LITTLE GRAINS OF SAND
Shall I tell you about the old woman and her statue of Sainte Claire? She was a true native of Picardy, and if I could give you her dialect, this story would be more amusing. We came upon her in the course of our visits, living in her clean little house that had been well mended. She was delighted to have someone to talk to.
"Come in, my good girl," she patronized the queenly and aristocratic Madame de Vigny. "Come in, everybody," and we all went in.
"Sit down, my dear," again to Madame de Vigny. "Those barbarians didn't leave me many chairs, but here is one, and this box will do for these young ladies." She herself remained standing, a stout old body in spite of her eighty years. Her blue eyes were clear and twinkled with fun, and she had a mischievous way of smiling out of the corner of her mouth, displaying two teeth. She loved her joke, this shrewd old lady.
"Dites, Madame," she said, "is it true that you give away flannel petticoats and stockings?"
"Yes, Madame, when one has need of them."
"Is it possible? And for nothing? Ah, that is good, that is generous. Tonight I shall tell Sainte Claire about you. Would you like to see my 'tiote[1] Sainte Claire?" We followed her back through a little yard and down into a cellar. "You see, Mesdames, when the villains bombarded Noyon, I stayed right here. I wasn't going to leave my home for those people. One night the convent opposite was struck, and the next morning in the street I found my Sainte Claire. She wasn't harmed at all, lying on her back in the mud. 'Now God will protect me,' I said, and I picked her up in my arms and carried her into my house. And Sainte Claire said to me, 'Place me down in the cave, and you will be safe.' So I brought her down."
[1] Dialect for petite.
She led us to a tiny underground apartment, probably a vegetable cellar, and there, on a bracket jutting from the mildewed wall, stood the painted plaster image of the saint.
"Voilà ma Sainte Claire!" exclaimed the old peasant woman, crossing herself. "She and I have lived down here during the bombardment and the entire occupation. She has protected me. Look, Madame—" and she showed us a corner of the ceiling that had been newly repaired. "The obus passed through here, and never touched us. I kept on praying to the Sainte, and she said, 'Do not move and you will be safe.' All night I was on my knees before her, and toward morning the house was hit—only one meter away the wall fell down, and we were not harmed, Madame, neither the Sainte nor I. Then Sainte Claire said to me, 'The Boches are coming. Take half of your potatoes and bring them down here.' I had a beautiful pile of potatoes, Madame, just harvested. But I took only half and put them in a sack and stuffed it with hay. For thirteen months, Madame, I slept on those potatoes. Then Sainte Claire said, 'Take half your wine, and put it down the well.' I wanted to hide it all, but she said 'No, take only half.' And I sunk one hundred bottles, Madame, of my best wine in the well. The Boches came. Five of them came to my house. Five grands gaillards with square heads. Oh, they are ugly, Madame! 'Show us your wine,' they ordered. 'It is there, Messieurs, in the cellar,' I answered meek as a lamb. And they all began drinking till they were drunk. Then one of them dragged me down here by the arm, and for thirteen months, Madame, I lived in this hole with Sainte Claire while they possessed my house. They made me cook for them, the animals; but I should have starved, Madame, if I had not had my potatoes. Then the French began their bombardment. Ah, it was terrible, Madame, to be bombarded by one's friends. I did not leave this cave, and I prayed and prayed, 'Sainte Claire, save me once more!' and Sainte Claire replied, 'The French are coming. We shall not be hurt.' One morning it was suddenly quiet: the cannon had stopped. I listened and heard nothing, and I came up into my house. It was empty, Madame. The Boches had gone. One shell had fallen through the roof into my bedroom—that was all. But ah, Madame! Noyon, pauvre Noyon! She was like a corpse. Ah lala, lala! Qué'malheur! The next day our soldiers came. Ah, how glad I was. And I asked Sainte Claire, 'May I not go to the well and bring up a bottle of wine?' And she said 'No, not yet.' So we waited, Madame, until the day of the Armistice. Then Sainte Claire said, 'Now you may go and bring up all the wine.' And, Madame, what do you think? I went to the well and I hauled up the wine and out of the hundred bottles only two were broken." The old woman laughed with delight at the trick she had played on the invader.
"They never guessed it was there. It was Sainte Claire, Madame, who saved it. I poured her a glassful and we celebrated, Madame; we celebrated the victory down in our cave, ma'tiote Sainte Claire and I."
Mademoiselle Froissart and I left the Poste de Secours one day, and started for a far away village that was said to be utterly wiped out. Our drive lay over a terrific road. We crossed a vast sad plain, intersected with trenches, with nothing in sight but one monster deserted tank, still camouflaged, and here and there the silhouette of a blasted tree against the lowering sky. These dead trees of the battle line! Sometimes, with their bony limbs flung forth in gnarled unnatural gestures, they remind me of frantic skeletons suddenly petrified in their dance of death. They are frenzied, and unutterably tragic. They seem to move; yet they are so dead. And I imagine their denuded tortured arms reaching toward unanswering Heaven in an agony of protest against the fate that has gripped all nature.
We entered a torn and tangled forest. The road was narrow and overgrown, and several times I had to dodge hand grenades that lay in the grassy ruts. The Ford ploughed bravely through deep mud, skidded, recovered, fell into holes, and kept on. My attention was so focused upon driving that I saw little else but the road ahead, though once at an exclamation from Mademoiselle Froissart, out of the corner of my eye I saw a machine gun mounted and apparently intact. The motor was toiling, but in my soul I blessed its regular noise that told me all was well. Leaving the wood we came to what appeared to be a large rough clearing. There were no trees—only bumps of earth covered with tall weeds. To our surprise we caught sight of the jaunty blue figure of a poilu, and then a band of slouching green-coated prisoners who were digging in their heavy leisurely manner. Mademoiselle Froissart inquired for the village of Evricourt.
"Mais c'est ici, Madame," replied the soldier with a grin.
"Here!" We stared. There was nothing by which one could have told that this was the site of a town, except an occasional bit of brick that showed beneath the weeds. All the Germans had stopped work to look at these two women who had so unexpectedly penetrated to this God-forsaken spot. We asked whether any of the inhabitants had returned.
"Just one old man," said the poilu, "who lives all alone in his cellar, over there." He pointed, and suddenly from the ground emerged an aged man, white haired and erect. He came toward us, an astonishingly handsome figure. His beautifully modeled head was like a bit of perfect sculpture found suddenly among rank ruins, whose very fineness shocks us because of its contrast with its coarse surroundings. His blue eyes were piercing under bushy white brows, while a snowy and curling beard, abundant yet well trimmed, set off the dark ivory of his complexion. And on his head, above the silvery waving hair, was placed at a careful angle a blue callot. He was dressed in that agreeable soft blue that distinguishes the garments of those who work out of doors, and a spotless white shirt was turned back at the throat.
"Bonjour, Mesdames," he greeted us, taking off his cap and came up for a chat. We were amazed at his charm and intelligence. He had come back thus alone "because, Mademoiselle, this is my home. An old man can best serve his country by living off his own land. What good is he in a strange province where they eat such ridiculous things, and where everyone has the craze for machinery? Besides, the more one's home is ruined the greater the obligation to return and rebuild it. C'est un devoir, Mademoiselle." His place was here, unless—with a twinkle in my direction—Mademoiselle would take him back to America with her, in which case he would willingly leave. I laughed at the compliment and told him to name the day and the boat.
Food? He had scratched a little garden by his door and had plenty, thank you. Clothing? "Do I not look well dressed, Mademoiselle?" We admitted that he looked ready for a fête. Company? "Ah, Mademoiselle, memories, memories! I smoke my pipe and I repeople this village. It is alive for me. Look, Mademoiselle, that is where the church was—it was a pretty church. And there was the mairie. Only"—with a shrug of good humored despair—"now I have no more tobacco. These messieurs"—indicating the soldier and the Germans who were smiling good naturedly—"are kind enough to share theirs with me, but they are not very rich themselves, you see," at which they all laughed at their common plight. Here at last was something that we could offer. I usually kept cigarettes with me for such emergencies. And now I produced two boxes of them and several packages of American matches.
"Mademoiselle, I accept them with my profound thanks," said the old gallant with a bow, removing his cap.
At length we had to leave. A prisoner stepped forward to crank my car, and all of them, the dauntless Frenchman in the center, lined up and gave us the military salute. Before reentering the woods I looked back and saw the blue-coated figure offering a light to the green coat. From cigarette tip to cigarette tip the fraternal spark was being transmitted: the spark that crosses borders and nationalities, that glows in the darkness, and puts mankind at peace. And so we left them all—smoking; smoking out there in the ruins, smoking and dreaming of home. Of home and love unattainable beyond the Rhine; of home and love buried forever in the wreckage of war and of time.
This week Mademoiselle Froissart and I spent forty-eight hours in Paris, during which time we purchased one thousand toys for our Christmas party. Such a time as I had coralling a taxi to carry our large crate of playthings to the station. Paris was gay and crowded, making up for its four years of gravity, and the conscienceless taxi drivers were having pretty much their own way, refusing all that were going in a direction that did not suit their convenience, and extorting enormous pour boire. I stood on the edge of the mad stream of vehicles that pressed by on the boulevard, and watched for an empty taxi. One came, the old reprobate who drove it casting his practiced eye about for a likely looking customer. He deigned to notice me, recognizing me for an American, and well knowing our national childish impatience, and its lucrative consequences. He drove up to the curb.
"Where to?" he asked defiantly, blinking his bleary eyes, his red alcoholic face set in insolent lines.
"La Gare du Nord."
He reflected an instant. "Bon," he decided. I got in, resolving to take possession before breaking all the news to him.
"First I must stop at the Grand Bazaar to call for a box," I said in a most matter-of-fact way.
"Ah ça! non! It can't be done!" he exclaimed in a fury. "How do you expect me to earn my living if I have to go out of my way and wait a century outside a store?"
"I will pay you for your time."
Still he refused to move. "Déscendez, déscendez!" he cried in an ugly voice. I knew the next one would be just as bad, and besides I had no time to lose. The hour of the train was approaching. Basely I resorted to bribery: "Look here, Monsieur, I am American and I will pay you well. Did you ever know an American to fail to make it worth your while?" He considered, and looked me over appraisingly.
"It will be twenty francs then, Madame." This was too outrageous.
"Ah non," I said in my turn, but I laughed. "Ecoutez, do you know what is in that box I am going to get? Toys for the little children of the devastated regions. If I don't take it with me they will have nothing, nothing at all for Christmas."
"Eh, what?" His old heart was moved. "Pays dévasté? C'est vrai? Bien, Madame, I will take you anywhere you wish." And he started the car. On our way through traffic he related to me over his shoulder how his wife and children had fled from Soissons while he was driving a camion at the front, and that their home was gone.
At the Grand Bazaar Mademoiselle Froissart was waiting with the huge crate of toys. It was hoisted onto the front seat beside the chauffeur, who, far from grumbling at its size, was most solicitous in placing it so that it would not jar. "We mustn't break the dolls," he said with a wink. Arriving at the station he insisted upon carrying it to the baggage room for us. "Hey, mon vieux!" he addressed the baggage man, "step lively and get that case on the train for Noyon. It's full of dolls—dolls for the little girls." And the whole force laughed and flew to the crate, and tenderly hustled it out to the train with paternal interest.
"Merry Christmas and many thanks," I said to our driver, holding out the twenty francs. He did not glance at the money and pushed back my hand.
"Non, non, Mademoiselle, c'est un plaisir," he murmured. I protested, but his whole expression pleaded. "It's not much, Mademoiselle. It's for the little girls—out there."
Passing through the gate, I looked back and saw him still standing and watching us. He waved his hat.
"Bon voyage!" he called above the crowd. Then, turning, he went back into the roaring street, doubtless to continue his business of preying upon the intimidated and helpless public.