One of Ours, Willa Cather [feel good fiction books txt] 📗

“No. Read it all.”

He cleared his throat and began again: “ ‘At its first appearance in history, there was nothing to foreshadow the important part which Paris was to play in Europe and in the world,’ ” etc.

Mrs. Wheeler rocked and fanned, forgetting the kitchen and the cucumbers as if they had never been. Her tired body was resting, and her mind, which was never tired, was occupied with the account of early religious foundations under the Merovingian kings. Her eyes were always agreeably employed when they rested upon the sunburned neck and catapult shoulders of her redheaded son.

Claude read faster and faster until he stopped with a gasp.

“Mother, there are pages of kings! We’ll read that some other time. I want to find out what it’s like now, and whether it’s going to have any more history.” He ran his finger up and down the columns. “Here, this looks like business. ‘Defences: Paris, in a recent German account of the greatest fortresses of the world, possesses three distinct rings of defences’ ”⁠—here he broke off. “Now what do you think of that? A German account, and this is an English book! The world simply made a mistake about the Germans all along. It’s as if we invited a neighbour over here and showed him our cattle and barns, and all the time he was planning how he would come at night and club us in our beds.”

Mrs. Wheeler passed her hand over her brow. “Yet we have had so many German neighbours, and never one that wasn’t kind and helpful.”

“I know it. Everything Mrs. Erlich ever told me about Germany made me want to go there. And the people that sing all those beautiful songs about women and children went into Belgian villages and⁠—”

“Don’t, Claude!” his mother put out her hands as if to push his words back. “Read about the defences of Paris; that’s what we must think about now. I can’t but believe there is one fort the Germans didn’t put down in their book, and that it will stand. We know Paris is a wicked city, but there must be many God-fearing people there, and God has preserved it all these years. You saw in the paper how the churches are full all day of women praying.” She leaned forward and smiled at him indulgently. “And you believe those prayers will accomplish nothing, son?”

Claude squirmed, as he always did when his mother touched upon certain subjects. “Well, you see, I can’t forget that the Germans are praying, too. And I guess they are just naturally more pious than the French.” Taking up the book he began once more: “ ‘In the low ground again, at the narrowest part of the great loop of the Marne,’ ” etc.

Claude and his mother had grown familiar with the name of that river, and with the idea of its strategic importance, before it began to stand out in black headlines a few days later.

The fall ploughing had begun as usual. Mr. Wheeler had decided to put in six hundred acres of wheat again. Whatever happened on the other side of the world, they would need bread. He took a third team himself and went into the field every morning to help Dan and Claude. The neighbours said that nobody but the Kaiser had ever been able to get Nat Wheeler down to regular work.

Since the men were all afield, Mrs. Wheeler now went every morning to the mailbox at the crossroads, a quarter of a mile away, to get yesterday’s Omaha and Kansas City papers which the carrier left. In her eagerness she opened and began to read them as she turned homeward, and her feet, never too sure, took a wandering way among sunflowers and buffaloburrs. One morning, indeed, she sat down on a red grass bank beside the road and read all the war news through before she stirred, while the grasshoppers played leapfrog over her skirts, and the gophers came out of their holes and blinked at her. That noon, when she saw Claude leading his team to the water tank, she hurried down to him without stopping to find her bonnet, and reached the windmill breathless.

“The French have stopped falling back, Claude. They are standing at the Marne. There is a great battle going on. The papers say it may decide the war. It is so near Paris that some of the army went out in taxicabs.” Claude drew himself up. “Well, it will decide about Paris, anyway, won’t it? How many divisions?”

“I can’t make out. The accounts are so confusing. But only a few of the English are there, and the French are terribly outnumbered. Your father got in before you, and he has the papers upstairs.”

“They are twenty-four hours old. I’ll go to Vicount tonight after I’m done work, and get the Hastings paper.”

In the evening, when he came back from town, he found his father and mother waiting up for him. He stopped a moment in the sitting-room. “There is not much news, except that the battle is on, and practically the whole French army is engaged. The Germans outnumber them five to three in men, and nobody knows how much in artillery. General Joffre says the French will fall back no farther.” He did not sit down, but went straight upstairs to his room.

Mrs. Wheeler put out the lamp, undressed, and lay down, but not to sleep. Long afterward, Claude heard her gently closing a window, and he smiled to himself in the dark. His mother, he knew, had always thought of Paris as the wickedest of cities, the capital of a frivolous, wine-drinking, Catholic people, who were responsible for the massacre of St. Bartholomew and for the grinning atheist, Voltaire. For the last two weeks, ever since the French began to fall back in Lorraine, he had noticed with amusement her growing solicitude for Paris.

It was curious, he reflected, lying wide awake in the dark: four days ago the seat of government had been moved to Bordeaux⁠—with