Since this show, the battalion orchestra has become an institution. I have made several trips to Sémur in search of instruments. The last time I came back in the Major's side-car in the pouring rain with two cornets, a saxophone and a flute packed in around me under the blankets. These were given me by the Entertainment Department at General Headquarters, after nearly an hour's arguing to convince them that they were needed. It is a great addition. Now the orchestra plays always at the movies when they come to town, about twice a week, and last Friday they played at our dance. I will tell you about that.
I thought it was about time to do something for the officers, as they need fun just as much as the enlisted men, so I proposed a dance. "Where will you get the girls?" they said. "The Red Cross nurses in Sémur," said I. "There is no hall here large enough for a dance," said they. "Yes there is!" said I. Mme. Gloriod had told me of a wooden floor made to fit over the tank in the village "lavoir," which the mayor of Pouillenay had had made in the happy days before the war. The lavoir is a good-sized stone structure with a large tank of soapy water in the middle, round which the women scrub and pound their clothes, gossiping, laughing and scolding all the day long in their raucous French. It is not easy to imagine an up-to-date American dance in this mediaeval, sloppy spot. The Major and a few other optimists backed me up and told me to go ahead. After more or less trouble I got the Red Cross nurses and four or five "Y" girls from various towns committed to last Thursday evening. One lieutenant engaged the Sémur orchestra, which is several months older and more professional than ours. Then I made a memorable call on the Mayor of Pouillenay, M. Champenois, a delightful, impressive old Frenchman. I found him in the parlor of his little stone house seated at a huge desk; his sweet little wife, with black lace in her hair, tending the fire. They made me come in and sit down, and an hour went by in the discussion of art, literature, and the affairs of the world, before they would let me approach the business of the day. When finally I did make my errand known, he granted me the lavoir free of charge, undertaking to have the floor put down himself. We parted the best of friends.
Then followed two days of real work; scrubbing, heating, and decorating and lighting the lavoir. To make a long story short, it was charming when we got through. Evergreens, flags, candles and four electric lights softened and illuminated the dank old place, while two stoves made it reasonably dry and warm. The floor was sprinkled with cornmeal. And the dance was a real success; lots of fun, and also with something distinguished and graceful about it. It was what you might call "a real lace party," though the only lace on the scene were the festoons of ancient cobwebs that swayed from the big oaken rafters high above the reach of the longest broom. As the atmosphere of a battalion radiates from its commanding officer, I give Major S. the credit for that unmistakable "touch" that marked our dance.
No sooner off with one dance than I began plotting another. It seemed too bad that the enlisted men shouldn't have a chance, and the lavoir all decorated and ready. Major S. gave me permission, and M. Champenois generously allowed me to keep the lavoir another evening. Where to get the girls? The Red Cross nurses are allowed to dance only with officers. I went to Mme. Gloriod, who helps me out on every proposition. She made me a list of the names of about thirty French girls, the "four hundred" of Pouillenay, so to speak, and in the afternoon, with two dear little girls to guide me, I interviewed the stern mammas of the said damsels, assuring them it was "comme il faut," urging them to come. About ten accepted, many of the others being in mourning or else sick. Orders were sent to three companies of the battalion, inviting them, making it clear that each was to have one hour of dancing, then was to leave, giving the next a chance. That was the only way we could manage. Whew! didn't they come! At seven the hall was packed with Supply Co. men, and a good many others that had no business there, despite the vigilant guard at the door. The French girls came. Our valiant orchestra struck up. We whirled; we bumped into each other; we Virginia-reeled; we circled; and—the hour was up. All too quick! The men, intoxicated by this taste of fun, refused to leave. The guards could not clear the room. Low, discontented mutterings were heard. "The officers danced all night, why can't we?" "We'll break your whole show up if you make us go." "We'll take all the girls off with us." "We'll stay as long as we like." I was angry. It was a moment that required all my tact. I didn't want the evening to break up in a riot. I didn't want to call an officer if I could help it. But they would not go. All the French girls got scared and began coming up to me to say they must go home. I induced them to stay, somehow. I was on the point of calling off the whole dance there and then, when the thought of my dear F Company waiting quietly outside to get in, made me suddenly resolve to put the thing through. I talked to the boys, putting it up to their sense of fair play, and thank goodness, most of them filed out. F Company came in and the dance went on with increased gusto. The hour was up—I called it out;—quietly, like one man F Co. marched out on the minute and E Co. came in. I can tell you my heart warmed toward F Co. that stood by me from the beginning! E. Co. was fine too, and when the dance was over they escorted me home and gave me a cheer of thanks.
And the next morning, by eleven o'clock, the French women in their sabots and dirty petticoats were kneeling round the soapy water in the lavoir, doubtless chattering about the last two nights' events.
March 18th.
Innumerable interruptions! It doesn't seem possible that ten days have slipped by since this letter was begun, and I apologize for letting them. Meanwhile I have been doing everything under the sun. One of my latest jobs is that of bandmaster. I am coaching and coaxing and imploring three coronets, two clarinets, one saxaphone and a trombone, not to mention the old piano, to become friends instead of deadliest enemies. Nothing but implicit faith in the ultimate triumph of harmony over discord has enabled me to survive the shrieks and grunts and clashings of our rehearsals. I have had to orchestrate and write out all the music myself, and incidentally I am acquiring some interesting and practical knowledge of "the brasses." It is great fun. As soon as they are good enough I will annex them to our string orchestra. Indeed I have already promoted one clarinet player, a cunning little Italian, who now ripples away among the violins.
Our Sunday afternoon chocolate parties are very gay now. We bring over the rattle-top piano from the mess hall to the tent and the orchestra plays all afternoon. The tent is packed with soldiers, most of whom I know pretty well by this time. Near the entrance am I in my blue Y.M.C.A. apron, and my assistants, making kettleful after kettleful of delicious chocolate. I am very careful to have it delicious. The boys line up and we hand them out cupfuls, and cakes, which they take back to the tables and drink at their leisure while listening to the music or playing checkers. All the little French boys in town congregate round the chocolate caldron and all are eager to help in any way, well knowing what their reward will be. I keep them busy too, and before the afternoon is over each one has a "chocolatey" little mouth and a broad smile and nothing but "kind feelings" for the Americans. I am good friends with these little fellows in their pinafores and wooden shoes. Yesterday I played tag with them, and what a clatter they made in their ungainly sabots, which nevertheless did not prevent their running outrageously fast when I was "it."
Spring is coming. Every morning I listen to the unfamiliar songs of strange birds. Yet they speak the sweet message that needs no interpreting. Occasionally we have a fair day between the rainy ones, and how fair it is! On one of these days I went for a wonderful horseback ride with a fine young artillery lieutenant about Hy's age. We cantered gloriously over open fields. We climbed up a high hill. There we were among rocks and ferns and pines, birds warbling about us, skylarks singing out of sight, the warm sun on us, and behind and beyond the graceful, harmonious view of the long valley with the canal, fringed with poplars, glinting through it, and the cultivated, nicely outlined fields, each a different shade of green, stretching far up the opposite hillside.
Well, I mustn't spend any more time on the scenery, for I will either bore you or make Mamma envious. Here comes another interruption! I am really feeling very well. I am very happy. Every one is more than kind to me. I am convinced I did the right thing to come.