PARIS, October, 1915.

While still six hundred miles from the French coast the passengers on the Chicago of the French line entered what was supposed to be the war zone.

In those same waters, just as though the reputation of the Bay of Biscay was not sufficiently scandalous, two ships of the line had been torpedoed.

So, in preparation for what the captain tactfully called an “accident,” we rehearsed abandoning ship.

It was like the fire-drills in our public schools.  It seemed a most sensible precaution, and one that in times of peace, as well as of war, might with advantage be enforced on all passenger-ships.

In his proclamation Commandant Mace of the Chicago borrowed an idea from the New York Fire Department.  It was the warning Commissioner Adamson prints on theatre programmes, and which casts a gloom over patrons of the drama by instructing them to look for the nearest fire-escape.

Each passenger on the Chicago was assigned to a life-boat.  He was advised to find out how from any part of the ship at which he might be caught he could soonest reach it.

Women and children were to assemble on the boat deck by the boat to which they were assigned.  After they had been lowered to the water, the men ­who, meanwhile, were to be segregated on the deck below them ­would descend by rope ladders.

Entrance to a boat was by ticket only.  The tickets were six inches square and bore a number.  If you lost your ticket you lost your life.  Each of the more imaginative passengers insured his life by fastening the ticket to his clothes with a safety-pin.

Two days from land there was a full-dress rehearsal, and for the first time we met those with whom we were expected to put to sea in an open boat.

Apparently those in each boat were selected by lot.  As one young doctor in the ambulance service put it:  “The society in my boat is not at all congenial.”

The only other persons originally in my boat were Red Cross nurses of the Post unit and infants.  In trampling upon them to safety I foresaw no difficulty.

But at the dress rehearsal the purser added six dark and dangerous-looking Spaniards.  It developed later that by profession they were bull-fighters.  Any man who is not afraid of a bull is entitled to respect.  But being cast adrift with six did not appeal.

One could not help wondering what would happen if we ran out of provisions and the bull-fighters grew hungry.  I tore up my ticket and planned to swim.

Some of the passengers took the rehearsal to heart, and, all night, fully dressed, especially as to boots, tramped the deck.  As the promenade-deck is directly over the cabins, not only they did not sleep but neither did any one else.

The next day they began to see periscopes.  For this they were not greatly to be blamed.  The sea approach to Bordeaux is flagged with black buoys supporting iron masts that support the lights, and in the rain and fog they look very much like periscopes.

But after the passengers had been thrilled by the sight of twenty of them, they became so bored with false alarms that had a real submarine appeared they were in a mood to invite the captain on board and give him a drink.

While we still were anxiously keeping watch, a sail appeared upon the horizon.  Even the strongest glasses could make nothing of it.  A young, very young Frenchman ran to the bridge and called to the officers:  “Gentlemen, will you please tell me what boat it is that I see?”

Had he asked the same question of an American captain while that officer was on the bridge, the captain would have turned his back.  An English captain would have put him in irons.

But the French captain called down to him:  “She is pilot-boat N.  The pilot’s name is Jean Baptiste.  He has a wife and four children in Bordeaux, and others in Brest and Havre.  He is fifty years old and has a red nose and a wart on his chin.  Is there anything else you would like to know?”

At daybreak, as the ship swept up the Gironde to Bordeaux, we had our first view of the enemy.

We had passed the vineyards and those chateaux the names of which every wine-card in every part of the world helps to keep famous and familiar, and had reached the outskirts of the city.  Here the banks are close together, so close that one almost can hail those on shore; but there was a heavy rain and the mist played tricks.

When I saw a man in a black overcoat with the brass buttons wider apart across the chest than at the belt line, like those of our traffic police in summer-time, I thought it was a trick of the mist.  Because the uniform that, by a nice adjustment of buttons, tries to broaden the shoulders and decrease the waist, is not being worn much in France.  Not if a French sharpshooter sees it first.

But the man in the overcoat was not carrying a rifle on his shoulder.  He was carrying a bag of cement, and from the hull of the barge others appeared, each with a bag upon his shoulder.  There was no mistaking them.  Nor their little round caps, high boots, and field uniforms of gray-green.

It was strange that the first persons we should see since we left the wharf at the foot of Fifteenth Street, North River, the first we should see in France, should not be French people, but German soldiers.

Bordeaux had the good taste to burn down when the architect who designed the Place de la Concorde, in Paris, and the buildings facing it was still alive; and after his designs, or those of his pupils, Bordeaux was rebuilt.  So wherever you look you see the best in what is old and the smartest in what is modern.

Certainly when to that city President Poincare and his cabinet moved the government, they gave it a resting-place that was both dignified and charming.  To walk the streets and wharfs is a continual delight.  One is never bored.  It is like reading a book in which there are no dull pages.

Everywhere are the splendid buildings of Louis XV, statues, parks, monuments, churches, great arches that once were the outer gates, and many miles of quays redolent, not of the sea, but of the wine to which the city gives her name.

But to-day to walk the streets of Bordeaux saddens as well as delights.  There are so many wounded.  There are so many women and children all in black.  It is a relief when you learn that the wounded are from different parts of France, that they have been sent to Bordeaux to recuperate and are greatly in excess of the proportion of wounded you would find in other cities.

But the women and children in black are not convalescents.  Their wounds heal slowly, or not at all.

At the wharfs a white ship with gigantic American flags painted on her sides and with an American flag at the stern was unloading horses.  They were for the French artillery and cavalry, but they were so glad to be free of the ship that their future state did not distress them.

Instead, they kicked joyously, scattering the sentries, who were jet-black Turcos.  As one of them would run from a plunging horse, the others laughed at him with that contagious laugh of the darky that is the same all the world over, whether he hails from Mobile or Tangiers, and he would return sheepishly, with eyes rolling, protesting the horse was a “boche.”

Officers, who looked as though in times of peace they might be gentlemen jockeys, were receiving the remounts and identifying the brands on the hoof and shoulder that had been made by their agents in America.

If the veterinary passed the horse, he was again marked, this time with regimental numbers, on the hoof with a branding-iron, and on the flanks with white paint.  In ten days he will be given a set of shoes, and in a month he will be under fire.

Colonel Count René de Montjou, who has been a year in America buying remounts, and who returned on the Chicago, discovered that one of the horses was a “substitut,” and a very bad “substitut” he was.  His teeth had been filed, but the French officers saw that he was all of eighteen years old.

The young American who, in the interests of the contractor, was checking off the horses, refused to be shocked.  Out of the corner of his thin lips he whispered confidentially: 

“Suppose he is a ringer,” he protested; “suppose he is eighteen years old, what’s the use of their making a holler?  What’s it matter how old he is, if all they’re going to do with him is to get him shot?”

That night at the station, as we waited for the express to Paris, many recruits were starting for the front.  There seemed to be thousands of them, all new; new sky-blue uniforms, new soup-tureen helmets, new shoes.

They were splendidly young and vigorous looking, and to the tale that France now is forced to call out only old men and boys they gave the lie.  With many of them, to say farewell, came friends and family.  There was one group that was all comedy, a handsome young man under thirty, his mother and a young girl who might have been his wife or sister.

They had brought him food for the journey; chocolate, a long loaf, tins of sardines, a bottle of wine; and the fun was in trying to find any pocket, bag, or haversack not already filled.  They were all laughing, the little, fat mother rather mechanically, when the whistle blew.

It was one of those shrill, long-drawn whistles without which in Europe no train can start.  It had a peevish, infantile sound, like the squeak of a nursery toy.  But it was as ominous as though some one had fired a siege-gun.

The soldiers raced for the cars, and the one in front of me, suddenly grown grave, stooped and kissed the fat, little mother.

She was still laughing; but at his embrace and at the meaning of it, at the thought that the son, who to her was always a baby, might never again embrace her, she tore herself from him sobbing and fled ­fled blindly as though to escape from her grief.

Other women, their eyes filled with sudden tears, made way, and with their fingers pressed to their lips turned to watch her.

The young soldier kissed the wife, or sister, or sweetheart, or whatever she was, sketchily on one ear and shoved her after the fleeing figure.

“Guardez mama!” he said.

It is the tragedy that will never grow less, and never grow old.

One who left Paris in October, 1914, and returned in October, 1915, finds her calm, confident; her social temperature only a little below normal.

A year ago the gray-green tidal wave of the German armies that threatened to engulf Paris had just been checked.  With the thunder of their advance Paris was still shaken.  The withdrawal of men to the front, and of women and children to Bordeaux and the coast, had left the city uninhabited.  The streets were as deserted as the Atlantic City board walk in January.  For miles one moved between closed shops.  Along the Aisne the lines had not been dug in, and hourly from the front ambulances, carrying the wounded and French and British officers unwashed from the trenches, in mud-covered, bullet-scarred cars, raced down the echoing boulevards.  In the few restaurants open, you met men who that morning had left the firing-line, and who after dejeuner, and the purchase of soap, cigarettes, and underclothes, by sunset would be back on the job.  In those days Paris was inside the “fire-lines.”  War was in the air; you smelled it, saw it, heard it.

To-day a man from Mars visiting Paris might remain here a week, and not know that this country is waging the greatest war in history.  When you walk the crowded streets it is impossible to believe that within forty miles of you millions of men are facing each other in a death grip.  This is so, first, because a great wall of silence has been built between Paris and the front, and, second, because the spirit of France is too alive, too resilient, occupied with too many interests, to allow any one thing, even war, to obsess it.  The people of France have accepted the war as they accept the rigors of winter.  They may not like the sleet and snow of winter, but they are not going to let the winter beat them.  In consequence, the shop windows are again dressed in their best, the kiosks announce comedies, revues, operas; in the gardens of the Luxembourg the beds are brilliant with autumn flowers, and the old gentlemen have resumed their games of croquet, the Champs-Elysees swarms with baby-carriages, and at the aperitif hour on the sidewalks there are no empty chairs.  At many of the restaurants it is impossible to obtain a table.

It is not the Paris of the days before the war.  It is not “gay Paris.”  But it is a Paris going about her “business as usual.”  This spirit of the people awakens only the most sincere admiration.  It shows great calmness, great courage, and a confidence that, for the enemy of France, must be disquieting.  Work for the wounded and for the families of those killed in action and who have been left without support continues.  Only now, after a year of bitter experience, it is no longer hysterical.  It has been systematized, made more efficient.  It is no longer the work of amateurs, but of those who by daily practise have become experts.

In Paris the signs of war are not nearly as much in evidence as the activities of peace.  There are many soldiers; but, in Paris, you always saw soldiers.  The only difference is that now they wear bandages, or advance on crutches.  And, as opposed to these evidences of the great conflict going on only forty miles distant, are the flower markets around the Madeleine, the crowds of women in front of the jewels, furs, and manteaux in the Rue de la Paix.

It is not that France is indifferent to the war.  But that she has faith in her armies, in her generals.  She can afford to wait.  She drove the enemy from Paris; she is teaching French in Alsace; in time, when Joffre is ready, she will drive the enemy across her borders.  In her faith in Joffre, she opens her shops, markets, schools, theatres.  It is not callousness she shows, but that courage and confidence that are the forerunners of success.

But the year of war has brought certain changes.  The search-lights have disappeared.  It was found that to the enemy in the air they were less of a menace than a guide.  So the great shafts of light that with majesty used to sweep the skies or cut a path into the clouds have disappeared.  And nearly all other lights have disappeared.  Those who drive motor-cars claim the pedestrians are careless; the pedestrians protest that the drivers of motor-cars are reckless.  In any case, to cross a street at night is an adventure.

 President Poincare on a visit to the front.]

Something else that has disappeared is the British soldier.  A year ago he swarmed, now he is almost entirely absent.  Outside of the hospital corps, a British officer in Paris is an object of interest.  In their place are many Belgians, almost too many Belgians.  Their new khaki uniforms are unsoiled.  Unlike the French soldiers you see, few are wounded.  The answer probably is that as they cannot return to their own country, they must make their home in that of their ally.  And the front they defend so valiantly is not so extended that there is room for all.  Meanwhile, as they wait for their turn in the trenches, they fill the boulevards and cafes.

This is not true of the French officers.  The few you see are convalescents, or on leave.  It is not as it was last October, when Paris was part of the war zone.  Up to a few days ago, until after seven in the evening, when the work of the day was supposed to be finished, an officer was not permitted to sit idle in a cafe.  And now when you see one you may be sure he is recovering from a wound, or is on the General Staff, and for a few hours has been released from duty.

It is very different from a year ago when every officer was fresh from the trenches ­and, fresh is not quite the word, either ­and he would talk freely to an eager, sympathetic group of the battle of the night before.  Now the wall of silence stretches around Paris.  By posters it is even enforced upon you.  Before the late minister of war gave up his portfolio, by placards he warned all when in public places to be careful of what they said.  “Taisez-vous!  Mefiez-vous.  Les oreilles ennemies vous ecoutent.”  “Be silent.  Be distrustful.  The ears of the enemies are listening.”  This warning against spies was placed in tramways, railroad-trains, cafes.  A cartoonist refused to take the good advice seriously.  His picture shows one of the women conductors in a street-car asking a passenger where he is going.  The passenger points to the warning.  “Silence,” he says, “some one may be listening.”

There are other changes.  A year ago gold was king.  To imagine any time or place when it is not is difficult.  But to-day an American twenty-dollar bill gives you a higher rate of exchange than an American gold double-eagle.  A thousand dollars in bills in Paris is worth thirty dollars more to you than a thousand dollars in gold.  And to carry it does not make you think you are concealing a forty-five Colt.  The decrease in value is due to the fact that you cannot take gold out of the country.  That is true of every country in Europe, and of any kind of gold.  At the border it is taken from you and in exchange you must accept bills.  So, any one in Paris, wishing to travel, had best turn over his gold to the Bank of France.  He will receive not only a good rate of exchange but also an engraved certificate testifying that he has contributed to the national defense.

Another curious vagary of the war that obtains now is the sudden disappearance of the copper sou or what ranks with our penny.  Why it is scarce no one seems to know.  The generally accepted explanation is that the copper has flown to the trenches where millions of men are dealing in small sums.  But whatever the reason, the fact remains.  In the stores you receive change in postage-stamps, and, on the underground railroad, where the people have refused to accept stamps in lieu of coppers, there are incipient riots.  One night at a restaurant I was given change in stamps and tried to get even with the house by unloading them as his tip on the waiter.  He protested eloquently.  “Letters I never write,” he explained.  “To write letters makes me ennui.  And yet if I wrote for a hundred years I could not use all the stamps my patrons have forced upon me.”

These differences the year has brought about are not lasting, and are unimportant.  The change that is important, and which threatens to last a long time, is the difference in the sentiment of the French people toward Americans.

Before the war we were not unduly flattering ourselves if we said the attitude of the French toward the United States was friendly.  There were reasons why they should regard us at least with tolerance.  We were very good customers.  From different parts of France we imported wines and silks.  In Paris we spent, some of us spent, millions on jewels and clothes.  In automobiles and on Cook’s tours every summer Americans scattered money from Brittany to Marseilles.  They were the natural prey of Parisian hotel-keepers, restaurants, milliners, and dressmakers.  We were a sister republic, the two countries swapped statues of their great men ­we had not forgotten Lafayette, France honored Paul Jones.  A year ago, in the comic papers, between John Bull and Uncle Sam, it was not Uncle Sam who got the worst of it.  Then the war came and with it, in the feeling toward ourselves, a complete change.  A year ago we were almost one of the Allies, much more popular than Italians, more sympathetic than the English.  To-day we are regarded, not with hostility, but with amazed contempt.

This most regrettable change was first brought about by President Wilson’s letter calling upon Americans to be neutral.  The French could not understand it.  From their point of view it was an unnecessary affront.  It was as unexpected as the cut direct from a friend; as unwarranted, as gratuitous, as a slap in the face.  The millions that poured in from America for the Red Cross, the services of Americans in hospitals, were accepted as the offerings of individuals, not as representing the sentiment of the American people.  That sentiment, the French still insist in believing, found expression in the letter that called upon all Americans to be neutral, something which to a Frenchman is neither fish, fowl, nor good red herring.

We lost caste in other ways.  We supplied France with munitions, but, as a purchasing agent for the government put it to me, we are not losing much money by it, and, until the French Government protested, and the protest was printed all over the United States, some of our manufacturers supplied articles that were worthless.  Doctor Charles W. Cowan, an American who in winter lives in Paris and Nice and spends his summers in America, showed me the half section of a shoe of which he said sixty thousand pairs had been ordered, until it was found that part of each shoe was made of brown paper.  Certainly part of the shoe he showed me was made of brown paper.

When an entire people, men, women, and children, are fighting for their national existence, and their individual home and life, to have such evidences of Yankee smartness foisted upon them does not make for friendship.  It inspired contempt.  This unpleasant sentiment was strengthened by our failure to demand satisfaction for the lives lost on the Lusitania, while at the same time our losses in dollars seemed to distress us so deeply.  But more harmful and more unfortunate than any other word or act was the statement of President Wilson that we might be “too proud to fight.”  This struck the French not only as proclaiming us a cowardly nation, but as assuming superiority over the man who not only would fight, but who was fighting.  And as at that moment several million Frenchmen were fighting, it was natural that they should laugh.  Every nation in Europe laughed.  In an Italian cartoon Uncle Sam is shown, hat in hand, offering a “note” to the German Emperor and in another shooting Haitians.

The legend reads:  “He is too proud to fight the Kaiser, but not too proud to kill niggers.”  In London, “Too Proud to Fight” is in the music-halls the line surest of raising a laugh, and the recruiting-stations show pictures of fat men, effeminates, degenerates, and cripples labelled:  “These Are Too Proud to Fight!  Are You?”

The change of sentiment toward us in France is shown in many ways.  To retail them would not help matters.  But as one hears of them from Americans who, since the war began, have been working in the hospitals, on distributing committees, in the banking-houses, and as diplomats and consuls, that our country is most unpopular is only too evident.

It is the greater pity because the real feeling of our people toward France in this war is one of enthusiastic admiration.  Of all the Allies, Americans probably hold for the French the most hearty good-feeling, affection, and good-will.  Through the government at Washington this feeling has been ill-expressed, if not entirely concealed.  It is unfortunate.  Mr. Kipling, whose manners are his own, has given as a toast:  “Damn all neutrals.”  The French are more polite.  But when this war is over we may find that in twelve months we have lost friends of many years.  That over all the world we have lost them.

That does not mean that for the help Americans have given France and her Allies, the Allies are ungrateful.  That the French certainly are not ungrateful I was given assurance by no less an authority than the President of the republic.  His assurance was conveyed to the American people in a message of thanks.  It is also a message of good-will.

It recognizes and appreciates the sympathy shown to France in her present fight for liberty and civilization by those Americans who remember that when we fought for our liberty France was not neutral, but sent us Lafayette and Rochambeau, ships and soldiers.  It is a message of thanks from President Poincare to those Americans who found it less easy to be neutral than to be grateful.

It was my good fortune to be presented by Paul Benazet, a close personal friend of the President, and both an officer of the army and a deputy.  As a deputy before the war he helped largely in passing the bills that called for three years of military service and for heavier artillery.  As an officer he won the Legion of Honor and the Cross of War.  Besides being a brilliant writer, M. Benazet is also an accomplished linguist, and as President Poincare does not express himself readily in English, and as my French is better suited to restaurants than palaces, he acted as our interpreter.

The arrival of important visitors, M. Cambon, the former ambassador to the United States, and the new prime minister, M. Briand, delayed our reception, and while we waited we were escorted through the official rooms of the Elysee.  It was a half-hour of most fascinating interest, not only because the vast salons were filled with what, in art, is most beautiful, but because we were brought back to the ghosts of other days.

What we actually saw were the best of Gobelin tapestries, the best of Sèvres china, the best of mural paintings.  We walked on silken carpets, bearing the fleur-de-lis.  We sat on sofas of embroidery as fine as an engraving and as rich in color as a painting by Morland.  The bright autumn sunshine illuminated the ormulu brass of the First Empire, gilt eagles, crowns, cupids, and the only letter of the alphabet that always suggests one name.

Those which we brought back to the rooms in which once they lived, planned, and plotted were the ghosts of Mme. de Pompadour, Louis XVI, Murat, Napoleon I, and Napoleon III.  We could imagine the first Emperor standing with his hands clasped behind him in front of the marble fireplace, his figure reflected in the full-length mirrors, his features in gold looking down at him from the walls and ceilings.  We intruded even into the little room opening on the rose garden, where for hours he would pace the floor.

But, perhaps, what was of greatest interest was the remarkable adjustment of these surroundings, royal and imperial, to the simple and dignified needs of a republic.

France is a military nation and at war, but the evidences of militarism were entirely absent.  Our own White House is not more empty of uniforms.  One got the impression that he was entering the house of a private gentleman ­a gentleman of great wealth and taste.

We passed at last through four rooms, in which were the secretaries of the President, and as we passed, the majordomo spoke our names, and the different gentlemen half rose and bowed.  It was all so quiet, so calm, so free from telephones and typewriters, that you felt that, by mistake, you had been ushered into the library of a student or a Cabinet minister.

Then in the fourth room was the President.  Outside this room we were presented to M. Sainsere, the personal secretary of the President, and without further ceremony M. Benazet opened the door, and in the smallest room of all, introduced me to M. Poincare.  His portraits have rendered his features familiar, but they do not give sufficiently the impression I received of kindness, firmness, and dignity.

He returned to his desk and spoke in a low voice of peculiar charm.  As though the better to have the stranger understand, he spoke slowly, selecting his words.

“I have a great admiration,” he said, “for the effectiveness with which Americans have shown their sympathy with France.  They have sent doctors, nurses, and volunteers to drive the ambulances to carry the wounded.  I have visited the hospitals at Neuilly and other places; they are admirable.

“The one at Juilly was formerly a college, but with ingenuity they have converted it into a hospital, most complete and most valuable.  The American colony in Paris has shown a friendship we greatly appreciate.  Your ambassador I have met several times.  Our relations are most pleasant, most sympathetic.”

I asked if I might repeat what he had said.  The President gave his assent, and, after a pause, as though, now that he knew he would be quoted, he wished to emphasize what he had said, continued: 

“My wife, who distributes articles of comfort, sent to the wounded and to families in need, tells me that Americans are among the most generous contributors.  Many articles come anonymously ­money, clothing, and comforts for the soldiers, and layettes for their babies.  We recognize and appreciate the manner in which, while preserving a strict neutrality, your country men and women have shown their sympathy.”

The President rose and on leaving I presented a letter from ex-President Roosevelt.  It was explained that this was the second letter for him I had had from Colonel Roosevelt, but that when I was a prisoner with the Germans, I had judged it wise to swallow the first one, and that I had requested Colonel Roosevelt to write the second one on thin paper.  The President smiled and passed the letter critically between his thumb and forefinger.

“This one,” he said, “is quite digestible.”

I carried away the impression of a kind and distinguished gentleman, who, in the midst of the greatest crisis in history, could find time to dictate a message of thanks to those he knew were neutrals only in name.