Homepage
Login
Profile
BookClubs
dmBox
Read Ebook: Beyond the Marne: Quincy Huiry Voisins before and during the battle by Cuvru Magot Henriette Babbitt Katharine Translator
Font size:
Background color:
Text color:
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page
Ebook has 328 lines and 16723 words, and 7 pages
Translator: Katharine Babbitt
BEYOND THE MARNE
BEYOND THE MARNE
BY HENRIETTE CUVRU-MAGOT
TRANSLATED BY KATHARINE BABBITT
ILLUSTRATED FROM PHOTOGRAPHS
BOSTON SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY PUBLISHERS
MILDRED ALDRICH
"Will you allow me, Miss Aldrich, to pay you the tribute of my admiration for the lofty courage you have shown, and to express to you my gratitude for the comfort you have given my family during these early days of September?"
And now, in her turn, wishing to complete the story of the glorious past, witnessed by her father and grandfather, by the story of the heroic present, at which she herself is an onlooker, she is about to tell us what she saw from her modest cottage at the very beginning of the Great War, and trace to us a poignant picture of the events which took place under her eyes.
Mademoiselle Cuvru-Magot began her journal August 2, 1914, thinking, of course, that she would never know the war itself except through the accounts given by our soldiers when at last they should return.
Five weeks later she was in the midst of a battle, and that, of all others, the Battle of the Marne.
The real merit of these notes--all too few, alas! since they leave off on the morrow of the Victory of the Marne--is not to be sought in the military incidents recorded by Mademoiselle Cuvru-Magot, though even these have their importance, but rather in the noble sentiments she expresses, which stand out above everything else, especially during the heart-rending hours of the invasion. In her village, cut off from the rest of the world, she finds herself almost alone with those who are most dear to her--too weak to protect them, powerless on the other hand to sacrifice herself, to give all her strength, all her sympathy to the soldiers wounded in the battle that is being waged there, a few steps from her door.
Mademoiselle Cuvru-Magot was kind enough to let me see her manuscript, and at my earnest request has consented to publish it.
It is with interest and emotion that we read these pages marked by ardent faith and by an unfaltering trust in the eternal destiny of our country. And they are pages written by a Frenchwoman who remembers with just pride that she is the daughter and granddaughter of soldiers.
GEORGES HUSSON
PAGE
The Mareuil Road from Voisins to the Marne, the Ancient Pav?-des-Roizes 10
Terrace of the Actors' Home at Couilly, established by Coquelin, who died here 20
Voisins-Quincy. Rue de Cond? 32
Miss Mildred Aldrich 36
The Junction of the Marne and the Canal de Chalifert 42
The Road leading away from the Ch?teau de Cond?, across the Grand Morin 66
Wounded Soldiers at the Hospital of Quincy 76
Voisins-Quincy. Rue de Cond? 86
Ch?teau in the Park of the Actors' Home at Couilly 96
Tomb of Coquelin 100
On the Banks of the Marne 104
The Home of Mlle. Henriette Cuvru-Magot 106
BEYOND THE MARNE
WAR is declared! Up to the last minute I would not believe it. Is such a thing still possible in this century? Alas, yes! There is no denying the facts.
Even these last few days I felt perfectly confident. We have been on the verge of war so many times before this, but the danger has always been averted by means of diplomatic parleys. I thought that in our day and generation disputes were settled in that way, without bloodshed, as a matter of course. But now! It seems to me we have just gone backward several centuries!
I did not realize the truth until a little while ago when I took my brother to the station at Esbly. He is on his way to Paris to get his mobilization orders. How I wish I were a man and could go with him! This is the first time in our lives we have ever been separated, and under what circumstances! How sad it is to think that in every town and village in France there is the same anguish of farewells.
The pealing of the tocsin is a funeral knell that strikes terror to every mother's heart.
The great grief that has stricken the earth is borne from village to village on the church bells like a single long sob.
EVERY day some of the men about here start for the front, but it is at the Esbly station, where I have just been, that the leave-takings are the most heart-rending.
The men are very grave, but they start off without a complaint, without a murmur. And if they are courageous, the women who accompany them, understanding fully their own great duty, do not give way to their feelings for a single instant. They are determined that no tears of theirs shall make harder the task of father or husband. It is really sublime.
Huge bunches and garlands of roses are twined over the cars. Here and there is the vivid note of our national bouquet of simple wildflowers--cornflowers, daisies, and poppies, scarce at this season. In the cannon's mouth and on the gun-carriages are branches of laurel.
Inscriptions chalked on all the cars bear witness to the good morale of our troops.
On the locomotive of a return train we read:
Our souls to God, Our blood to our country, Our hearts to our women, Our bodies to the wicked.
How very French that is!
It is as if these trains, decked with flowers and flags, were on their way to a vast festival. When each train comes to a standstill there is an impressive moment of silence, broken by cheers as it moves off.
Although I was deeply stirred by these departures, I stayed a long time at the station, filled with admiration at the ardor with which every man answers the call of his country. It is a sight never to be forgotten.
On the way home from the station, I meet a friend whom I have known a long time, a good man who is father of a family. In order to spare his wife and children the worst of the farewells, he has insisted on going alone to the station. He asks permission to embrace me. "I have known you since you were such a little tot, Mademoiselle." Of course I consent willingly.
Highways as well as railroads are being used for transporting men and supplies. Auto-buses, delivery wagons of Paris shops--the Bon March?, Gal?ries Lafayette, Printemps, still bearing their signboards and advertisements--go by on the road to Meaux, carrying munitions . They are tight shut, and, to judge by their dull rumble, heavily laden.
Just as I reach the outskirts of Quincy, I see a group of men armed with pitchforks and sticks coming down the road. Farther on, a lady with white hair is holding a Browning aimed at the sky.
What is happening?
I learn that an automobile driven by Germans and flying the Red Cross flag has been signalled. The order has just come by telephone to try to stop it.
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page