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A Hilltop on the Marne Being Letters Written June 3-September 8, 1914 By: Mildred Aldrich (1853-1928) |
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By Mildred Aldrich Being Letters Written
June 3 September 8, 1914
Note To Tenth Impression
The author wishes to apologize for the constant use of the word English
in speaking of the British Expedition to France. At the beginning of
the war this was a colloquial error into which we all fell over here,
even the French press. Everything in khaki was spoken of as "English,"
even though we knew perfectly well that Scotch, Irish, and Welsh were
equally well represented in the ranks, and the colors they followed were
almost universally spoken of as the "English flag." These letters were
written in the days before the attention of the French press was called
to this error of speech, which accounts for the mistake's persisting in
the book. La Creste, Huiry, France, February, 1916.
To My Grandmother
Judith Trask Baker
That Staunch New Englander And
Pioneer Universalist
To The Memory Of Whose Courage
And Example I Owe A Debt
Of Eternal Gratitude
A HILLTOP ON THE MARNE June 3, 1914 Well, the deed is done. I have not wanted to talk with you much about
it until I was here. I know all your objections. You remember that you
did not spare me when, a year ago, I told you that this was my plan. I
realize that you more active, younger, more interested in life, less
burdened with your past feel that it is cowardly on my part to seek a
quiet refuge and settle myself into it, to turn my face peacefully to
the exit, feeling that the end is the most interesting event ahead of
me the one truly interesting experience left to me in this incarnation. I am not proposing to ask you to see it from my point of view. You
cannot, no matter how willing you are to try. No two people ever see
life from the same angle. There is a law which decrees that two objects
may not occupy the same place at the same time result: two people
cannot see things from the same point of view, and the slightest
difference in angle changes the thing seen. I did not decide to come away into a little corner in the country, in
this land in which I was not born, without looking at the move from all
angles. Be sure that I know what I am doing, and I have found the place
where I can do it. Some time you will see the new home, I hope, and
then you will understand. I have lived more than sixty years. I have
lived a fairly active life, and it has been, with all its hardships and
they have been many interesting. But I have had enough of the
city even of Paris, the most beautiful city in the world. Nothing can
take any of that away from me. It is treasured up in my memory. I am
even prepared to own that there was a sort of arrogance in my
persistence in choosing for so many years the most seductive city in the
world, and saying, "Let others live where they will here I propose to
stay." I lived there until I seemed to take it for my own to know it on
the surface and under it, and over it, and around it; until I had a sort
of morbid jealousy when I found any one who knew it half as well as I
did, or presumed to love it half as much, and dared to say so. You will
please note that I have not gone far from it. But I have come to feel the need of calm and quiet perfect peace. I
know again that there is a sort of arrogance in expecting it, but I am
going to make a bold bid for it. I will agree, if you like, that it is
cowardly to say that my work is done. I will even agree that we both
know plenty of women who have cheerfully gone on struggling to a far
greater age, and I do think it downright pretty of you to find me
younger than my years. Yet you must forgive me if I say that none of us
know one another, and, likewise, that appearances are often deceptive. What you are pleased to call my "pride" has helped me a little. No one
can decide for another the proper moment for striking one's colors. I am sure that you or for that matter any other American never heard
of Huiry. Yet it is a little hamlet less than thirty miles from Paris... Continue reading book >>
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