Over There | Page 3

master is her son, a
bachelor of fifty. He is paralysed, and always perfectly dressed in the
English taste, he passes his life in a wheeled chair. The home is centred
in his study, full of books, engravings, a large safe, telephone,
theatrophone, newspapers, cigarettes, easy-chairs. When I go in, an old
friend, a stockbroker, is there, and "thees" and "thous" abound in the
conversation, which runs on investments, the new English loan,
banking accounts in London, the rent moratorium in Paris, and the war.
It is said that every German is a critic of war. But so is every
Frenchman a critic of war. The criticism I now hear is the best spoken
criticism, utterly impartial, that I have heard.
"In sum," says the grey-headed stockbroker, "there disengages itself
from the totality of the facts an impression, tolerably clear, that all goes
very well on the West front."
Which is reassuring. But the old lady, invincible after seven-and-a- half
decades spent in the hard acquirement of wisdom, will not be reassured.
She is not alarmed, but she will not be reassured. She treats the two
men with affectionate malice as children. She knows that "those
birds"--that is to say, the Germans--will never be beaten, because they
are for ever capable of inventing some new trick.
She will not sit still. A bit of talk, and she runs off with the agility of a
girl to survey her household; then returns and cuts into the discussion.
"If you are coming to lunch, Bennett," she says, "come before Monday,
because on Monday my cook takes herself away, and as for the new
one, I should dare to say nothing. . . . You don't know, Bennett, you
don't know, that at a given moment it was impossible to buy salt. I

mean, they sold it to you unwillingly, in little screws of paper. It was
impossible to get enough. Figure that to yourself, you from London! As
for chicory for the morning cafe-au-lait, it existed not. Gold could not
buy it."
And again she said, speaking of the fearful days in September 1914:
"What would you? We waited. My little coco is nailed there. He cannot
move without a furniture-van filled with things essential to his
existence. I did not wish to move. We waited, quite simply. We waited
for them to come. They did not come. So much the better That is all."
I have never encountered anything more radically French than the
temperament of this aged woman.
Next: the luxury quarter--the establishment of one of those fashionable
dressmakers whom you patronise, and whose bills startle all save the
most hardened. She is a very handsome woman. She has a husband and
two little boys. They are all there. The husband is a retired professional
soldier. He has a small and easy post in a civil administration, but his
real work is to keep his wife's books. In August he was re-engaged, and
ready to lead soldiers under fire in the fortified camp which Gallieni
has evolved out of the environs of Paris; but the need passed, and the
uniform was laid aside. The two little boys are combed and dressed as
only French and American children are combed and dressed, and with a
more economical ingenuity than American children. Each has a
beautiful purple silk necktie and a beautiful silk handkerchief to match.
You may notice that the purple silk is exactly the same purple silk as
the lining of their mother's rich mantle hanging over a chair back.
"I had to dismiss my last few work-girls on Saturday," said the
dressmaker. It was no longer possible to keep them. "I had seventy, you
know. Now--not one. For a time we made considerably less than the
rent. Now we make nothing. Nevertheless, some American clients have
been very kind."
Her glance went round the empty white salons with their mirrors in
sculptured frames. Naught of her stock was left except one or two

fragile blouses and a few original drawings.
Said the husband:
"We are eating our resources. I will tell you what this war means to us.
It means that we shall have to work seven or eight years longer than we
had the intention to work. What would you?"
He lifted his arms and lowered the corners of his mouth. Then he
turned again to the military aspect of things, elaborating it.
The soldier in him finished:
"It is necessary, all the same, to admire these cursed Germans."
"Admire them!" said his wife sharply. "I do not appreciate the necessity.
When I think of that day and that night we spent at home!" They live in
the eastern suburbs of the city. "When I think of that day and that night!
The cannon thundering at a distance of ten