PIERRE LOTI AT THE FRONT.

Mount Ida Chronicle, Volume XLV, Issue XLV, 16 April 1915, Page 1

PIERRE LOTI AT THE FRONT.

I Few French writers of the present day have a more sympathetic body of admirers in England than that distinguished naval I officer and brilliant Academician who hides his personality under the familiar pen-name of Pierre Loti. The 'Book of Pity and of Death,'• 'Madame Chrysanthemum,' 'The Disenchanted Maidens,' 'Tihe loeland Fisherman,' and a long series of other popular works, by theii" exquisite style, tlieir vivid imagination their undercurrent of gentle pessimism (" the still, sad music of humanity "), have endeared him to many thousands of our fellow-countrymen, and made his nom de guerre a household word. Like so many more eminent literary Frenchmen, he has been fascinated by the war, and in a letter to a French newspaper he gives a charming account of a recent visit (the date is 6imply set down as " October, 1914") to the French and British troops, where he appears to have been especially captivated (as all Frenchmen and Frenchwomen have been these last two months) with the manly attributes of "Les Ecossais," in this case probably either Gordon Highlanders or Argyll and 1 Sutherland Highlanders. —The Groat Magiciau.— It was about 11 o'clock in the forenoon, he says, when I arrived at a village in the north-east of France. I am not allowed to recall its name. I was accompanied by an English commandant, whom the chances of war had given me as a companion since the previous evening, and! we were very politely accompanied by a_ great magician—namely, the sun. A radiant sun, a. glorious sun, transforming and embellishing everything. All this took place in a Department of the extreme North 'of France (1 am not quite sure which), but so beautiful was it that one could have fancied oneself in Provence. In order to get there we had been for two hours hemmed in between two files of soldiers marching in opposite directions. On our right were British regiments proceeding to the front, smart and fresh, with a wellcontent and confident air about them, splendidly equipped, with handsome, sleek horses. On our left were French artillerymen on their way back from the gigantic battle in order to get a little repose. They were dusty and unkempt, with heTe and there bandages on their arms or round their heads, but all in excellent spirits and marching in good order by sections. —The Thunder of the Guns.— In the distance you could hear what sounded like a distant thunder storm, at first dull and indistinct, but getting nearer and

clearer. In the fields round about the farm hands were going on with their ordinary work, as if nothing unusual were happening, but not. quite sure ail "the same whether the savages who were making such a racket towards the horizon would not be coming back some day to harry them. Scattered about here and there in all directions round about little fires made of twigs were pathetic groups, which would have been lamentable under a gloomy sky, but which the lovely late autumn sun of that day was able to infuse with a little gaiety. There were refugees, " emigres," fleeing in terror before the German Huns, doing their precarious cooking in gipsy fashion, in the midst of shabby and untidy bundles of humble belongings, which they had flung together anyhow in haste when the terrible cry " Les Boches!" sounded in their ears. Our motor car was filled with packets of cigarettes and newspapers which some kindhearted souls had asked us to convey to the men in the firing line, and so closely were we shut in between the two marching lines that we could distribute them only through the windows—to the English 0 n the right and the French on the left. They stretched out their hands to snatch them hurriedly, smiling, and thanking us by a rapid military salute. There were also villagers who were travelling mixed up with the soldiers along that high road so painfully overcrowded. I recall a young and very petty country girl who, between two English transport waggons, was pulling by a,string two babies asleep in a little home-made cart. It was as much as she could do to lceep up. There ■was a steep incline at the place. —The Handsome Scottish Sergeant.— A handsome Scottish sergeant, with golden yellow moustache, was smoking a cigarette, u;„ i„„„ t i_:—j J.l_- ±. ° '

his legs dangling behind the nearest waggon. He made a gesture as much as to say " Pass me the end of your rope." The girl understood, and accepted the offer with a polite but, modest smile. The gallant Scot wound' this frail tow rope round his left arm, keeping his right arm free to go on with his smoking, and it was he who thus guided to safety the two babies of France, whose little cart was dragged behind the heavy transport car like a feather. When we entered the village the sun shone out with more and more splendor. Therewas to be seen there a mixture of nationalities such as has never been seen before, and probably will never be seen again after tihs war, which is destined to be unique in history. There were all sorts of uniforms and all sorts of arms—kilted Scots, French cuirassiers, Turcos, Zouaves, as well as Bedouins, who by way of military salute lifted their bernouse with a noble gesture. The open square in front of the ohurch was crammed full with enormous English motor buses, which had not so long ago plied in the London streets, and, indeed, still bore in huge letters the names of different- districts of the English metropolis. I may be accused of exaggeration, but really and truly these busei wore an air of blank amazement at finding themselves trundling along over French soil filled as full as they could hold with soldiers. All of this confused and heterogeneous mob were getting ready for tlieir midday dinner. And ever'you heard the grand symphony raised by these Huns (who would arrive perhaps that very day, who could tell?), the incessant cannonade, but nobody seemed to pay any heed to it. Besides, where was the use of worrying with so beautiful a sun, so astonishingly beautiful for October, with roses still upon the walls, and dahlias of all colors in the gardens, as yet hardly touched by the early frost. Each man got himself placed as best lie oould for_ the meal. You would have said it was a picnic or a fete — a fete no doubt a little incoherent, which had been improvised around some Tower of Bubel. Young girls passed around the groups, while little fair-haired children offered presents of fruit they had gathered from their orchard.

—Scots in Shirt. Sleeves.— Some of the Scots, fancying t'hey were in a climate warm" in comparison with their own, were in shirt sleeves. Priests and nuns belonging to the Bed Cross saw that the wounded had chairs to sit upon. One good-hearted old soul of a Sister, with a tace like parchment, but frank, kindly eyes under her nun's hood, was placing in an easy chair, with a thousand precautions, a Zouave with both arms wrapped in bandages, whom she was no doubt going to feed like a baby. We were very hungry ourselves, my English friend and I, and we caught sight of an inn, inviting m appearance, where already a num- • ber of officers and ordinary soldiers were seated at table. (There are no longer any hierarchical barriers in these days of awful • stress through which we are passing.) I "I can give you roast beef and stewed . rabbit," said mine host; " but as for bread , there's no such thing to be had for love nor ; money." 1 "An!" said my comrade, the English com--1 mandant, "and what about these two fine loaves yonder, against the door?" " Oh, these belong to a general, who sent them because he's coming here to lunch along with his aide-de-camp."

Scarcely had 'he turned his back when my companion, pulling a huge knife from his pocket, sliced off the end of one of the loaves and hid it under his cloak. "We have got some bread," he said calmly to the innkeeper, "so kindly let us have some of your roast beef." And by the side of an Arab officer " of the Grand Tent," in a red bernouse, we proceeded gaily with our lunch—we and our guests", the soldiers belonging to our oar. The sun shone gloriously high rip in the heavens, lighting up that motley crowd and these _ strange-looking buses as we stepped out of the inn door to proceed on our way. A convoy of German prisoners passed through the square. They wore a dogged, listless air as they tramped along between their Frenoh guards, who marched a thousand times better, and the people scarcely looked at them. ( —The Good Sister's Funny Storf.— The old nun I spoke about was making her Zouave smoke a cigarette. For the moment the poor man could make no "use of his arms, and the dear old Sister presented it to him with a hand that shriok a little, and with true motherly, or rather grandmotherly, solicitude. She appeared at the same time to be telling him something funny—some of those innocently amusing things of which the good Sisters have the secret—for both of them were laughing. An old cure who stood near them smoking his pipe—smoking it without any elegance I am bound to confess—laughed too at seeing them laugh. Aiid at the moment when we were stepping again into our car to continue our route towards the region of horror, where the cannon thundered ominously, a little girl of 12 or so ran and fetched from her garden a bunch of autumn asters to put in our buttonholes. What noble and genuine folk there still are in the world! And how truly fine and altogether wonderful is the way in which the aggressions of these German Huns have developed those gentle but powerful ties for brotherhood between all those who can really be said properly to belong to the human species.