How far off now seems that summer’s day I walked through 39th Street, my pulses throbbing pleasantly with the thrill of adventure and this commission! I wonder if ever life can look like that again. The heavens arched all blue above New York and the sunshine lay all golden on the city pavements. But that was before I knew. Oh, I had heard about war, even as have you and your next door neighbour. War was battle dates that had to be committed to memory at school. Or if instead of tiresome pages in history it should mobilise before our eyes, why, of course it would be flags flying, bands playing, and handsome heroes marching down Fifth Avenue!
And now I have seen war. Every way I turn I am looking on men with broken bodies and women with broken hearts. War is not merely the hell that may pass at Verdun or the Somme in the agony of a day or a night that ends in death. War is worse. War is that big strong fellow with eyes burned out when he “went over the top,” whom I saw learning to walk by a strip of oilcloth laid on the floor of the Home for the Blind in London. They’re teaching him now to make baskets for a living! War is that boy in his twenties without any legs whom I met in Regents Park in a wheel chair for the rest of his life! War is that peasant from whom to-day I inquired my way in one of the little banlieues of Paris. There was the Croix de Guerre in his coat lapel. But he had to set down on the ground his basket of vegetables to point down the Quai de Bercy with his remaining arm. You know how a Frenchman just has to gesture when he talks? The stump of the other arm twitched a horrible accompaniment as he indicated my direction!
Those are brave men who are dying on all the battlefields for their native lands. But oh, the bravery of these men who must live for their countries! These who have lost their eyes and their arms and their legs are as common over here as, why, as, say, men with brown hair. And these are terrible enough. But the men who have lost their faces! So long as they shall live, in every one’s eyes into which they look, they must see a shudder of horror reflecting as in a looking glass their old agony. God in Heaven pity the men who have lost their faces! The greatest sculptors in the world are busy to-day making faces to be fastened on.
Like this you’ve got to go through Europe these days with a sob in the throat. I turn to the difficult details of living for relief from the awful drama of existence. In Paris there is the nicest United States ambassador that ever was sent in a black frock coat to represent his country abroad. In the course of my travels there are embassies I have met who are about as useful to the wayfaring American in a foreign land as a Rogers plaster group on a parlour table. But you arrive at Mr. Sharpe’s embassy in the Rue de Chaillot and it doesn’t matter at all if it happens to be perhaps 4:33 and his reception hour closed at, say, 4:31. He says, “Come right in.” Yes, he talks like that, not at all in the tone of royalty. “When’d you get in town?” he asks as genially as if it might be Albany or Detroit instead of Paris. By this time you’re sitting in a chair drawn up to his desk and discussing the last Democratic victory. “How’s Charlie Murphy standing now with the administration?” perhaps he asks, and then pretty soon, “But what can I do for you in Paris?”
And he does it. You don’t have to call his secretary a week later to ask, How about that letter the embassy was going to give me? And the week after and the week after ring up some more to recall that there’s an American running up an expense account at the hotel down the street. That’s not Mr. Sharpe’s way. Within ten minutes he had handed me a letter of introduction to M. Briand, Prime Minister of France. He laughed as he passed it to me. “Honestly, I’d hate to hand any one a gold brick,” he said. “That document looks imposing enough and important enough that a limousine should be at your hotel entrance to take you to the front at 9 A. M. to-morrow. But nothing like that will happen. In France you have to remember that no one hurries. And an American can’t.”
You can hear that in every foreign language. It was a spectacled Herr Professor in Berlin who once said to me severely, “You Americans, this hurry it is your national vice.” I feel that foreign governments have duly disciplined me in this direction during the past few months. So much of my job in serving the Pictorial Review in Europe seems to be to sit on a chair and wait in a War Office ante room. At the Maison de la Presse, 3 Rue François 1st, in the Service de l’Information Diplomatique, whither my Briand letter leads me, I seem to spend hours.
They are going to be charmed, as Frenchmen can be, to take me to the front. And the days pass and the days pass. “Ah, but you see, for a lady journalist it is so different and so difficult. The trip must be specially arranged.” And the weeks go by. And M. Polignac is so polite and polite and polite—just that and nothing more.
One day he says to me: “And, Mme. Daggett, how long is it you will be in Paris?” “Why,” I falter, “I hadn’t expected to winter here. I’m waiting, you know, just waiting until I can go to the front.” “And how much longer now could you wait?” he inquires. “Oh,” I answer desperately, “I’ll surely have to go by the 29th. I couldn’t stay longer than that.”
So in the course of the next few days there comes a letter telling me how it pains the French government that they should not be able to “take that trip in hand” before the 29th. And of course if I must leave them on that date, as I had said I must, oh, they so much regret, etc., etc.
If I intend to get to the front, evidently then I must dig through! And in my room at the Hotel Regina in the Rue de Rivoli, I take my pen in hand.