class="line">Miss Elsa Maxwell

Executive Secretary:

Mrs. Holmes Beckwith

Executive Chairman:

Mr. John Moffat

Treasurer:

Messrs. John Munroe & Co.

30 Pine Street

Committee:

Mrs. Frederick H. Allen

Mrs. Nicholas Murray Butler

Mrs. Francis Carolan

Mrs. Henry Clews

Mrs. Wm. Astor Chanler

Mrs. Cornelius C. Cuyler

Mrs. John R. Drexel

Mrs. Charles Dana Gibson

Mrs. Benjamin Guinness

Mrs. Bell Gurnee

Mrs. Cooper Hewett

Mrs. Arthur Islin

Mrs. William Jay

Mrs. Lawrence Keene

Mrs. Otto Kahn

Mrs. Philip Lydig

Mrs. Walter Maynard

Mrs. James Lowell Putnam

Mrs. George Christopher Riggs (Kate Douglas Wiggin)

Miss Lota Robinson

Mrs. Lawrence Townsend

Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer

Advisory Committee:

Mr. Frederick H. Allen

Hon. James M. Beck

Mr. Nicholas Murray Butler, Pres., University of Columbia

Hon. Joseph H. Choate

Mr. Owen Johnson

The Marquis de Polignac

Mr. George Haven Putnam

The Due de Richelieu

Mr. Frederick A. Stokes

PARIS, August 8, 1916.

rance to-day is sharply divided into two sections; within the greater you can come and go almost as freely as before the war. All that is necessary is a sauf conduit easily obtained from your commissaire de police, which you are never called upon to exhibit. But the other, the Zone des Armées, in common parlance the war or military zone! There is only one thing in France more difficult of contact, and that is a member of the middle or lower bourgeoisie.

     For nearly three months now I have felt like an inverted snob trying to ingratiate myself with, or even to meet members, of that curious caste which exists only in France; a caste reserved, proud, suspicious, intensive, detesting foreigners only less than it does the aristocracy, and averse from variety of any sort. If you bring even one letter to society, either in France or any European capital, all doors are open to you, for society is accustomed to strangers and variety, and is often bored with itself; which the bourgeoisie, of France at least, never seems to be. So, if in the course of these and other letters, I allude, however casually, to princesses and duchesses, spare me the ready democratic sneer; but if, with affected indifference, I mention now and again a name without territorial significance, then, if you like, exchange derisive glances and exclaim: “Aha! So she has ‘got there’ and would have us believe she takes it as a matter of course.” However—to return to the war zone.

     I made no attempt to enter this proscribed region for six or seven weeks after my arrival, having the thousand and one phases of woman’s work in the war to examine. But when these researches drew to a close I began to plot to get to the front—no other word is applicable unless a woman happens to be a Red Cross nurse. At first I applied to a number of eminent Americans on more or less intimate terms with the powers. I quickly found that, amiable and interested as they were, their own powers had a limit. It was comparatively easy in the beginning of the war to go to the front, but the barrier grows deeper every day.

     One referred me to a Frenchman of great influence who has a special liking for Americans. He told me in the friendliest manner that when I obtained permission to go to the front he would provide me with the necessary letters, but that as I was an American I must obtain that permission through my embassy. This I did not even consider. I have spent a good part of my life in Europe, and long since came to the conclusion that all American embassies feel they are created for is to look solemn and important and give receptions. They never by any chance do anything for other Americans except in times of extreme danger, and then they behave very well.

     I tried one or two members of the haute bourgeoisie without avail, and then took my troubles to a duchess. There I was more fortunate. The young Duchess d’Uzès has turned her castle near Amiens into a hospital, the sixth or seventh she has established since the beginning of the war, and is therefore on friendly terms with the Service de Santé (the Military Hospital Service Board). She asked one of its principal Secretaries to meet me at breakfast, and I was able to disabuse his mind of any suspicion he might have that I merely wanted to “do” the front, assuring him that it was my solemn duty to visit the base hospitals in behalf of a new oeuvre just formed (Le Bienêtre du Blessé), founded by Countess d’Haussonville, President of the first division of the Croix Rouge, to supply convalescents in the military hospitals at the front with delicacies they would be able, in their weakened condition, to retain.

     I told him that, as I had agreed to do the publicity work for this oeuvre, I felt I should see things at first hand, if only to be able to make my articles of appeal interesting. He agreed that this was a most reasonable argument, asked for my permis de séjour and my immatriculation, and promised that I should have my carnet rouge the following week and go with the duchess to Amiens.

     I waited nearly a month. I received consolatory promises and nothing more. Meanwhile I could not go outside of Paris, as without my permis de séjour I was unable to obtain a sauf conduit. (If you lose your permis de séjour you cannot leave Paris until the end of the war.)

     Finally one of the Vice-Presidents of Le Bienêtre du Blessé (the well-being of the wounded) sent in a petition, and I received a note from the Ministry of War asking for two photographs similar to that of my passport, and inclosing a paper to sign. Two days later I was summoned to the office of the Service de Santé. I had engagements, but I broke them ruthlessly. We all do when the War Office summons. Royalty itself would not be considered.

     The Vice-President of Le Bienêtre du Blessé who had asked them to hurry, went with me, and after we had wandered all over an immense building in the Boulevard St. Germain we finally found ourselves in a reception room on the top floor. It was filled with patient people, but we sent in our names and were not kept waiting. There two charming gentlemen (and no people in the world are as kind and charming as high officials in France when they are gentlemen) told me I could go to Rouen and Meaux.

     This was a joke. It was like the labors of the mountain to bring forth a mouse. Rouen is entirely given over to the British, and much as I admire the British