, 
 with the men who are defending her march- 
 ing through her streets. 
 
 On that day, no more than on the Fourth, 
 did any of the things the pessimists prophe- 
 sied come true. The Grosse Bertha did not 
 get to work. The night was quiet, no air 
 raid. 
 
 I stayed over until the morning of the six- 
 teenth. I had to. I had a few necessary 
 errands to do. I arrived in Paris on Satur- 
 day after many shops now having what 
 they called "la semaine anglaise " were 
 closed, and Monday, the day after the Four- 
 teenth, was a holiday. 
 
 On Monday the fifteenth just before 
 two o'clock, "bang" went the Big Bertha 
 again, after a silence of three weeks. The 
 first shot went harmlessly into the Seine, just 
 missing a great mark, and after a lapse of 
 about three hours it began again and put in 
 several shells before dark. No one had any 
 doubt that this presaged the new offensive, 
 and we impatiently awaited the papers the 
 next morning, which announced simply the 
 fact that the Germans had attacked again on 
 the front from Soissons, which they still 
 hold, to Reims, which, although they have 
 destroyed it, they have not been able to take 
 since they were driven out in the battle of 
 [258 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 the Marne that is to say, the nearest point 
 to us. 
 
 Needless to tell you that I could not get 
 back home quickly enough, although the little 
 news we got seemed to be good. The Allies 
 were holding them. This time the Germans 
 had not been able to take Foch's army by 
 surprise, as they had done in March and 
 May. The attack, in extent, vigour and 
 material seemed to be quite as formidable as 
 that of March for Amiens. 
 
 Amelie met me at the station, and almost 
 before I was out of the train she told me that 
 the Americans had gone. The rest of the 
 division, as I had foreseen, never came at all, 
 and a camion came for those stranded on 
 our hill, and carried them away. 
 
 She announced that the movement on our 
 roads had been terrible for over forty-eight 
 hours. The little road passing my gate 
 had seen three hundred camions dashing by 
 towards the canal on the day before, the 
 day the battle began. No sleep had been 
 possible for two nights. She had had great 
 difficulty in getting to the station, as the 
 route Nationale was closed to all civilians. 
 She had come down by the cart-track across 
 the fields. 
 
 I lost some time at the station my bag- 
 gage had not come. It was not personal bag- 
 gage that is still waiting in Paris, to go to 
 Versailles, if I have to. It was only a sack 
 
 [ 259 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 of sugar oh, so precious! and a case 
 of condensed milk from an American rescue 
 work, for the little refugee children and the 
 old people. I had checked it the day before 
 to save time. The station is always so 
 crowded at train-time, and one has to wait 
 so interminably to be weighed that I took 
 advantage of the holiday, when I had noth- 
 ing to do, to get it off. Incidentally, I am 
 distressed about it, as it has not turned up 
 yet, and that is six days ago. But on the day 
 I returned I was too occupied with other 
 anxieties to worry. Besides, it would have 
 been a heavy load for Ninette to drag up 
 the hill. 
 
 When we turned out from the station and 
 crossed the Morin, the road looked clear, 
 and after the guard had examined my papers 
 they seem to put a new guard every day, 
 so it always has to be done Amelie fool- 
 ishly decided to try going up the grande 
 route. We had not gone ten steps when a 
 soldier with a red flag appeared in front of 
 us, and turned us back, and we had to come 
 up the ruelle. It is a very steep, very rough 
 path, deeply rutted by farm-wagons and 
 mowing-machines. The day was very hot. 
 Ninette struggled along until I finally de- 
 cided that, even in the blazing sun, I could 
 climb on foot easier than I could sit behind 
 her, and watch her strain and tug, so Amelie 
 and I both got out and walked up, and I took 
 [ 260 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 in the news at the various stations we made 
 to rest. The Americans had come to say 
 good bye. They had said a lot of things, 
 and she was sad because she had not under- 
 stood a word. Meaux had been bombarded 
 Monday and rather seriously damaged. 
 Otherwise everything was as usual. 
 
 During the next two days the news was 
 not bad, and then on Saturday came word 
 that Foch had launched his counter-attack, 
 and that it looked brilliantly successful. By 
 Sunday morning we knew that the Germans 
 had recrossed the Marne at Dormans, just 
 south-east of Chateau-Thierry, hotly pur- 
 sued by the Americans, not a live German, 
 unless he was prisoner, left on the south 
 bank of the river. Every day since then the 
 Germans have retreated. It is slow, but it 
 is hopeful. 
 
 Ever since we have lived again on the map. 
 Although we do not yet feel like calling it 
 "a glorious victory" as you do, we do feel 
 that never again will the Germans cross the 
 Marne. If the Allies have been able to 
 thrust them back now, when the Americans 
 are not yet all ready, how can it be possible 
 that we shall not hold them when we are 
 getting stronger every day? We may be 
 wrong, for one thing we do know, the Ger- 
 mans are still strong, and they will fight a 
 terrible battle. They have still thirty unused 
 divisions, and ever so much more artillery 
 
 r 261 j
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 than we have, and a spy system that is amaz- 
 ing. They advanced from the Chemin des 
 Dames in May to the Marne, thirty miles in 
 six days. It has taken us nearly a week to 
 push them back, mile by mile, a third of the 
 way, so our relief is great, but our joy is 
 cautious and well-contained. 
 
 I was speaking of the slowness of the re- 
 treat and the economy of it, so far as the 
 Germans were concerned, this morning, to 
 an officer, and he replied: 
 
 " It is better than we dared hope. If, be- 
 fore winter sets in, we can succeed in pushing 
 them back to the strong positions in which 
 they started in March, we shall feel more 
 than satisfied, and hopeful, as by the spring 
 the States will be really ready, and we shall 
 be as strong as they are at least in ar- 
 tillery, and surely stronger in the air, and 
 then we '11 finish them off, but it will still 
 take time. They are mighty strong, and it is 
 death we propose to deal out to them." 
 
 I imagine that this is a pretty fair state- 
 ment of the situation. It makes me shiver 
 sometimes to seje how immediately hopeful 
 you are. I have been that way myself, and 
 I know what getting over it means. 
 
 Of course, a thousand things may happen 
 the morale may break in Germany. But 
 those who know both the people and the 
 country say it never will. So my present 
 prayer is that the interim may be useful for 
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 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 the spreading of the conviction that this 
 war must not stop when Germany is ready 
 to make concessions, not even when she is 
 ready to evacuate the lands she has seized, 
 not even when she begins to whimper and 
 regret not until she is beaten to her knees, 
 and not even then until she has been pun- 
 ished, and punished so severely that she can- 
 not recover quickly, and left with a mark on 
 her which she cannot conceal, not even by 
 her most clever camouflage. She is a crimi- 
 nal nation. At large she is a danger to every 
 nation and to every people on the face of the 
 earth. 
 
 Now don't, I entreat you, reply that you 
 have heard me preach prison reform. I 
 have. I don't, of course, believe in treating 
 even criminals like wild beasts yet I don't 
 know. At least I do believe in a restraint 
 which protects the community. I never did, 
 nor could, advocate pardon and liberty for 
 jail-birds of marked criminal tendencies. 
 The stigmata of crime are very persistent, 
 and Germany bears the mark. Why should 
 one cherish illusions for a race which one 
 dares not harbour for the individual? 
 
 In an age which proudly calls itself civil- 
 ized whatever that may mean Germany 
 has waged a war such as even barbarous 
 times never knew. It has not been a war 
 of legitimate slaughter, which would have 
 been terrible enough in a world of to-day's 
 
 [ 263 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 aspirations and pretension. It has been a 
 war of violating women, abusing children, 
 murdering inoffensive civilians, a war of ra- 
 pine and wilful destruction, of breaking 
 every law of the God whom they arrogantly 
 claim, of every law man has made for the 
 safeguarding of the community, a war of lies 
 and cunning, by a people who claim the whole 
 world, and deliberately deny the right of 
 even existence to every one not born German, 
 who arrogate to themselves the right to sin, 
 and deny the right to live to all other races. 
 
 We are told that before the offensive of 
 March twenty-first was launched the disci- 
 plinary laws which have long governed 
 armies were all suspended by order of the 
 German Commander-in-chief, and that the 
 sack of all France on the hoped-for line of 
 march from St. Quentin to the sea, and from 
 the Chemin des Dames to Paris, was prom- 
 ised the German soldiers as their reward for 
 victory, and what really happened seems to 
 bear out the truth of the abominable state- 
 ment. From St. Quentin to the Somme, and 
 from the Chemin des Dames to the Marne, 
 as well as the time permitted, they accom- 
 plished the object. The amount of booty 
 they carried off was tremendous, and if every- 
 thing did not fall as loot to the army, they at 
 least achieved a destruction as complete as 
 possible. 
 
 Naturally I did not see this with my own 
 
 [ 264 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 eyes, but I have it on the testimony of sol- 
 diers who have come back from the devas- 
 tated country, and whose word I have no rea- 
 son to doubt. They tore to bits tapestries 
 which they had not time to destroy. They 
 smashed mirrors. They made firewood of 
 the furniture in the humbler houses which 
 was not good enough to send to Germany. 
 They smashed dishes. If they did not de- 
 stroy crops which they could not carry off, or 
 if they left a pin anywhere it was only be- 
 cause in neither of their great pushes did 
 they achieve their objective, and in both 
 they met a resistance more tenacious than 
 they expected, and which cost them dear, so 
 that in certain places they were unable to ac- 
 complish under bombardment a destruction 
 as thorough as they planned or had the will 
 to do. 
 
 It is on things like this on which our minds 
 fasten for the flesh is weak and shrinks 
 from such suffering as all that entails on the 
 individual. Yet that is not Germany's worst 
 crime. She has attacked the fundamental 
 virtues towards which the world has been 
 marching for centuries, and for which it has 
 fought and bled many times, the rights of 
 peoples to choose their own fates; the rights 
 of the individual to freedom; the hopes that 
 free peoples have cherished of seeing the 
 world become honest, and she has tried to 
 bend all the world to the slavery of force. 
 
 [ 265 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 In that lies her greatest crime, and it is for 
 that abominable crime that she has to suffer, 
 and must suffer, unless the world is to be 
 thrown back a thousand years. 
 
 After all it is ideas that make history, not 
 facets. From the beginning Man has shed 
 his blood for ideas and opinions. They 
 make history. That has marked the passing 
 of people, of habits and customs, but the 
 ideas have persisted. From the beginning 
 or rather in the short span of which we know 
 anything man has always had to fight and 
 bleed for his ideas. Perhaps he always will. 
 Who knows? Considering how little the ma- 
 jority understand this it is wonderful how 
 heroically they do it. 
 
 As an example of that: the other day I 
 met a young American officer a lieutenant 
 from the South and in course of the con- 
 versation he remarked that France could 
 " never recover herself," and when I smiled 
 and shook my head at him, he added with a 
 great deal of feeling: 
 
 " But you have not been out there. You 
 have no idea of the destruction. There is 
 not one stone on another. It is terrible. 
 When this war is over, and all the costs 
 counted, you will see that France is finished." 
 
 I had the folly to remark that all that 
 would soon arrange itself, and that I counted 
 as unimportant in the great scheme the mate- 
 rial destruction, and was only concerned in 
 [ 266 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 the spiritual side of it all. Of course he did 
 not understand. Why should he? So I 
 thought it not worth while to state that per- 
 sonally I had a deep regret for every stone 
 thrown down and a deeper sorrow for every 
 young life so bravely given. He looked at 
 me as if I was crazy. I suppose he thought 
 me a white-haired old crank. Is it not true 
 of all of us who read our history straight 
 or as straight as our limited intelligences will 
 let us that, though the life of each genera- 
 tion is made enthralling by the personal 
 struggle, by new ways of making money, new 
 ways of spending it, new ways of living and 
 new ways of dressing and eating and amus- 
 ing ourselves, these are not the vital things. 
 If they were, there would have been few 
 wars, in spite of adventurers, camp-followers 
 and free-lances. 
 
 It is no palliation of the offence that the 
 war the Germans forced on the world, with 
 a criminal intent, has made of the fighting 
 nations of the defence a people who will be 
 all the finer for the struggle. It does not 
 lighten Germany's sin that the world will 
 have a nobler future, and living itself be the 
 more worth while, for the serried effort the 
 Allies have made. It is nothing to Ger- 
 many's credit that, in the shoulder-to-shoul- 
 der and heart-to-heart sacrifices, and the 
 heroically borne great grief, old differences 
 have been forgotten and a better understand- 
 
 [ 267 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 ing achieved, that out of her sin good will 
 come. She has done her most devilish to pre- 
 vent that. The nations fighting out there in 
 front of us to-day on that long line from 
 the Swiss frontier to the North Sea, and with 
 stiff lips and brave eyes offering their best 
 beloved on the altars of right, justice and 
 liberty must not be merciful except to 
 a repentant sinner. That Germany will 
 never be. It is not possible to her Kultur. 
 A whining, lying, hypocritical in fact a 
 camoufle penitent she may be; more than 
 that is and will be for generations impossible 
 for a nation and people bred to believe that 
 what a people has strength to do, it has the 
 right to do. If after all the experience the 
 Allies have had they can be tricked into ex- 
 tending pity to a beaten Germany, why then 
 they have fought and bled in vain. I sup- 
 pose there are good Germans. Well, God 
 must pity them, but they must, for the time, 
 suffer for the crimes of their race as innocent 
 children suffer for the sins of their fathers, 
 and for the same reason; so why should man 
 be foolishly lenient when neither the Al- 
 mighty nor nature is? 
 
 We thought Belgium's tragedy could not 
 be capped until Servia's capped it, and I am 
 inclined to believe that Germany's deliberate 
 debauching of Russia and her conscious mu- 
 tilation of the soul of a people is her worst 
 crime, for it may have arrested for centuries 
 [ 268 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 the slow and hoped-for evolution of a nation 
 and a race in which we all may have had too 
 much faith, but which, now that chaos has 
 been dealt out to it, may be long in recover- 
 ing, because one sees nowhere in sight yet 
 the national hero who might wave a magic 
 wand of personal love and magnetic patriot- 
 ism and still the waters the Huns have 
 troubled. The Allies have a duty to aid 
 in conjuring that spirit, but it can never be 
 done while there is a German foot on Russian 
 soil. 
 
 You ask in one of your late letters if I 
 have been reading Cheradame on the " East- 
 ern Question." Of course I have. His ar- 
 raignment of facts is appalling. I own that. 
 But it seems rather a pity that, while his sta- 
 tistics have tended to terrorize an easily ter- 
 rorized people, some one does not add a 
 footnote to remind the world, not only that 
 there is a spirit in this great war it has a 
 soul as well as facts and that if the Allies 
 have seemed to neglect the eastern to devote 
 themselves to the western frontier it must 
 not be forgotten that, with all the forces they 
 have, they have barely been able to hold the 
 Huns at bay there. Besides, the vital thing 
 is to defeat Germany, and it is immaterial 
 where that is done so that it is done, and it is 
 far from done yet. When Germany is well 
 licked, and only then, will it be possible to 
 deal with the races concerned in what has 
 
 [ 269 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 for so long been known as the Eastern Ques- 
 tion, which really dates back to the seven- 
 teenth century, when Austria started on her 
 " eastern route," if it does not go far back 
 of that to the fall of Constantinople and the 
 entrance of the Turk into Europe. With this 
 great massacre ended, with Germany weak- 
 ened and punished, and the Turks driven out, 
 the Eastern Question can be dealt with by 
 other means than a sword; and I dare say it 
 will be found that, delivered from Prussian 
 intrigue, the victorious Allies, with the power 
 and the will to do it, will meet with aid and 
 not opposition from the people concerned. 
 But just as long as Germany is left with 
 power to interfere such dreams can never be 
 realized. Imagine the mentality of a people 
 who can be lulled to sleep with Kaiser Bill's 
 " Peace Talk," who can even tolerate a 
 leader who states that the Allies are respon- 
 sible for the continuation of the war because 
 they refuse to stop fighting to protect their 
 homes and liberties by acknowledging them- 
 selves beaten, pay the expenses of a war 
 forced on them, and leave in the hands of the 
 spoiler his loot in lands, subject peoples, and 
 material ! 
 
 After all the Kaiser made a mistake when 
 he thought he was a second Napoleon I. 
 Do you know what he is like? He is a 
 reincarnation of Nabuchodonosor. Do read 
 Chapters V and VI of the book of Judith in 
 
 [ 270 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 the Apocrypha if you don't believe me. 
 And the King of the Assyrians had his Hin- 
 denburg, only even in those days of barbarity 
 it did not occur to Holofernes to poison the 
 wells and sources he seized when he set out 
 to reduce Jerusalem. 
 
 I suppose you will reply that this comes 
 very ill from me, who have been saying that 
 I was tired of talk, and only wanted acts 
 words after achievements. Only a fool 
 never changes her mind. I can't be really a 
 fool, I change mine so often. 
 
 I note also that you object to my saying 
 " dirty Germans " so often. That is only be- 
 cause I am becoming so very American 
 it's an ill war that brings about no good 
 ahem ! That 's all right. You may laugh. 
 Besides, I supposed that you had heard the 
 song the Amex boys brought over with them 
 a song which lists off what a soldier may 
 expect each day in the week shrapnel one 
 day, then gas, then "over the top," down to 
 the hospital on Saturday, and a funeral on 
 Sunday, and each day's prayer is " Oh, you 
 dirty Germans, I wish the same on you." 
 Ever since I heard it in Paris we have never 
 spoken of the Huns except as " dirty Ger- 
 mans," and even Amelie can say it, and pre- 
 fers it to "les sales Bodies," the usual 
 French designation, and of which " dirty 
 Germans " is a literal translation. 
 
 Speaking of songs, I am told that the 
 
 [ 2?i J
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 Marines went "over the top" at Chateau- 
 Thierry singing, " I want to go home, I am 
 too young to die," and with cigarettes in 
 their mouths. I don't vouch for that now, 
 but it was told me by one of them, a sergeant 
 who led the third wave over thirty men. 
 There were only two left with him when the 
 mitrailleuse they encountered was silenced. 
 But I can believe it. You ought to hear what 
 the French say of the Amex boys, especially 
 of how they fight when an assault becomes a 
 hand-to-hand. They say that even when 
 their ammunition is out, and their guns shot 
 out of their hands, they use feet as well as 
 fists, and rush it, heads down, as if in a foot- 
 ball tussle. They assert that with experience 
 they are going to make great soldiers. That 
 emphasizes the blow at the German military 
 ideas, doesn't it? 
 
 I imagine that they have already dealt 
 out a flush of surprises to the Germans. We 
 have seen a large number of the prisoners here 
 whom the Americans took some of them 
 not looking more than fifteen or sixteen years 
 old. A few of them know a word or two of 
 French, and when questioned about the 
 Americans they said: " Me chants les Ameri- 
 cains mediants!" Aren't they wonder- 
 ful? Strange people who feel the right to 
 do the things they have done, and then 
 think a soldier who fights back impolitely is 
 " mediant" 
 
 [ 272 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 While I am writing this Amelie and Pere 
 have gone to look at the big gang of pris- 
 oners who have built our new double bridge, 
 which crosses both the canal and the Marne 
 at Mareuil, and the new road which will 
 connect the route nationale with that to Com- 
 piegne, well west of Meaux. I have n't seen 
 it since it was begun, but they have been 
 down several times and tell me it is very 
 handsome. 
 
 [ 273 1
 
 XXX 
 
 Remembrance Day, 1918 
 
 WELL, we are entering on the fifth year 
 of the war. We were pained in 1914 when 
 Kitchener prophesied a three years' war, and 
 very cross when an American financier de- 
 clared that it might last seven. I rather 
 imagine five will settle it, but I am not 
 prophesying. It is a long road still to the 
 frontier. But to-day, when all the world, 
 except Central Europe, is joining England 
 in her solemn service of prayer, and the 
 Allied chiefs are exchanging cables of hope 
 and confidence, I may as well do my bit, by 
 sending you my message. I feel especially 
 inspired to do it by the fact that your letter 
 just received expresses some surprise at what 
 you call my losing my nerve, in the first week 
 in June. Did I? Do you know, I can't re- 
 member. But you must know that the situa- 
 tion here was desperate from March twenty- 
 first up to Foch's counter-offensive on July 
 eighteenth. When I say desperate I mean 
 just that. 
 
 Speaking of that time, I never told you 
 that my famous sack of sugar never got here. 
 By one of those errors that happen often, 
 but by good luck never happened to me be- 
 
 [ 274 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 fore, the cases I sent out from Paris on the 
 morning of the fifteenth the day the fifth 
 offensive was launched did not get put off 
 at Esbly, where our narrow-gauge line meets 
 the main line, but went on to the end, which, 
 as the Germans were across the Marne at 
 that time at Dormans, was La Ferte-sous- 
 Jouarre, the next station beyond Meaux, and 
 only about eleven miles from here. That 
 night the railway station was bombarded by 
 the Germans and destroyed and the station- 
 master killed. So my precious sugar was 
 burned up. I mention the fact only as inter- 
 esting, and because it may account for what 
 you call my nervousness. I am perfectly 
 sure that if ever I were condemned to die for 
 a cause, the hours of waiting for the end 
 would be shall we say? trying. 
 
 But all that is changed, and one forgets 
 easily. 
 
 On Friday night, at eight o'clock, the 
 Allies entered Soissons again, and the pillar 
 of the German position for the march on 
 Paris by the valley of the Oise is lost to 
 them. With both the valley of the Marne 
 and that of the Oise closed to the invader, 
 Paris is again safe, and we are again calm, 
 and draw a long breath of relief, even though 
 we know that we must count it lucky if, be- 
 fore winter, we can see the Huns back on 
 the famous Siegfried line, from which they 
 bounded last March, and to which they re- 
 
 [ 275 1
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 treated in March of 1917. There they will 
 be in almost impregnable positions, behind a 
 long line of veritable fortresses, and in much 
 better winter quarters than the Allies. 
 
 One of the prettiest things about this slow 
 push forward, which is a victory, slow as it 
 is, is the fact that every nation in arms for 
 the Allied cause has taken part in it, and 
 distinguished itself-. 
 
 Our boys, fresh and untried, have more 
 than held their own. I had a letter yester- 
 day from a Californian who is with the 
 Foreign Legion, who writes: "Since I saw 
 you we have been through two campaigns 
 with our beloved division. The first gave 
 us all the sensations of the agony of retreat, 
 the second all the exhilaration of a victory. 
 And more than that, we have had the thrill 
 of seeing our American troops fight side by 
 side with the hardened legionnaires and make 
 good." 
 
 One more consoling thing. I have often 
 asked myself, since I saw another war winter 
 looming in sight, how our boys were going 
 to stand the rough billets to which the poilus 
 are accustonied, so different from the 
 camp quarters of their months of training 
 at home, in England and even here. An 
 American officer, who was here yesterday, 
 tells me that, although the fighting regiments 
 between the Marne and Fisme, which the 
 boys from the States retook by assault, are 
 
 [ 276 ]
 
 THE PEAK OF THE LOAD 
 
 cantonned in an absolutely destroyed coun- 
 try, under the roughest conditions, they take 
 it gaily, he has never heard the very 
 smallest complaining. 
 
 So here we are at the beginning of the 
 Year V. 
 
 We know that Germany is still strong. 
 We cannot close our eyes to the knowledge 
 that her death-struggle will be full of fear- 
 fulness. Still, with the days shortening I 
 had to light up last night at half-past seven 
 in the salon, the first time I have had a light 
 except in my bedroom since the last of May, 
 which means winter will be here before we 
 know it we are really gayer than at the 
 opening of any winter since the war began. 
 It is not wholly because we are hardened to 
 it. It is because the dawn of the new era 
 begins to glow on the horizon of the future. 
 We are moving slowly towards new days, 
 for the world that was has gone, and the 
 special colour of the days before the war 
 can never be again. My Remembrance Day 
 prayer is that the spirit moving over the 
 fighting-line to-day and flinging its wide 
 wings over the heads and hearts of all of us 
 behind the lines may persist and make the 
 nations as fine in the great after-the-war 
 work ahead of them, as they have been noble, 
 sacrificing, loyal to one another, and patriotic 
 to their own flags in the great fight. 
 
 [ 277 ]

 
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