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RETHINKING INTERNATIONAL
DEVELOPMENT SERIES
Disrupted Development
and the Future of Inequality
in the Age of Automation
Lukas Schlogl · Andy Sumner
Rethinking International Development series
Series Editors
Ray Kiely
Queen Mary University of London
London, UK
Andy Sumner
King’s College London, UK
Rethinking International Development is dedicated to publishing cutting-
edge titles that focus on the broad area of ‘development’. The core aims
of the series are to present critical work that is cross disciplinary, chal-
lenges orthodoxies, reconciles theoretical depth with empirical research,
explores the frontiers of development studies in terms of ‘development’
in both North and South and global inter-connectedness, and reflects on
claims to knowledge and intervening in other people’s lives.
Disrupted
Development
and the Future
of Inequality
in the Age
of Automation
Lukas Schlogl Andy Sumner
University of Vienna King’s College London
Vienna, Austria London, UK
Published with the support of the Austrian Science Fund (FWF): PUB 676-Z
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2020, corrected publication 2020.
This book is an open access publication.
Open Access This book is licensed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution
4.0 International License (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/), which permits
use, sharing, adaptation, distribution and reproduction in any medium or format, as long as
you give appropriate credit to the original author(s) and the source, provide a link to the
Creative Commons license and indicate if changes were made.
The images or other third party material in this book are included in the book’s Creative
Commons license, unless indicated otherwise in a credit line to the material. If material
is not included in the book’s Creative Commons license and your intended use is not
permitted by statutory regulation or exceeds the permitted use, you will need to obtain
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The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this
publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are
exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use.
The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and
information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication.
Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied,
with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have
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This Palgrave Pivot imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature
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The original version of this book was inadvertently published without
the acknowledgement of the funder (Austrian Science Fund (FWF): PUB
676-Z). The book has been updated with the changes. The correction to
the book is available at https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-30131-6_8
Acknowledgements
The authors are grateful for comments from Tony Addison, Artur
Borkowski, Charles Kenny, Kyunghoon Kim, Joerg Mayer, Terry
McKinley, Paul Segal, Dharendra Wardhana, Leslie Willcocks, Chunbing
Xing and an anonymous reviewer, as well as participants at the Economic
and Social Research Council (ESRC) Global Poverty & Inequality
Dynamics Research Network workshop, March 27–28, 2018, London.
All errors and omissions are our own. This book was produced as part of
an ESRC Global Challenges Research Fund Strategic Research Network
(Grant ES/P006299/1). The authors are grateful for receiving a grant
from the Austrian Science Fund (FWF), which facilitated Open Access
publication.
vii
Contents
1 Introduction 1
4 Technological Transformation 37
ix
x CONTENTS
7 Conclusions 85
References 89
Index 99
List of Figures
xi
List of Tables
xiii
CHAPTER 1
Introduction
1.1 Introduction
A specter is haunting the industrialized and developing world—the
specter of automation. 1.8 bn jobs or two-thirds of the current labor
force of developing countries are estimated to be susceptible to auto-
mation from today’s technological standpoint, according to the World
Bank (2016). Employment generation is crucial to spreading the benefits
of economic growth broadly and to reducing global poverty. And yet,
emerging economies face a contemporary challenge to traditional path-
ways to employment generation: automation, digitization, and labor-
saving technologies.
A broad range of international agencies have recently flagged such
issues relating to the future of employment, and the consequences
of automation and deindustrialization in their global reports (ADB,
2018; Hallward-Driemeier & Nayyar, 2017; ILO, 2017; IMF, 2017;
UNCTAD, 2017; UNDP, 2015; UNIDO, 2016; World Bank, 2013,
2016) and the International Labor Organization (ILO) has launched
a Global Commission on the Future of Work. Employment prospects
have also come into sharp focus because of the contested experiences of
“premature deindustrialization” (Palma, 2005; Rodrik, 2016) and weak-
ening employment elasticities of growth.1
There is currently significant and rising interest in these issues in the
scholarly community (see e.g. Acemoglu & Restrepo, 2017; Arntz,
Gregory, & Zierahn, 2016; Grace, Salvatier, Dafoe, Zhang, & Evans,
2017; Mishel & Bivens, 2017; Mokyr, Vickers, & Ziebarth, 2015;
Roine & Waldenström, 2014), in the reports of international agencies
(see references above), and in the private sector too (Frey, Osborne, &
Holmes, 2016; McKinsey Global Institute, 2017a, 2017b; PWC, 2017;
World Economic Forum, 2017). Moreover, the topic has also captured
the public interest, reflected by a mushrooming of media reports and
popular science books on the issues (e.g. Avent, 2017; Brynjolfsson &
McAfee, 2011, 2014; Harari, 2016; Srnicek, 2017, to name but a few).
Despite this increasing interest, the effects of automation in particular
remain highly contestable and understudied with respect to develop-
ing economies, given that most research has focused on high-income
Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD)
countries such as the United States.
These are, however, not only OECD country issues (see discus-
sion of Ahmed, 2017). The World Bank (2016, pp. 22f.) estimates that
1 INTRODUCTION 3
Note
1. Heintz (2009) examines employment growth and the productivity growth
rate in 35 countries between 1961 and 2008, and finds that increases in
the productivity growth rate slow down the rate of employment growth,
and that this pattern is getting stronger over time. In the 1960s, a one per-
centage point increase in the growth rate of productivity reduced employ-
ment growth by just 0.07 percentage points. However, in the 2000s,
that same one percentage point increase in the growth rate of productiv-
ity reduced employment growth by a substantial 0.54 percentage point.
Several possible explanations are as follows: (i) it could be that increases in
productivity over time are reducing the employment elasticity of growth;
(ii) it could be that the proportion of wage labor is increasing; or (iii) it
could be that increases in real wages, employers’ social contributions, or
strengthening labor institutions are raising unit labor costs and dampen-
ing employment creation, though this is ambiguous in empirical studies.
A meta-review of 150 studies of labor institutions (Betcherman, 2012)
covering minimum wages, employment protection regulation, unions and
collective bargaining, and mandated benefits) with an emphasis on studies
in developing countries, found that in most cases, effects are either modest
or work in both directions in terms of productivity.
References
Acemoglu, D., & Restrepo, P. (2017). Robots and jobs: Evidence from US labor
markets (NBER Working Paper Series No. 23285). Cambridge, MA: NBER.
Retrieved from http://www.nber.org/papers/w23285.
ADB (Asian Development Bank). (2018). Asian development outlook 2018: How
technology affects jobs. Manila: ADB.
1 INTRODUCTION 5
Ahmed, M. (2017). Technological revolution and the future of work. Center for
global development blog. Retrieved May 25, 2018, from https://www.cgdev.
org/blog/technological-revolution-and-future-work.
Arntz, M., Gregory, T., & Zierahn, U. (2016). The risk of automation for jobs
in OECD countries: A comparative analysis. OECD Social, Employment and
Migration Working Papers, 2(189), 47–54.
Avent, R. (2017). The wealth of humans: Work and its absence in the twenty-first
century. London: Penguin Random House.
Betcherman, G. (2012). Labor market institutions: A review of the literature
(World Bank Policy Research Working Paper Series No. 6276). Washington,
DC: World Bank.
Brynjolfsson, E., & McAfee, A. (2011). Race against the machine: How the digital
revolution is accelerating innovation, driving productivity, and irreversibly trans-
forming employment and the economy. Lexington, MA: Digital Frontier Press.
Brynjolfsson, E., & McAfee, A. (2014). The second machine age: Work, progress,
and prosperity in a time of brilliant technologies. New York, NY and London:
W. W. Norton.
Frey, C. B., Osborne, M. A., & Holmes, C. (2016). Technology at work v2.0: The
future is not what it used to be (Citi GPS: Global Perspectives & Solutions).
Oxford. Retrieved from http://www.oxfordmartin.ox.ac.uk/downloads/
reports/Citi_GPS_Technology_Work_2.pdf.
Grace, K., Salvatier, J., Dafoe, A., Zhang, B., & Evans, O. (2017). When
will AI exceed human performance? Evidence from AI experts (arXiv No.
1705.08807v2). Retrieved from http://arxiv.org/abs/1705.08807.
Hallward-Driemeier, M., & Nayyar, G. (2017). Trouble in the making? The
future of manufacturing-led development. Washington, DC: World Bank.
Harari, Y. N. (2016). Homo deus: A brief history of tomorrow. London: Harvill
Secker.
Heintz, J. (2009). Employment, economic development and poverty reduction:
Critical issues and policy challenges. Geneva: UNRISD.
ILO. (2017). The future of work we want: A global dialogue. Geneva: International
Labor Organization. Retrieved from http://www.ilo.org/global/topics/future-
of-work/WCMS_570282/lang–en/index.htm.
IMF. (2017). World economic outlook, April 2017: Gaining momen-
tum? Washington, DC: IMF. Retrieved from http://www.imf.org/en/
Publications/WEO/Issues/2017/04/04/world-economic-outlook-
april-2017.
McKinsey Global Institute. (2017a). A future that works: Automation, employ-
ment, and productivity. Retrieved from https://www.mckinsey.com/~/
media/McKinsey/Global%20Themes/Digital%20Disruption/Harnessing%20
automation%20for%20a%20future%20that%20works/MGI-A-future-that-
works_Full-report.ashx.
6 L. SCHLOGL AND A. SUMNER
McKinsey Global Institute. (2017b). Jobs lost, jobs gained: Workforce transitions in
a time of automation. Retrieved from https://www.mckinsey.com/~/media/
McKinsey/Global%20Themes/Future%20of%20Organizations/What%20
the%20future%20of%20work%20will%20mean%20for%20jobs%20skills%20
and%20wages/MGI-Jobs-Lost-Jobs-Gained-Report-December-6-2017.ashx.
Mishel, L., & Bivens, J. (2017). The zombie robot argument lurches on: There is
no evidence that automation leads to joblessness or inequality. Washington,
DC: Economic Policy Institute. Retrieved from http://www.epi.org/files/
pdf/126750.pdf.
Mokyr, J., Vickers, C., & Ziebarth, N. L. (2015). The history of technological
anxiety and the future of economic growth: Is this time different? Journal of
Economic Perspectives, 29(3), 31–50.
Palma, J. G. (2005). Four sources of “de-industrialization” and a new concept
of the “Dutch disease”. In J. A. Ocampo (Ed.), Beyond reforms: Structural
dynamic and macroeconomic vulnerability (pp. 71–116). Palo Alto, CA and
Washington, DC: Stanford University Press and World Bank.
PWC (PricewaterhouseCoopers). (2017). UK Economic Outlook.
Rodrik, D. (2016). Premature deindustrialization. Journal of Economic Growth,
21(1), 1–33.
Roine, J., & Waldenström, D. (2014). Long-run trends in the distribution of
income and wealth (IZA Discussion Paper No. 8157). Bonn: IZA. Retrieved
from ftp.iza.org/dp8157.pdf.
Srnicek, N. (2017). Platform capitalism. Cambridge and Malden, MA: Polity
Press.
UNCTAD. (2017). Trade and development report 2017—Beyond austerity:
Towards a global new deal. New York and Geneva: UNCTAD.
UNDP. (2015). Work for human development: Human development report. New
York: UNDP.
UNIDO. (2016). Industrial development report 2016: The role of technology
and innovation in inclusive and sustainable industrial development. Vienna:
UNIDO.
World Bank. (2013). World development report: Jobs. Washington, DC: World
Bank.
World Bank. (2016). World development report: Digital dividends. Washington,
DC: World Bank.
World Economic Forum. (2017). Impact of the fourth industrial revolution on
supply chains. Geneva: WEF.
1 INTRODUCTION 7
Open Access This chapter is licensed under the terms of the Creative Commons
Attribution 4.0 International License (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/
by/4.0/), which permits use, sharing, adaptation, distribution and reproduction
in any medium or format, as long as you give appropriate credit to the original
author(s) and the source, provide a link to the Creative Commons license and
indicate if changes were made.
The images or other third party material in this chapter are included in the
chapter’s Creative Commons license, unless indicated otherwise in a credit line
to the material. If material is not included in the chapter’s Creative Commons
license and your intended use is not permitted by statutory regulation or exceeds
the permitted use, you will need to obtain permission directly from the copyright
holder.
PART I
(so labor can move across sectors and firms easily), leads to growth-enhanc-
ing structural transformation. In a similar vein, Diao, McMillan, Rodrik,
and Kennedy (2017) argue that the most recent growth accelerations in
the developing world, unlike East Asia’s historical experience, have not
been driven by industrialization but by within-sector productivity growth
(in Latin America) and growth-increasing structural transformation, but
this has been accompanied by negative labor productivity growth within
nonagricultural sectors (in Ethiopia, Malawi, Senegal, and Tanzania).
Others, such as Herrendorf et al. (2014), concur empirically with the
argument that the sectoral composition of economic activity is key to
understanding not only economic development but also regional income
convergence, productivity trends, business cycles, and inequality in wages.3
Notes
1. One hybrid is Diao et al. (2017, pp. 3–4) seek to link the structural dual-
ism of Lewis with the neoclassical model by arguing that the neoclassical
model shows the growth process within the modern sector and the dual
model shows the relationship among sectors.
18 L. SCHLOGL AND A. SUMNER
2. McMillan and Rodrik (2011) find that countries with a large share of exports
in natural resources tend to experience growth-reducing structural trans-
formation and, even if they have higher productivity, cannot absorb surplus
labor from agriculture. In a similar vein, Gollin et al. (2016), too, argued
that natural resource exports drive urbanization without structural trans-
formation because natural resources generate considerable surplus which is
spent on urban goods and services, and urban employment tends to be in
non-traded services. McMillan and Rodrik (2011) also find that an under-
valued (competitive) exchange rate, which operates effectively as a subsidy on
industry and labor market characteristics (so labor can move across sectors
and firms easily), leads to growth-enhancing structural transformation.
3. There are a set of methodological questions too. Syrquin (2007) briefly
identifies such questions and they include defining what is meant by “sec-
tors” and thus what ST means (inter- or intra-depends on the breadth of
definitions of sectors) and the blurring between “services” and “manufac-
turing” due to technological advances and outsourcing.
4. Targetti (1988) highlights Kaldor’s contribution in cumulative causation
rather than timeless “equilibrium.”
5. Kaldor also took the two-sector model to be applicable to trade between
developing and developed countries through the export of agriculture
products from the former and import of manufactured goods from the
later. He argued that international trade could make developing countries
poorer because liberalization would increase agriculture exports which
are produced at decreasing returns that are not sufficient to compensate
for the loss of manufacturing exports, which is a sector which produces
increasing returns.
6. In contrast, the neoclassical position on growth and employment is based
on Okun’s (1962) law which states that changes in the GDP growth rate
and rate of unemployment have a negative association. This was critiqued
for not accounting for changes that could be due to alterations in labor
force participation (see Basu & Foley, 2013).
7. Thirlwall (1979) added that the rate of economic growth will not exceed the
rate of growth of exports to the income elasticity of demand for imports. In
short, he argued that there is a balance of payments constraint on growth.
References
Basu, D., & Foley, D. K. (2013). Dynamics of output and employment in the
US economy. Cambridge Journal of Economics, 37(5), 1077–1106.
Chenery, H. B. (1960). Patterns of industrial growth. The American Economic
Review, 50(4), 624–654.
Chenery, H. B. (1975). The structuralist approach to development policy. The
American Economic Review, 65(2), 310–316.
2 ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT AND STRUCTURAL TRANSFORMATION 19
Open Access This chapter is licensed under the terms of the Creative Commons
Attribution 4.0 International License (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/
by/4.0/), which permits use, sharing, adaptation, distribution and reproduction
in any medium or format, as long as you give appropriate credit to the original
author(s) and the source, provide a link to the Creative Commons license and
indicate if changes were made.
The images or other third party material in this chapter are included in the
chapter’s Creative Commons license, unless indicated otherwise in a credit line
to the material. If material is not included in the chapter’s Creative Commons
license and your intended use is not permitted by statutory regulation or exceeds
the permitted use, you will need to obtain permission directly from the copyright
holder.
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
Chapelle. But when the moment finally did come, the liberation of Lille
was to mean the beginning of the end.
In October, 1919, when I came back to Paris from the Little Gray Home,
I returned to a city where there was a feeling of victory in the air. The most
conservative had lost their habitual pessimism. The most resigned, who had
come to accept the war as a fatality that would never end as long as there
were men to fight, began to revise their opinions. The most suspicious, who
wagged their heads over communiqués no matter what the authorities said,
felt that after all we were making "some progress." Each day the list of
liberated communes grew longer. But until some big city was abandoned,
Parisians were afraid of having to pay too big a price to break down the
Boche resistance. After all, they had proved themselves stubborn fighters.
They might elect to make a long "last ditch" combat on lines of which we
did not know the existence. But if they abandoned Lille, that would mean
the intention of falling back to the Meuse. Genuine optimism is as hard to
instil as it is to dispel. In retrospect, many writers are now asserting that
Parisians knew the Boches were beaten after the failure of their last July
offensive from the Vesle to the Marne. But this is not true. Relief over the
failure to reach Paris did not mean certainty of the imminent collapse of
Ludendorf's war machine.
When summertime was over, and darkness came suddenly from one day
to the next, Herbert and I resumed our walks at nightfall. During the war we
had lost our interest in buildings as memorials of the past. Contemporary
history had crowded out ante-bellum associations. The Eiffel Tower was not
a gigantic monstrosity, a relic of the Exposition. It was a wireless-
telegraphy station, the ear, the eye, the voice of Paris. Tramping by the
Champs de Mars, we saw the sentinels in their faded blue coats of the fifth
year and felt sorry for the men up there always listening in the pitiless cold.
Crossing the Pont Alexandre III, we forgot the splendor of the Czars and
thought of Nicholas in the hands of the Bolsheviki. The Grand Palais no
longer recalled brilliant Salons. We thought of the blind in the hospital there
and of the re-education of mutilated poilus. The picture inside was a one-
armed soldier learning to run a typewriter, and a man with both legs
amputated sitting on a low bench, the light of renewed hope in his eyes: for
he had found out that he could still do a man's work in the world by
becoming a cobbler. The newspaper building, whose cellar windows used to
fascinate us, was the place where we waited for the posting of the
communiqué. The Invalides was no longer just Napoleon's tomb. It was the
place where you went to see your friends decorated and where you strolled
about the central court to show your children aeroplanes and cannon
captured from the Germans. And you were saddened by the thought that
when the last veterans of the Crimea and Soixante-Dix and colonial wars
disappeared, there would be thousands of others to take the vacant places.
October is chestnut month. From some mysterious source the venders
drew their supply of charcoal when we could not get it. But we were glad of
their luck. Autumn walks would not be complete without the bag of roasted
chestnuts which I could fish out of Herbert's overcoat pocket.
We were going down the Rue de Rennes one night and stopped to get
our chestnuts from the man at the corner of the Rue Sainte-Placide. Herbert
was fumbling for coppers. A boy thrust a newspaper under his nose.
"The Liberation of Lille!" he cried.
We hailed a taxi and made for the Chatham bar. Everything comes to
him who waits. Uncle Alex's friend was waiting.
CHAPTER XXXIII
ARMISTICE NIGHT
O N the eleventh day of the eleventh month at the eleventh hour, Paris
heard the news. The big guns of Mont Valérian and the forts of Ivry
roared. The anti-aircraft cannon of the Buttes-Chaumont, Issy-les-
Moulineaux, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe and the Place de la
Bastille took up the message. The submarine moored by the Pont de la
Concorde spoke for the navy. And then the church bells began to ring. We
had heard the tocsin sounded by those same bells at four o'clock on the
afternoon of August 1, 1914. France to arms! We had heard those same
cannon during more than four years announcing the arrival of Tauben and
Zeppelins and Gothas over Paris. But Paris kept the faith and never doubted
that this day would come. The armistice was signed. The war was over. The
victory was ours.
In the Rue Campagne-Première artists' studios are in the buildings with
workingmen's lodgings. House painter and canvas painter work side by
side; writer and printer and book-binder, sculptor, cobbler, and mattress
maker live in the same court. Our little community could exist by itself, for
we have within a few hundred feet all that we need, tailor and laundress,
baker and butcher, restaurant and milk woman, the stationer who sells
newspapers and notions, and the hardware shop where artists' materials can
be had. During these years of danger and discouragement and depression
we have exchanged hopes and fears as we have bought and sold and
worked. We have welcomed the permissionniares, we have shared in the
bereavements of almost every family, and we have greeted the birth of each
baby as if it were our own. I was in my studio when the message of victory
arrived. Windows in the large court opened instantly, and then we hurried
down the staircase to pour forth, hand in hand, arm in arm, into the street.
We kissed each other. Flags appeared in every window and on every
vehicle.
The Boulevard du Montparnasse was ablaze with flags and bunting, and
processions were forming. Hands reached out to force me into line. I
managed to break away when I got to the door of my home for the crowd
paused to salute the huge American flag. Herbert, who had reached the
apartment first, was hanging from our balcony. My four children were in
the hall when the elevator stopped. School had been dismissed. They
danced around me. Mimi the five-year-old cried: "No more Gothas, no
more submarines, we can go home to see grandma, and the Americans
finished the war!"
"It is peace, Mimi, peace!" I said.
"What is peace?" asked Mimi bewildered.
I tried to explain. She could not understand. The world since she began
to talk and receive ideas had been air raids and bombardments, and life was
the mighty effort to kill Germans, who were responsible for all that, and
also for the fact that there was not enough butter and milk and sugar. Mimi
knew no more about peace than she did about cake and boxes of candy and
white bread. Questioning my seven year old, I found that his notions of a
world in which men would not fight were as vague as Mimi's. Lloyd was
frankly puzzled. Like Mimi, he believed that the armistice meant no more
Gothas and no more submarines, but he thought surely that we would go on
fighting the Germans. Had not they always been fighting us? And if we
weren't going to fight them any longer, chasing them back to their own
country, what in the world would we do? And how could Uncle Clem and
all the other soldier friends be happy without any work?
The Artist dropped in for lunch. Together we had seen the war suddenly
come upon France. Together we were to see it as suddenly end. "Do you
know," he said, "everyone in the quarter is going to the Grands Boulevards.
Taxis have disappeared. The Métro and Nord-Sud are jammed. We may
have to foot it, like most people, but if we want to see the big celebration,
we must get over to the Rive Droite this afternoon."
The Artist was right. As Lester and Herbert and I went down the
Boulevard Raspail and the Boulevard Saint-Germain, we seemed to be
following the entire population of the Rive Gauche. To cross the bridge was
the work of half an hour. We kept near the coping, and had time to see the
crew of the submarine Montgolfier engaged in more strenuous work than
sailing under the seas. The Montgolfier was brought up to the center of
Paris a fortnight before to stimulate subscriptions to the Victory Loan. The
Parisians had been allowed to subscribe on board. To-day the crew was
busy trying to keep people off without pushing them into the river. The
crowd in the Place de la Concorde overflowed to the Champs-Elysées and
the Tuileries. Boys were climbing over the German tanks. They sat astride
the big cannon trophies and invaded the captured aeroplanes parked on the
terrace of the Tuileries. Only its steep sides saved the obelisk.
For many months the horses of Marly, guarding the entrance to the
Champs-Elysées, had been protected by sand-bags and boxed up. A crowd
was tearing off the boards and punching holes in the bags. Air raids were a
thing of the past, and these hidden treasures were a painful memory which
Paris wanted to efface immediately. A gendarme interfered only to point out
the danger of the long nails in the ends of the boards. He insisted that the
nails should be taken out, and then the boards were given to those who had
torn them off. This kindly interference appealed to the good sense of the
crowd. Men were putting the boards across their shoulders to parade the
poilus triumphantly around the Place. The gendarme was awarded by the
honor of a high seat, too.
The statues of the cities of France formed splendid vantage-points, and
they were crowded with the agile and venturesome. Lille and Strasbourg,
however, were respected. When Lille was delivered last month, the statue
had been covered with flowers and wreaths and flags. As it symbolized all
the invaded regions, new offerings had been coming each day from the
cities and towns that were being freed. In the midst of the joy of the
armistice, this tangible evidence of victory was receiving more offerings
each hour. We could see people moving towards Lille with arms aloft, in
order that flowers should not be crushed in the jam. There was something
sublimely pagan about the offerings to the huge statue. And Strasbourg!
After nearly half a century, this was Strasbourg's day. The first instinct of
the crowd was to tear off the crepe. But the government had taken
precautions. Strasbourg was to be unveiled on the day Marshal Foch and his
army enter the city. So Strasbourg was protected by a cordon of the Garde
Municipale.
On the Rue Royale side of the Hôtel de Coislin, which the American Red
Cross occupied since our entry into the war, the proclamation of the
mobilization was covered by some thoughtful person with glass. It has
remained through these years, defying wind and rain and souvenir-hunters,
a constant reminder in the busy thoroughfare of Paris's last Great Day. This
afternoon a fresh poster had been put beside it. We read:
INHABITANTS OF PARIS
It is the victory, the triumphal victory! On all the fronts the conquered enemy has laid
down his arms. Blood is going to cease flowing.
Let Paris come forth from the proud reserve which has won for her the admiration of
the world.
Let us give free course to our joy, to our enthusiasm, and let us keep back our tears.
To witness to our great soldiers and to their incomparable chiefs our infinite gratitude,
let us display from all our houses the French colors and those of our Allies.
Our dead can sleep in peace. The sublime sacrifice which they have made of their life
for the future of the race and for the safety of France will not be sterile.
For them as for us "the day of glory has arrived."
Vive la République!
Vive la France Immortelle!
THE MUNICIPAL COUNCIL.
Paris had anticipated the advice of the City Fathers. Printers and bill
posters were not quick enough. But the proclamation was read with
enthusiasm. "Ça y est cette fois-ci!" cried a girl who had just come out of
Maxim's.
The cry was taken up immediately by all who were gathered around the
poster, and we heard it passing from mouth to mouth as we worked our way
toward the Madeleine. Nothing could express more appropriately and
concisely the feeling of the Parisians than this short sentence. Cette fois-ci!
This time! There had been other times when rejoicing was not in order.
There had been false hopes, just as there had been false fears. The certitude
of victory cette fois-ci—a certitude coming so miraculously a few months
after incertitude and doubt—was the explanation of the fierce mad joy
expressed in the pandemonium around us.
After a mile on the Grand Boulevards, a mile that reminded us of
football days, the Artist said, "This is great stuff now, and will be greater
stuff tonight. I wonder if we had not better try to get around to other places
before dark just to see, you know." Beyond the Matin office, in a side street
near Marguéry's, we saw a taxi. The chauffeur was shaking a five franc
note, and heaping curses on a man who lost himself in the boulevard crowd.
We ran to the chauffeur and told him we would make it up to him for the
cochon who had not been good to him.
"Double fare, and a good pourboire beside," Herbert insisted. The Artist
opened the door and started to help me in.
"By all the virgins in France, No! A thousand times no!" growled the
chauffeur, trying to keep us out.
"We meant triple fare," said Lester. I disappeared inside the cab.
"Where do Messieurs-Dame want to go?" asked the chauffeur
despairingly.
"Rue Lafayette, Boulevard Haussmann, Etoile, Avenue des Champs-
Elysées, Invalides, and then we'll leave you at the Opéra," I suggested
hopefully.
"What you want is an aeroplane," he remonstrated. But triple fare is
triple fare. With a show of reluctance, he cranked and we rattled off. An
hour later, after we had escaped being taken by assault a dozen times,
resisted attempts to pull us out and put us out, promised to pay for a broken
window and a stolen lamp, and used cigarettes and persuasive French on the
man upon whose goodwill our happiness depended, we found ourselves on
the Avenue de l'Opéra. By this time the chauffeur was resigned, so resigned
that he tried to cross the Place de l'Opéra. We were tied up in a mass of
other rashly-guided vehicles until the taxi's tires flattened out under the
weight of a dozen Australians who had climbed on our roof. We were
cheerful about it, and the chauffeur seemed to gather equanimity with
misfortune. November 11, 1918, comes only once in a lifetime. We
abandoned our taxi and our money, and tried it afoot again.
Fortune was with us. We arrived at the moment when Mademoiselle
Chénal appeared on the balcony of the Opéra and sang the "Marseillaise."
There was the stillness of death during the verse. But the prima donna's
voice was heard only in the first word of the chorus. When the crowd took
up the chorus, Paris lived one of the greatest moments of her history. Over
and over again Mademoiselle Chénal waved her flag, and the chorus was
repeated. Then she withdrew. Another verse would have been an anti-
climax. We were carried along the Boulevard des Italiens as far as
Appenrodt's. As Herbert and Lester were talking about the night, more than
four years ago, when they watched the crowd break the windows of this and
other German or supposedly German places, the arc lights along the middle
of the boulevard flashed on. Paris of peace days reappeared.
In the midst of it all, my maternal instinct set me worrying. What if
Alice, the gouvernante, had taken the children out into the crowd? I had
gone off without thinking of my chicks. We tried to telephone. On the last
day of the war that proved as impossible as on the first. My escorts were
quite willing to return to the Rive Gauche. There was no reason why the
celebration would not be just as interesting on the Boul' Miche. I left
Herbert and Lester on the terrace of the Café Soufflet, and hurried back to
the Boulevard du Montparnasse. When I reappeared half an hour later,
Christine was with me. She had begged so hard to be taken to the Grands
Boulevards. After all, why not? Christine had lived through all the war in
France. It was her right to be in on the rejoicing. And I confess that I
wanted to hear what she would say when she saw the lights. She was so
young when the war started that she had forgotten what lighted streets were.
The two men were delighted with the idea of dining across the river.
Despite its reputation for making the most of a celebration, five long years
of the absence of youth had atrophied the Boul' Miche. It was interesting, of
course, but not what we thought it would be.
We dined at the Grand Café. We went early, fearing that even being in
the good graces of the head waiter might not secure a table. But having a
table was not guarantee of the possibility of ordering a meal worthy of the
occasion. The run on food had been too severe for the past two days. And
the market people of the Halles Centrales, so the waiter said, began their
celebration on Saturday, when the German delegates appeared to demand
the armistice. They would withhold their produce for several days, and get
higher prices. The cellars held out nobly, however, so food could be
dispensed with.
During the first hour, mostly waiting for dishes which did not come,
there was a lull. The effort of the afternoon had been exhausting. Some
groups were just about to leave for the theatre when a young American
officer jumped on his chair, holding a slipper in his hand. Pouring into it
champagne, he proposed the health of Marshal Foch, with the warning that
other toasts would follow. Immediately there was a bending under tables,
and other slippers appeared. The fun was on. Cosmopolitans have seen New
Year's Eve réveillons that were "going some," but the drinking of the health
of Foch, Petain, Haig and Pershing will live in the memory of all who were
in the Grand Café on the night of November 11th. Tables were pushed
together and pyramided. One after the other the highest officer in rank in
each of the Allied armies was dragged from his place and lifted up between
the chandeliers. Over the revolving doors at the entrance a young lieutenant
led the singing of the national anthems, using flag after flag as they were
handed up to him. The affair was decidedly à l'américaine, as a beaming
Frenchman at the next table said. There was no rowdyness, no drunkenness.
It was merrymaking into which everyone entered. The owner of the first
slipper was an American head nurse, and the first Frenchwoman to jump up
on a table had twin sons in the Class of 1919. During years of anguish we
had been subjected to a severe nervous strain and to repressing our feelings.
The French bubbled over and the English, too, and they were willing to
follow the lead of the Americans, because we have a genius for celebrating
audibly and in public.
The Grand Palais
Once more out in the night air, following and watching the night crowd,
and joining in or being drawn into the fun, we were struck by the ubiquity
of American soldiers and their leadership in every stunt which drew the
crowd. We felt, too, the spirit of good camaraderie among the
merrymakers. Not a disagreeable incident did we see. The stars of a
cloudless sky looked down on Paris frolicking. But they saw nothing that
Paris, emerging from her noble dignity of suffering and anxiety, need be
ashamed of. Policemen and M.P.'s were part of the celebration.
Lines of girls and poilus danced along arm in arm. The girls wore kepis,
and the poilus hats and veils. No soldier's hat and buttons and collar
insignia were safe. The price of the theft was a chase and a kiss. Processions
crisscrossed and collided. Mad parades of youngsters not yet called out for
military service bumped into ring-around-a-rosy groups which held captive
American and British and Italian soldiers.
The officers and sergeants in charge of American garages were either
taking the day off or had been disregarded. For in the midst of the throngs
our huge army trucks moved slowly, carrying the full limit of their three
tons, Sammies and midinettes, waving flags and shouting.
The trophies of the Place de la Concorde and the Champs-Elysées and
the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville were raided. Big cannon could not be moved,
and pushing far the tanks was too exhausting to be fun. But the smaller
cannon on wheels and the caissons took the route of the Grands Boulevards.
Minenwerfer and A.D.C. (anti-aircraft cannon) disappeared during the
afternoon. Why should the Government have all the trophies? The
aspirations of souvenir-hunters were not always limited to the possible. We
saw a group of poilus pulling a 155-cm. cannon on the Rue du Faubourg-
Saint-Honoré, some distance from the Rue Royale. They were actually
making off with it! A policeman watched them with an indulgent smile.
"It's too big," he said. "They'll get tired before the night is over, and they
couldn't hide it anyway. It is good for them to work off their alcohol. To-
morrow the authorities will pick up that cannon somewhere."
The clocks on the Boulevard "islands" were stopped at eight o'clock.
This was not a night to think what time it was, and whether the Métro had
ceased running. Every lamp-post had its cheer-leader or orator.
Confetti and streamers of uncelebrated Mardi Gras and Mi-Carêmes had
their use this night, when four years of postponed festivals were made up
for in few wild and joyous hours. What had begun as a patriotic
demonstration was ending in a carnival. The "Marseillaise" gave place to
"Madelon," favorite doggerel of barracks and streets.
The most dignified had to unbend. A British staff officer, captured by a
bunch of girls, was made to march before them as they held his Burberry
rain-coat like maids of honor carrying a bride's train. He was a good sport,
and reconciled himself to leading a dancing procession, beating time with
his bamboo cane. All the Tommies spied en route were pressed into line. A
French General, who had unwisely come out in uniform, was mobbed by
the crowd. The girls kissed him, and older people asked to shake his hand.
He submitted to their grateful joy with warm-hearted and gracious dignity.
But when a band of poilus came along, brandishing wicker chairs stolen
from a café and asked him to lead them in a charge, that was too much even
for November Eleventh. The General retired to the safety of a darkened
doorway.
There were no bands. It was the people's night, not the army's night, and
tin cans, horns, flags, flowers, voices and kisses were enough for the
people's celebration. You could not have enjoyed it yourself if you had not
the spirit of a child. Children need no elaborate toys to express themselves,
and they don't like to have their games managed for them, or to have the
amusement provided when they are "just playing."
Some Americans rigged up a skeleton with a German cap. They followed
it singing "Onward, Christian Soldiers." The song was as novel as the
skeleton. Where all the Americans came from only Heaven and the Provost-
Marshal knew, and there is a strong probability that the latter had no official
knowledge of the presence of most of them in Paris! Our soldiers were
disconsolate over the fact that they could not buy all the flags they wanted.
The shops were completely sold out, and the hawkers were reduced to
offering cocardes. We heard one boy say: "If I can't get a flag soon, I'll
climb one of them buildin's."
"Gee! better not," advised his comrade; "they'd shoot you!"
"Naw! Shootin' 's finished."
The shooting was finished. That is what the signing of the armistice
meant to Paris. And, as it meant the same to the whole world, every city in
the Allied countries must have had its November Eleventh.
CHAPTER XXXIV
ROYAL VISITORS
O NE night the future King of Siam came to dine with us. I took him into
the nursery to see the children. Mimi sat bolt upright in her crib. She
eyed the young stranger and frowned.
"Hello, king," she said, "where's your crown?"
I confessed to a similar feeling when from the balcony of a friend's home
in the Avenue du Bois de Bologne I saw the King of England riding into
Paris for the first of the welcomes we were giving Allied sovereigns. It was
natural that Great Britain should come ahead of other nations. England had
been the comrade-in-arms from the first days and aided powerfully in
preventing the Germans from reaching Paris in the fierce onslaught of 1914.
But it is a pity that the King was not accompanied by Marshal French or Sir
Douglas Haig. Parisians are peculiarly sensitive to personality. George V
has none. There was nothing in the rôle he had played during the war to
make the crowd feel that he personified the valiant armies of the greatest
and most faithful ally. If only Beatty or Jellicoe had ridden with him
through the Avenue du Bois and down the Champs-Elysées. The war had
not deepened the enthusiasm of the French for a monarch simply because
he was a monarch. A crown and a royal robe might have helped George
with the Paris crowd. I am not sure even then. As my concierge put it when
I told her that I was going to cheer the royal visitor,
"Voyons, what has that king done in the war besides falling off his
horse?"
And then the weather was against our British guest. I do not care what
the occasion is, rain and enthusiasm do not go together in a Paris crowd.
The King of the Belgians had good weather and received cheers that
came from the heart. We thought of him not as a royal personage but as the
man who had saved Paris at the beginning of the war because he put honor
and his country ahead of personal interest and blood. The French saw in
him also a soldier who had lived the life of the camp sharing the hardships
and dangers of his little army in the corner of Belgium the Germans were
never able to conquer. From the first day of the war to the signing of the
armistice, Albert I did not doff his uniform. He never asked of his soldiers
what he himself was not ready to do. And he came to Paris with his queen,
who had been idolized by the French. No woman in the world was so
popular in France as Elizabeth despite her German origin.
The protocol for the royal visits was as elaborate as the ceremony proved
to be simple. The guests were received by President and Madame Poincaré
at the little Ceinture station at the Porte Dauphine. Headed and followed by
a single row of gardes républicaines on horse, they rode in open carriages
down the Avenue du Bois de Bologne and the Champs-Elysées and across
the Pont de la Concorde to the Palais d'Orsay where they were lodged.
Infantry regiments, lining the route, aided the police in keeping order. There
was no parade and no music. The attention and the acclamation of the
crowd were concentrated on the visitors. As state carriages are swung high,
every one was able to see the king. The Avenue du Bois is ideal for a
procession. The park slopes up on either side, affording a clear view for
hundreds of thousands. And there are innumerable trees for boys.
Those who were unable to get to the Avenue du Bois or the Champs-
Elysées at the time the visitors came had a chance to see them in the streets
afterward. For visits were exchanged between the royal visitors and
President Poincaré, and on the second day of the visit they rode in state
down the Rue de Rivoli to receive the freedom of Paris at the Hôtel de
Ville. The return from the Hôtel de Ville was made by the Grands
Boulevards and the Rue Royale. Then on the first evening was the state
dinner at the Elysée and on the second evening the gala performance at the
Opéra. If any one in Paris did not see the sovereigns, it was not because of
lack of opportunity.
The evening before we were to receive President Wilson, Rosalie burst
into my room in great excitement.
"Hush, hush!" I whispered. "I have just put the baby to bed."
But my pretty little cook did not hear me. She hurried to the window and
bounced out on the balcony. I followed.
"What is the matter?" I asked.
"Madame has only to listen: every church bell in Paris is ringing. What
is it, Madame? In my Brittany village the bells rang that way only when
they posted the mobilization order at the mairie. Is it the tocsin? Is the war
going to begin again?"
"Of course not," I answered. "It's a whole month since the armistice.
Cheer up, Rosalie, perhaps the Kaiser is dead."
The older children and Elisa and Alice were now with us. The bells
continued ringing, and we heard cannon, one boom after another. It was the
salute that had been given for the royal visitors by the guns of Mont
Valérian. Now we realized that the special train from Brest had arrived.
"It is the Président-Vilsonne!" said Alice in the reverent tone, that she
had been taught to use in speaking of "l'Eternel." If you have heard a French
Protestant reciting a psalm, and pronouncing the beautiful French word for
Jehovah, you will understand what I mean.
My young governess struck the note of the Wilsonian greeting. All that
has happened since that memorable December day has dispelled little by
little the legend of the Wilson who was to deliver the world from the
bondage of war. The French quickly discovered that their idol had feet of
clay. Whether they expected too much from what President Wilson had said
in his speeches or whether his failure to make good his promises was due to
circumstances beyond his power to control is not for us to judge. We do not
know the facts and we have no perspective. But at the moment we did not
foresee the disappointment in store for us. A merciful providence, veiling
the future, allows us the joy of entertaining hopes without realizing that
they are illusions. Legends are beautiful and touching. But they are most
precious when you think they are true, and nothing can rob one of the
memory of moments on the mountain top.
Fearing that the Métro to the Place de l'Etoile would be crowded, we got
up very early that Saturday morning. The day of President Wilson's coming
—whatever day the great event would happen—had been declared
beforehand a holiday. So we could take the children with us. We were none
too soon. All Paris of our quarter was going in the same direction. Without a
grown person for each child, the Métro would have been difficult. When we
came up at Kléber station the aspect of the streets around the Etoile assured
us that the Wilson welcome would break all records. We passed through
side streets to the Avenue du Bois—by the corner of the Etoile it was
already impossible, and thanked our stars that the friends who invited us to
see the royal visits from their apartment lived on the near side of the street.
To cross the Avenue du Bois would have been a problem.
Lloyd struck against going up to the wonderful vantage point on a fourth
floor. The good things Aunt Eleanor and Aunt Caroline would certainly
have for him to eat meant nothing when he saw boys in trees. Having no
good reason to deny him, his father yielded. My son climbed a tree near the
side-walk with Herbert standing guardian below while the rest of us were
high above.
I shall not attempt to describe the welcome given to President Wilson.
After the carriages passed and the crowd broke, the children went home.
Herbert and I followed the current of enthusiastic, delirious Parisians down
the Champs-Elysées, up the Rue Royale and the Avenue Malesherbes.
Wilson beamed and responded to the greeting of Paris. He did not grasp
what that greeting meant. Clemenceau, Parisian himself, knew that the
power to change the world was in the hands of the man riding ahead of him.
But this is retrospect! I did not realize then that one of the greatest tragedies
of history was being enacted under my eyes. Perhaps I am wrong in
thinking so now. Who knows?
More significant in its potentiality than the initial greeting to President
Wilson was the acclamation that greeted him when he went to the Hôtel de
Ville. Belleville turned out. From the heart of the common people came the
cry, "Vive la paix Wilsonienne!" It was taken up and re-echoed with frenzy
when the guest of Paris appeared on the balcony of the Hôtel de Ville.
The coming of the King of Italy was an anti-climax. Paris, of course,
responded with her customary politeness to the duty of welcoming the
sovereign of France's Latin ally. But heart was lacking in the reception to
Victor Emanuel III. The comparative coolness was not intentional. I am
sure of that. It was simply that we were coming down from the mountain
top to earth.
And when the Peace Conference assembled, Paris very quickly realized
that the hope of a new world was an illusion. Our royal visitors came at the
right moment. Paris will give enthusiastic welcome to other rulers in future
days. But not in our generation! A famous saying of Abraham Lincoln's
comes into my mind. There is no need to quote it.
CHAPTER XXXV
"PEACE on earth: good-will towards men!" For five years the motto of
Christmas had seemed a mockery to us. Our city was the goal of the
German armies. They reached it sometimes with their aeroplanes, and
before the end of the war they reached it with their cannon. Scarcely fifty
miles away from us—within hearing distance when the bombardment was
violent—fathers and sons, brothers and sweethearts were fighting through
the weary years in constant danger of death. Each Christmas brought more
vacant places to mourn. Of course we celebrated Christmas all through the
war. There was little heart in it for grown-ups. But we had the children to
think of. The war must not be allowed to rob them of childhood Christmas
memories.
In 1918, we were looking forward to a Christmas that would be
Christmas. All around us the Christmas spirit was accumulating. The war
was over: we had won. Ever since Armistice Night we had been saying to
ourselves—"And now for Christmas!" We might have to wait for a revival
of the second part of the Christ Child's message. But at least the first part
was once more a reality.
Three days before Christmas I sent a telegram. I took my brother's
enigmatic military address and put two words in front of it, Commanding
Officer. I begged the gentleman to have a heart and send me my brother for
Christmas Day. I told him that I had not seen my family for five years, that
four little children born abroad wanted their uncle, and that we would
welcome the C. O., too, if Christmas in Paris tempted him. On the morning
of December 24 brother appeared, and before lunch many others I had
invited "to stay over Christmas" turned up or telephoned that they would be
with us. I had to plan hastily how the studios in the Rue Campagne-
Première could be turned into dormitories for a colonel of infantry, a major
of the General Staff, captains of aviation and engineers and the Spa
Armistice Commission, lieutenants and sergeants and privates of all
branches. Last year few of the invitations to men in the field were accepted.
This year all came—some all the way from the Rhine. Bless my soul, we'd
tuck them in somewhere. And on Christmas Eve we were going to have
open house for the A. E. F., welfare workers, peace delegates and
specialists, and fellow-craftsmen of our own.
As each house guest arrived, I gave him a job. His "But can't I do
anything to help?" was scarcely finished before he was commissioned to
blankets, armycots, candles, nuts, fruits, bon-bons, drinks, or sandwiches.
"Just that one thing. I rely on you for that," I would say. None failed me,
and the evening came with everything arranged as if by magic. I have never
found it hard to entertain, and the more the merrier: but when you have
American men to deal with, it is the easiest thing in the world to have a
party—in Paris or anywhere else.
Of course I went shopping myself. Herbert and I would not miss that day
before Christmas last minute rush for anything. And even if I risk seeming
to talk against the sane and humane "shop early for Christmas" propaganda,
I am going to say that the fun and joy of Christmas shopping is doing it on
the twenty-fourth. Avoid the crowds? I don't want to! I want to get right in
the midst of them. I want to shove my way up to counters. I want to buy
things that catch my eye and that I never thought of buying and wouldn't
buy on any other day in the year than December 24th. I want to spend more
money than I can afford. I want to experience that sweet panicky feeling
that I really haven't enough things and to worry over whether my purchases
can be divided fairly among my quartette. I want to go home after dark,
revelling in the flare of lamps on hawkers' carts lighting up mistletoe, holly
wreaths and Christmas trees, stopping here and there to buy another pound
of candy or box of dates or foolish bauble for the tree. I want to shove
bundle after bundle into the arms of my protesting husband and remind him
that Christmas comes but once a year until he becomes profane. And, once
home, on what other winter evening than December 24th, would you find
pleasure in dumping the whole lot on your bed, adding the jumble of toys
and books already purchased or sent by friends, and calmly making the
children's piles with puckered brow and all other thoughts banished, despite
aching back and legs, impatient husband, cross servants and a dozen dinner
guests waiting in the drawing-room?
Paris is the ideal city for afternoon-before-Christmas shopping. Much of
the Christmas trading is on the streets. It gets dark early enough to enjoy the
effect of the lights for a couple of hours before you have to go home. You
have crowds to your heart's content. And Paris is the department-store city
par excellence. Scrooge would not have needed a ghost in Paris. If you have
no Christmas spirit, go to the Bazar de la Rue de Rennes, the Bon Marché,
the Trois-Quartiers, the Printemps, the Galeries Lafayette, Dufayel, the
Louvre, the Belle Jardinière and the Bazar de l'Hôtel de Ville. Do not miss
any of these, especially the first and the last. At the Bazar de la Rue de
Rennes the Christmas toys are on counters according to price. Woolworth
only tells you what you can get for five or ten cents. The range of prices on
the Rue de Rennes is adjusted to all pocketbooks. At the Hôtel de Ville you
do not have to wait for a saleswoman at the outside rayons. You hold up the
article you want and catch the cashier's eye. He pokes out to you a box on
the end of a pole such as they used to use in churches before we became
honest enough to be trusted with a plate. You put your money in. If there is
change, he thrusts it back immediately.
On the Grands Boulevards and in our own Montparnasse Quarter, the
Christmas crowds were like those of the happy days before we entered into
the valley of the shadow. As we did our rounds, falling back into peace
habits and the old frame of mind, I realized how hollow was our celebration
of the war Christmases, how we pretended and made the effort for our
children's sakes. The nightmare was finished! Really, I suppose, we had less
money than ever to spend and everything was dear. But everybody was
buying in a lavish way that was natural after the repression of years.
Bargaining—a practise in street buying before the war—would have been
bad taste. We paid cheerfully what was asked.
I was hurrying home along the Rue de Rennes with one of my soldier
guests. Herbert and my brother had left us on the Boulevards to get ham and
tongue at Appenrodt's and peanuts and sweet potatoes at Hédiard's. A
vender, recognizing the American uniform, accosted my companion with a
grin, as she held out an armful of mimosa blossoms.
"Fresh from Nice this morning, mon capitaine—only fifty francs for all
this!"
"Come, Keith," I cried, "she wants to rob you!"
The woman understood the intent if not the words. Barring our way, she
reached over to her cart and added another bunch, observing, "It's
Christmas and I give our allies good measure." Keith took it all, saying,
"Don't stop me; I haven't spent any money for months—and Mother always
made such a wonderful Christmas. I've got to spend money—a lot of
money." He patted his pocket. "Two months' pay here that I haven't touched
yet!"
Christine arranged the mimosa in tall brass shell cases from Château-
Thierry. "See my flowers!" she exclaimed. "This is better than war!"
The Consul-General (always a Christmas Eve guest in our home); the
colonel commanding the hospital in the Rue de Chevreuse; a New York
editor and his wife; a confrère of the French press and his wife; a Peace
Delegate; and the head of a New York publishing firm, who looked in to see
if we were really working; sat down with us to dinner, squeezed in with our
A. E. F. guests. When the last flicker of plum-pudding sauce died down, we
set to work for the Christmas Eve preparations. There was no question of
rank or age! Each one fell to the task at hand. Dishes, glasses, bottles,
doilies disappeared into the kitchen. The table was set for the big party,
piles of plates with knives and forks on each corner, sandwiches and rolls, a
cold boiled ham, a tongue écarlate as tongues come in Paris, turkeys
roasted by our baker, olives, salted almonds, army graham crackers, candy,
a tall glass jar of golden honey worth its weight in gold, and the fruit cake
with sprigs of holly that comes across the Atlantic every Christmas from a
dear American friend. People could help themselves. How and when—I
never worry about that. My only care is to have enough for all comers.
We sent out no invitations. The news simply passed by word of mouth
that friends and friends' friends were welcome on Christmas Eve. In a
corner of the drawing-room the engineers of the party made the Christmas
tree stand up. The trimmings were on the floor. Whoever wanted to could
decorate. With the trenches of five years between us and Germany,
Christmas tree trimmings were pitiful if judged by ante-bellum standards. I
wonder what my children are going to think when they see this Christmas a
full-grown tree with the wealth of balls and stars and tinsel Americans have
to use. In Paris we had so few baubles and pieced out with colored string
and cotton and flags and ribbon. But the effect was not bad with the brains
of half a hundred trimmers contributing to work out ideas on a tree that did
not come up to my chin.
We started the victrola—"Minuit, Chrétien," "It Came upon a Midnight
Clear," "Adeste Fideles," and—whisper it softly—"Heilige Nacht." Then
our guests began to come until salons and hall and dining-room overflowed
into bed-rooms. Never again can I hope to have under my roof a party like
that, representing many of the nations that had fought together on the soil of
France, but with homesick Americans, Christmas hungry, predominating.
The first to arrive were patients from the American Hospital in the Rue de
Chevreuse who had been unable to forget the nightmare of war when the
armistice came.
Crutches and the music, the tree and my children, an American home—
the first reaction was not merriment. I felt instinctively that something had
to be done. "Heilige Nacht" brought a hush. Someone turned off the
phonograph. Bill took in the situation. Everyone in America who reads
knows Bill. He backed up into a corner by the bookcase, took off his
glasses, and began to make a speech.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am an unregenerate soul. There is not a
respectable bone in my body. I am going to sing you a little ditty, the
national anthem of California." Here Bill winked his eyes and opened his
mouth wide to sing:
"Hallelujah! I'm a bum!"
I told you I was an unregenerate soul. I see that I'm not alone, there are
others here like myself. I want a volunteer to sing my part with me and
volunteeresses, equally unregenerate, for the pointed question of the I. W.
W.'s wife.
"The gentleman there with the eagles on his shoulders—I have for you a
fellow feeling, you are disreputable like me. Come! And the little girl in the
pink dress that only looks innocent. Come you here. And others of like
character join us as quickly as you can push your way through the admiring
audience."
The surgeon from New York, who is as military as any regular army
man, was a good sport. So was the editor's wife. As he reached both hands
to the recruits, Bill did a simple dance step, the contagious step of the
Virginia Reel when other couples are doing the figures. Soon the chorus
was a line that reached the hall. At this moment there were shouts of
laughter at the front door. A parade of alternating khaki and nurse's blue
invaded the salon. Each had a flag or horn. The chorus and parade joined
forces, with Bill as leader, and soon
was being sung in every room of the apartment at the same time. Crutches
were no deterrent to joining the serpentine march from room to room. The
chorus grew and the dining-room was deserted. Strong arms picked up
babies in nighties and we were all in the parade.
I did not know half of my guests and never will. Some of them are sure
to read this and will remember that night in Paris when C. O.'s and
journalists tired of the grind, nurses weary of watching, wounded and
homesick who had not expected to laugh that Christmas Eve, and soldiers
fresh from chilly camps and remote and dirty villages caught the spirit of
Christmas. When people forget their cares and woes, they always behave
like children. The national anthem of California made my party, where
Christmas carols had proved too tear impelling. After "Hallelujah! I'm a
bum!" wore itself out, nobody needed to be introduced to anybody else and
everything disappeared from the dining-room table.
While the party was still raging, Herbert and I slipped for a moment out
on the balcony. Merrymakers with lighted lanterns passed along the
Boulevard du Montparnasse, singing and shouting. Before us lay Paris, not
the Paris dark and fearful to which we had become accustomed when we
stood there after the warning of the sirens and listened for the tir de barrage
to tell us whether the time had come to take the children downstairs, but
Paris alight and alive, Paris enjoying the reward of having kept faith with
France and with the civilized world.
1919
CHAPTER XXXVI
PLOTTING PEACE
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