LIBfxARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 SAN DIEGO 
 V ^
 
 
 l^M/i^ 
 
 -r^ 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 4"
 
 presented to the 
 UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 SAN DIEGO 
 
 by 
 
 Mrs. Jane Adams
 
 yohn <iAyscough^s Jitters 
 to his z^l^other
 
 JOHN AYS COUGH S MOTHER
 
 John ^yscough's Jitters 
 to his <LMother 
 
 DURING 191 4, I9I5, AND I916 
 
 EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK BICKERSTAFFE-DREW 
 
 lyj)ji 
 
 lie* . '\> 
 
 W 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 P. J. KENEDY & SONS 
 
 1920
 
 COPYRIGHT, I9I9 
 BY r. J. KENEDY & SONS
 
 To 
 
 Jean^ J^dy Hamilton 
 
 THIS BOOK 
 IS DEDICATED BY HER KIND PERMISSION
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 IT has seemed to me possible that there might be a 
 welcome for this volume of letters from my cousin to 
 his mother: partly because of the peculiar sense of 
 personal friendship for John Ayscough continually testi- 
 fied by his readers, by readers who have never met him, 
 and (living far from England) probably never will meet 
 him; and partly because all who are his readers must 
 know by how rare a bond of love and devotion he and his 
 mother were united. 
 
 The letters contained in this volume were the last he 
 ever did write to her, and they were written during his 
 absence on Active Service in France and Flanders: two 
 circumstances which I have thought might give them a 
 special interest. For five and twenty years Ayscough's 
 mother had been in every sense dependent upon her son: 
 ...r many years she had hardly suflFered him to leave her, 
 even on the briefest absence: she was eighty-five years 
 old and in most precarious health. His departure for 
 the front was a blow from which she never recovered: 
 the blow which did in fact bring her long life to its end. 
 Knowing well how this almost must be, it was her son's 
 one preoccupation to bridge that absence as much as was 
 simply possible by unfailing frequency of letters, and 
 further, by seldom in those letters allowing her to picture 
 him as in danger or discomfort. He wanted, if he could, 
 to make her imagine him as enjoying a complete change, 
 full of interest, and having no drawback but the separa- 
 tion from herself that it involved. 
 
 To say this is necessary, or the letters can hardly be 
 understood: they are all bright and cheerful, and succeed
 
 viii Introduction 
 
 in giving an account of some of the hardships without 
 making them depressing. 
 
 John Ayscough's mother was EHzabeth Mona 
 Brougham, daughter of the Rev. Pierce WilHam Drew, 
 for twenty-five years Rector of Youghal, of Heathfield 
 Towers, Co. Cork. She was born on October 3, 1829, 
 and was one of seventeen children (of whom, however, 
 many died young), and was baptized at the parish church 
 of Shandon, the bells of which formed the subject of 
 Father Prout's most famous lyric. 
 
 At six years of age, in consequence of a difference of 
 opinion with her governess, she informed that lady that 
 her eyes (which the owner of them esteemed fine) "were 
 like two burnt holes in a blanket." The culprit, haled 
 before her mother, was informed that her conduct rendered 
 her unfit for education at home, and told to prepare for 
 immediate withdrawal to the establishment of a Christian 
 lady at Cork. To the Christian lady, a Mrs. Bailey, the 
 small Mona was accordingly dispatched per coach; and 
 she proved a very sensible person, in whose charge the child 
 was not unhappy. Being so much younger than any 
 other pupil, she got much petting, far more at school 
 than had ever been her lot at home. From Mrs. Bailey's, 
 Mona Drew was later on moved to the "finishing establish- 
 ment" of a Miss Oakley, for whom all of her pupils seem 
 to have entertained a kind of worship. Once finished, 
 Mona returned home and "came out" under the tutelage 
 of her only elder sister Matilda. Throughout life, Matilda 
 and Mona were devoted to each other, which speaks well 
 for the younger of the two, on whom their mother was 
 always impressing the superiority of Matilda in beauty, 
 character and accomplishments. 
 
 It was at this time that John Ayscough's mother had 
 her one and only romance. She was extremely popular 
 and pretty, with rich blue eyes, very dark brown hair, 
 almost black, and all her life had the sweetest expression 
 conceivable.
 
 Introduction ix 
 
 For one of her many devoted admirers she felt what was 
 undoubtedly the great love of her life. He appears to 
 have been a charming man of excellent character, ample 
 means, and with every quahfication for making a fit 
 husband; but although a gentleman he was not suffi- 
 ciently aristocratic to satisfy her father's ideas, so was 
 dismissed in such a fashion as to lead him to believe that 
 the young lady herself thought him beneath her. She 
 also was deceived, and allowed to imagine that he had 
 
 no serious intentions. Captain W then exchanged 
 
 into a regiment bound for service in Canada, and swore 
 to his friends that he would never marry unless he heard 
 of the marriage of the girl he loved. It happened that 
 he read of it in a newspaper, while staying in a hotel, 
 and his terrible emotion attracted the attention of a 
 stranger sitting near. Thinking that the officer was 
 taken ill, he offered sympathy and help; they became 
 
 acquainted and Captain W presently explained the 
 
 cause of his trouble: that the one creature he had ever 
 loved, and who he believed had truly loved him, had cut 
 herself off from him for ever by marriage with another 
 man. The other man was Ayscough's father, the inti- 
 mate friend and fellow collegian of the clergyman whom 
 Mona's elder sister had married. 
 
 It was in 185 1 that she married the Rev. Henry Lloyd 
 Bickerstaffe, third son of the Rev. Roger Bickerstaffe, 
 Rector of Boylestone, Co. Derby. Those who have read 
 John Ayscough's Fernando will recollect that the 
 marriage was not much approved by the parents on either 
 side, nor was it fortunate; perhaps husband and wife 
 were unsuited: at all events it ultimately came to a 
 complete separation shortly after Ayscough's birth, on 
 February 11, 1858. 
 
 Readers of Gracechurch and Fernando will remember 
 John Ayscough's first recollections of North Wales, his 
 mother having moved to Llangollen about a year after 
 his birth. Mrs. Bickerstaffe, besides having the care
 
 X Introduction 
 
 and educating of her three boys, used to write stories 
 and novels. Owing to her many other industries, which 
 took up the greater part of the day, the only time for 
 writing was at night. The stories would now be called 
 short stories, but they were much longer than the average 
 short story of to-day; many of which appeared in The 
 ^ueen. It was during this time Ayscough's mother took 
 a departure from the ordinary and wrote a novel of 
 Japanese life called Araki the Daimio, which was reckoned 
 very clever. 
 
 During her life most of her spare time was devoted 
 to natural history, and she made wonderful collections of 
 ferns, mosses, moths, butterflies, and fossils, also sea and 
 land shells. As you can see, the love of nature was not in 
 Mrs. BickerstafFe the pastime of an idle woman, because 
 it necessitated a great deal of cHmbing and very long 
 walks: how it was she managed to find time to do so much, 
 to bring up her children and write novels, I don't know. 
 
 Mrs. BickerstafFe had among her acquaintances the 
 Dr. Arthur Adams who wrote Travels of a Naturalist in 
 Manchuria and Japan, which I believe is still read by lovers 
 of natural history. 
 
 John Ayscough, who was quite a small boy at this time, 
 went with his mother to stay with Dr. Adams and his 
 wife at Rockferry, opposite Liverpool. One evening 
 Mrs. Adams gave an intellectual evening party, which 
 did not include such frivolities as music and singing, 
 but was "a feast of reason and a flow of soul." The 
 guests not having dined, owing to the early hour of the 
 party, were beginning to feel rather hungry, when about 
 one o'clock in the morning Mrs. Adams provided a very 
 light supper, consisting of jellies, biscuits, etc. Little 
 Johnny, who had heard about dinner parties, wanted to 
 know if this was one, so he said to a young naval officer 
 who happened to be standing near him: "Could you 
 tell me what meal this is?" to which he repHed, "God 
 only knows, my child."
 
 Introduction xi 
 
 Mrs. BickerstafFe, besides being pretty, was very 
 witty and entertaining and full of anecdote. Ayscough, 
 when quite small, was invited to a dinner party with his 
 mother. The life and soul of the party was Mrs. Bicker- 
 stafFe, who amused her friends by telling one anecdote 
 after another. Her fellow guests were all amazed and 
 wanted to know how she managed to remember them 
 all, when little Johnny exclaimed rather loudly: "Oh, 
 she doesn't have to remember them for long, because 
 she keeps them in a little book." Of course, everybody 
 went into shrieks of laughter, except his mother, who being 
 deaf, didn't hear: but when it had ceased, she wanted 
 to know what it was all about, and on being told could 
 not help laughing herself. This, I think, will give a little 
 idea of her sweetness and good nature. 
 
 Added to her many industries and occupations, Mrs. 
 BickerstaflFe played the piano well in spite of her deafness, 
 and like Lady Bertram in Mansfield Park she did em- 
 broidery and crochet, which, by the way, she did not 
 start until she had passed her seventieth year, and as in 
 the case of her painting, had no lessons, but taught 
 herself and went on continually improving, till the end, 
 so that some of her finest work was done shortly before 
 her death. 
 
 In 1864 or '65 Mrs. Bickerstaffe moved to a small 
 town, near the Welsh border of Shropshire, described in 
 Gracechurch. This, as is told in the book, was done in 
 order to place her boys at the locally famous school of the 
 Vicar; who, however, died a week or two before her 
 arrival. 
 
 In 1868 Ayscough's father died; in April, 1870, his 
 mother married Charles Brent, one of the eight sons 
 of the Rev. Daniel Brent, D.D., Vicar of Grenden in 
 Northamptonshire, in whose church the wedding was 
 solemnized by himself, assisted by one of his sons. 
 
 John Ayscough gives a very interesting portrait of his 
 mother in Gracechurch and Fernando: "My mother in
 
 xii Introduction 
 
 her soft lavender silks, looked lovely, and I was as proud 
 and pleased as if it had been arranged by me. God 
 knows she had had sorrow enough, and if an aftermath of 
 gentle prosperity and happiness was now to be reaped by 
 her, she deserved it all; and I, at least, could see nothing 
 but cause for joy in it." 
 
 It was in December, 1880, that Ayscough's mother took 
 leave of him at Euston Station, for Liverpool, where she 
 embarked for America, Mr. Brent having bought a ranch 
 in Texas. 
 
 A day or two afterwards Ayscough left Cardinal 
 Manning's house, where he had been staying, for St. 
 Thomas's Seminary, Hammersmith, where he made his 
 studies for the priesthood. A few months earlier Mrs. 
 Brent had followed her son into the Catholic Church. 
 She was happy in her new life in Texas; happy, indeed, 
 it was her genius to be everywhere; but the life was 
 much too rough, the work too hard for one of her years, 
 and the food unfit for one who was rapidly becoming an 
 invalid. But her old resources did not fail her; Nature 
 was all around, and for her it was ever full of absorbing 
 interest; she sketched and painted more than ever; and 
 then her sketching made demands not only upon her 
 skill, but upon her courage, for the scenes of her painting 
 had to be sought in the wild and lonely brakes, the homes 
 of panthers, wild cats, and, much worse, of innumerable 
 rattle-snakes: she was always quite alone, and it will be 
 remembered that she was so completely deaf as to be 
 unable to hear the nearest sound without the aid of her 
 speaking trumpet. Her husband, Mr. Brent, would 
 often expostulate upon the danger of those solitary ram- 
 blings, but she would laugh and declare, "I am so fat that 
 only a very hungry panther would think of eating me, and 
 as I can't hear the rattle-snakes rattle they never frighten 
 me. 
 
 After a dozen years it was decided that her only hope 
 of life was to return to England and to rest, and in the
 
 Introduction xiii 
 
 summer of 1892, she joined her son at Plymouth, where 
 he was MiHtary Chaplain, and with the exception of his 
 period of Active Service in France and Flanders, during 
 the Great War, they were never again separated. 
 
 John Ayscough has often told me of his horror, almost 
 dismay, at first meeting his mother on her return from 
 Texas. He had been scanning the faces of the passengers 
 in his search for her, and had already more than once 
 glanced earnestly at one very old, broken-down lady, 
 in amazing clothes of at least a dozen years' standing, 
 without in the least recognizing her. Presently she 
 smiled, asked a question, and held out her battered 
 speaking trumpet. In her smile he recognised her: 
 but it was literally a shock to find in this wholly broken, 
 terrified-looking woman of extreme age, his mother, whom 
 he had last seen looking fairly young, certainly not 
 beyond middle age, upright, and with a face bright with 
 cheerful courage. He says that though she lived a 
 , quarter of a century longer, she looked many years older 
 > at her first return from Texas than at the time of her 
 i death, and was more bowed in figure: she was in fact not 
 sixty-three years of age on her return to England and 
 looked very much more than ninety. 
 
 If she had been left a few more weeks in Texas, the rough 
 work and hard toil would no doubt have killed her. This 
 journey across the Atlantic she made entirely alone, deaf, 
 in shattered health, and in a very inferior boat — as she 
 sailed from a small port in Texas itself to avoid a long 
 railway journey. With astonishing rapidity she recovered 
 health, spirits, and cheerfulness, in a comfortable home, 
 under the charge of an excellent doctor; with good 
 nursing and attendance and good food, she very soon 
 lost the look of extreme age, and recovered her upright 
 carriage, her happy expression and abundant interest in 
 life. The mother and son remained seven years at 
 Plymouth, till 1899, the reunion seeming an almost 
 incredible joy. With a very large social circle Mrs.
 
 xiv Introduction 
 
 Brent was, as she had everywhere been throughout 
 hfe, much more than popular. The affection of these 
 kind friends was a pecuhar dehght to her; and the 
 beauty of the country round Plymouth afforded endless 
 scope for her talent in water-colour drawing. 
 
 In March, 1899, John Ayscough was ordered to Malta, 
 and she accompanied him. The voyage she thoroughly 
 enjoyed, and very soon she had as many friends in Malta 
 as she had left behind at Plymouth. 
 
 During the six years of her stay there (without a visit 
 to England) Mrs. Brent never seems to have had any 
 sense of exile, and was certainly never bored. Here, too, 
 there was plenty of scope for her many talents. With 
 her son, she explored every corner of the island, sketch- 
 ing, collecting flowers and studying the archaeology of 
 the place. 
 
 During the six years in Malta, John Ayscough and his 
 mother made many visits to Italy and Sicily — visits 
 which have fruit in Marotz, San CelestinOy and A Roman 
 Tragedy. Also they visited France, Switzerland, and 
 North Africa — the fruit of which journeys is Mezzo- 
 giorno, Admonition, and several of the stories in Outsiders 
 and In. 
 
 Travelling was an immense joy to her and especially 
 was she delighted by a trip to Crete. One of the many 
 wonderful things she did during her life was devoting her 
 seventieth birthday to an ascent of Vesuvius. 
 
 During this six years in Malta, Mrs. Brent was pre- 
 sented for the second time in private audience to Pope 
 Leo XIII, and in 1904, for the first time, to Pius X. 
 
 At last, in March, 1905, they returned to England, and 
 Salisbury Plain became their home. 
 
 After less than four years at home, John Ayscough was 
 ordered on a further tour of Foreign Service, to last 
 probably for five years, and she determined to go with 
 him. At her great age, how could she expect ever to see 
 England again? Early in March, 1909, they sailed from
 
 Introduction xv 
 
 the Port of London for Malta, for it was to Malta they 
 were to return. 
 
 It was a bitterly cold day, with deep snow everywhere, 
 and heavy snow falling, but she trudged on bravely, her 
 son expecting any minute to see her fall and there breathe 
 her last. It was at least half a mile to walk from the 
 train to the docks, and not a conveyance of any sort 
 could be had. A very devoted friend of his came and 
 brought a beautiful bouquet of roses, which seemed to 
 give her fresh strength to continue that miserable walk. 
 After being less than a quarter of an hour on board, she 
 was talking and joking about herself to complete strangers 
 as though she found life full of amusement. 
 
 They were welcomed in Malta by many old friends, 
 though many were gone. A charming house was soon 
 found, with a pretty garden full of fine flowers, but Mrs. 
 Brent could no longer enjoy things: through the eight 
 months of this second stay, she was too ill for anything 
 but a wistful longing for home. The doctors said it 
 must be home or a prompt end; and her son had to 
 purchase an exchange home and obtain War Office 
 sanction for it. 
 
 At the end of October they started for England. The 
 voyage itself did good and by the time they reached 
 London she was out of danger; she was, in fact, destined 
 to live seven years longer, though with frequent more 
 and more alarming illnesses. Within a few weeks of 
 her return, Mrs, Brent received from Pius X the Cross 
 of Leo XIII "Pro Ecclesia et Pontifice" in gold, an 
 honour which she told her son "made her feel very 
 humble," having, as she considered, done so little to 
 deserve it. 
 
 Immediately on the outbreak of war, Ayscough was 
 sent to France with the first British Expeditionary 
 Force, and in December he returned to England, as he 
 thought, for good. I need not describe the joy and 
 happiness it gave his mother to see him back again,
 
 xvi Introduction 
 
 perfectly safe and in his old home, but alas! it did not 
 last for long. On the morning of February 8, 191 5, he 
 received orders to return to France immediately. 
 
 I am sure my readers will realise what a blow it was to 
 them both: the news came in the early morning. He 
 jumped out of bed, told his dear mother, dressed, had 
 breakfast, and was out of the house within an hour and 
 a half of receiving his orders. When he returned in 
 December, he had been told that he would be released 
 from Active Service and continue duty at home. Like 
 her other troubles, his mother took it all bravely, and 
 considering her age and state of health, kept cheerful. 
 
 About the beginning of November, 191 5, Ayscough 
 became very ill, but continued his work until the doctors 
 discovered how bad he was and insisted on his going into 
 hospital, which he did, but not until the third week of 
 January, 1916. The day after his admission into hospital, 
 he underwent a serious operation, but luckily got through 
 successfully. He was then sent to a hospital in London, 
 where he underwent another operation, but only slight 
 in comparison with the first, and after being there about 
 a fortnight, he returned home. The medical board then 
 offered him a few months' sick leave, but he only accepted 
 a month on condition that if, at the end of that time he 
 was unfit for duty, further leave would be granted; this 
 proved unnecessary and he resumed duty at home in 
 Salisbury Plain. But after this second shock, his mother 
 could never believe that he was home for good; every 
 day, every post, she expected that orders would come 
 and take him away again. The strain at last proved 
 too much for her, and in July she died. Oh! what a 
 terrible loss it was for Ayscough; I don't think there 
 ever was a more deep love and affection between any 
 mother and son than between these; they were everything 
 to each other. 
 
 In the last chapter of French Windows he says, "For 
 his first remembered impression of life was the realisation
 
 Introduction xvii 
 
 that he was his mother's son, and almost the next his 
 reahsation of the terror lest he should lose her. The 
 dread of that loss remained ever afterwards the only 
 real dread of his life: no sorrow, no misfortune, threatened 
 or fallen, seemed to affect the substance of happiness so 
 long as that supreme calamity was spared. For fifty- 
 eight years it was spared, and for that immense reprieve 
 he can but cry his thanks to Divine patience. 
 
 "That the calamity fell upon his life during the writing 
 of these pages, must make this to him a different sort of 
 book from any that he has written, must make of the 
 whole book a lingering farewell." 
 
 Owing to the recent date of the letters and their dealing 
 with living people, it has been necessary to omit much, 
 and unfortunately much that constituted by far the most 
 entertaining portion of them. 
 
 Ayscough's first period in France was spent at the 
 front with the fighting troops, while the latter part 
 consisted of garrison and hospital duty at Dieppe and 
 Versailles. 
 
 The two periods, I think, make a fascinating contrast 
 and an interesting volume of letters. 
 
 Frank Bickerstaffe-Drew
 
 John ^yscough's Jitters 
 to his ^^ACother
 
 John ^yscougF s Jitters 
 To His <J)fCother 
 
 I 
 
 Railway Station, Salisbury 
 
 My own Darling Mother: I send this by the chauffeur 
 to bid you another good-bye, and to thank you very, 
 very much for having borne this cruel smack of fortune 
 so well. It makes it so much better for me your doing 
 so. 
 
 God bless and keep you, dear, and bring me soon back 
 to look after you. 
 
 Oh! for Peace. 
 
 Dublin 
 Sunday, i o'clock 
 
 It seems a hundred years since we parted, and this 
 is my first opportunity of writing. I will go back to the 
 beginning and tell you exactly how I have got on. 
 
 My dear, my dear, how good and noble it was of you 
 to be so brave and cheerful at our actual parting: it 
 made the pain of leaving you, and of saying good-bye, 
 so much easier to bear. But I do hope that you did not 
 collapse when I was gone. 
 
 At Salisbury station there was Mr. Gater come to see 
 me off and, though the train was an hour late starting,
 
 2 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 he stayed on: I thought it very nice of him, and he was 
 most cordial, friendly, and sympathetic. I am sure 
 you and Christie may always send to him if you want 
 any male assistance: he did not offer his services as a 
 matter of form — but as if he really meant it. I travelled 
 up very comfortably with Captain George Herbert, 
 brother of Lord Pembroke, and we talked the whole way; 
 he knows scores of people I know, and we had lots to 
 say, besides he is a Territorial and frightfully keen about 
 the army and the war. 
 
 It was dull but quite fine when we got to London. I 
 first telegraphed to you, then went straight on to Euston 
 in a taxi. For a quarter of an hour my taxi was going 
 at a foot-pace beside a detachment of Lancers: the 
 young officer called out to me: "Off to the front, sir?" 
 and began talking. He said all his detachment were 
 recruits who had joined the night before; they looked 
 tired, but marched pluckily: they were not going to the 
 front but only to St. Albans, where they are to train for 
 some months to fill up gaps. 
 
 In the street I saw Cardinal Gasquet walking with his 
 Secretary. After putting my things in the cloak-room 
 I had tea; went for a walk; came back and had dinner 
 in the Euston Hotel and then secured a good place in 
 the Irish Mail. 
 
 I had one entire side of the carriage, and slept lying 
 down comfortably till Holyhead. Then I had some tea 
 and went below; I had a large six-berthed cabin to my- 
 self, and was able to undress and make myself very com- 
 fortable, and so slept till 6.30; then I got up and washed 
 and dressed, and went ashore (not intending to go up to 
 Dublin till 8.45), when I took a jaunting-car and went 
 off to Monkstown to find Helen and Jack. 
 
 I found their house but it was shut, and the creepers 
 much overgrown over the door, so I suppose they have 
 been long away, visiting.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 3 
 
 I had breakfast and got off my telegram to you: then 
 we came up to Dublin and I heard Mass (I could not say 
 it, having had tea after midnight on my journey). Then 
 the Church of England chaplain attached to the same 
 ambulance as myself and I took a car over to Phoenix 
 Park, where our ambulance is. 
 
 The Commanding Officer was not there, but his Adju- 
 tant told us there was no tent for us, and that we could 
 only be allowed thirty-five pounds of baggage — about 
 as much as my roll of rugs alone. However, after about 
 two hours' waiting and discussion, I got the C. O. to 
 agree to my proposal that I should be allowed to take 
 my stuff on to the base, and there discard almost all of 
 it — that will enable me to find some convent where I 
 can leave it, and where it will be more within reach 
 than if I left it behind here. 
 
 Also I found an empty tent in another camp joining 
 ours, and they allow me to use it: so that I shall have a 
 place to sleep in to-night and to-morrow night. 
 
 I hope you will be sitting in the garden this lovely 
 afternoon. Do keep well, my darling; that is what I 
 am praying all the time; do keep well, and let me think 
 of you as well and cheerful in the beloved home. I love 
 it far, far more than you do: and it is like an anchor to 
 every happy thought to recollect it, and you in it. 
 
 God bless you both; bid Christie keep a good heart, 
 and let her know how I thank her in advance for all her 
 care of you. 
 
 We are quite in war conditions — no tables, chairs, 
 beds, baths, washing-stands — nothing but the ground 
 and our rugs! 
 
 St. Fra?icis Xavier's, Upper Gardiner Street, Dublin 
 
 Monday, 10 am., August 17, 1914 
 
 I HAVE fallen among most kind and hospitable, friendly 
 and pleasant people, with whom I am staying. The
 
 4 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 letter I wrote you yesterday was written in the parlour 
 of a little fifth-rate hotel just outside Phoenix Park, 
 where I had luncheon. After finishing my letter, I got 
 on a tram and came in to the city, getting off at "Carlyle 
 Bridge" as the Unionists call it, "O'Connell Bridge" as 
 the Nationalists call it. Thence I walked up O'Connell 
 Street (Sackville Street) and presently met two young 
 priests, who saluted and began to talk. (All the priests 
 here are full of friendliness). I told them I wanted, if I 
 could, to get a light altar-stone, instead of the very 
 heavy one I brought from our chapel at the Manor 
 House. They said, *'We are Jesuits, from Gardiner 
 Street Church, St. Francis Xavier's ... go up there 
 and ask for one." Well, I came here, and the Father 
 Minister (Housekeeping Father) instantly said I must 
 stay here. He found the Rector and Father Provincial, 
 and they would not take any refusal; I must be their 
 guest till we embark. 
 
 They sent Father Wrafter (the Father Minister) out 
 to the camp in Phoenix Park, to fetch in my baggage in a 
 taxi; that was really just so that I should not be at the 
 cost of bringing it in all that long way myself. And so 
 here I am, very comfortably installed, and made a very 
 great deal of. 
 
 After dinner we had great talk and smoking: all the 
 Fathers here (there are about twenty) seem admirers of 
 my books. 
 
 The Rector and Provincial are charming men: and 
 to-night the latter is taking me to dine with his brother 
 at Kingstown. 
 
 I said Mass this morning at the altar I send you a 
 postcard of. One of the Fathers insisted on giving me 
 all these cards to send to you. 
 
 This house is very large and fine: most comfortable. 
 But what I like best in it is the universal spirit of hos- 
 pitality and kindness of the Jesuits themselves. 
 
 I slept uncommonly well, and so did not begin my
 
 John AyscougV s Letters to his Mother 5 
 
 camp life with last night, as I had expected. I said Mass 
 early, had an excellent breakfast, and then they showed 
 me the house, church, library, etc. And now I am 
 writing this to you; I hope you are getting on all right; 
 presently I shall go out to post this and will telegraph 
 to ask how you are. I shall be here till about nine o'clock 
 to-night; then go to camp; and to-morrow morning, I 
 believe, we embark. 
 
 August 18, 1914 
 
 It is 6.30 A.M. on Tuesday, and we march off from this 
 camp. Phoenix Park, in half an hour. 
 
 I think it almost impossible that you can hear anything 
 from me for days now. We are, I believe, going to 
 France, and will take some days to get there: and a 
 letter would take some day or two to return. Besides, 
 it is quite possible they would not let us write at first, 
 or even telegraph — they are so determined to hide all 
 the movements of our troops. 
 
 I just write this to say good-bye. I don't quite know 
 how I shall get it posted. I dined at Kingstown last 
 night, with the Provincial of the Jesuits and his brother, 
 at a charming hotel on the sea-front. Then we trained 
 into Dublin and came over here in a taxi: I cannot tell 
 you what the hospitality and kindness of those Jesuits 
 have been. 
 
 Last night was my first under canvas this time and 
 I was very comfortable. 
 
 Do tell the Gaters I have been so incessantly on the 
 rush it was impossible to arrange a meeting with Cyril. 
 Lots of priests have been calling here in camp "to see the 
 great Mr. Ayscough," but none have caught me. 
 
 I was so delighted to get your two telegrams and to 
 hear you were all well. Mind you keep well and in good 
 spirits. Best love to dear Christie. 
 
 I had a charming letter from Mrs. Drummond. Her
 
 6 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 husband has gone to France on the Headquarters Staff 
 of the 2d Army. 
 
 Dublin 
 Tuesday, August 18, 1914 
 
 We are safely embarked; and much more comfortable 
 it is than the camp. 
 
 We left camp about 7.30 this morning, and the long 
 line of waggons, with the big sections of men marching 
 between, looked very picturesque. 
 
 Phoenix Park is extraordinarily beautiful — 1756 acres 
 of it — with the Dublin mountains for background 
 and the exquisite flowers and trees for foreground. The 
 weather is beautiful and absolutely fine, but not too hot. 
 
 I have a charger, rather a nice horse, not badly bred, 
 and quite well educated and behaved. But I let my 
 servant ride him from camp to this ship, and sat cocked 
 up on an ambulance waggon; it was quite interesting, 
 and also quite comfortable. 
 
 The distance is about seven miles, two of park, and 
 five of city and docks, and all along the way people were 
 gathered in groups to see us go by. The Irish are en- 
 thusiastic about the war and the Emperor of Germany 
 would have a painful experience if they could handle him 
 according to their desires. 
 
 I sat so high, cocked up on my ambulance, that my 
 purple stock attracted instant attention, and drew forth 
 innumerable salutes: "God bless you. Father," "Come 
 back safe. Father," etc., etc. At one corner there was a 
 big group of men and they called out, "Three cheers for 
 the priest" — which were given accordingly. 
 
 At another point there were a lot of women waving 
 little Union Jacks — this is "disloyal" Ireland. 
 
 General Drummond has gone out with the 2d Army on 
 the Headquarters StaflF of it. If you like you might 
 write to her, at Trent Manor, Sherborne, Dorset.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 7 
 
 It is now about 11.30, and we shall probably not sail 
 till seven o'clock this evening. I must not tell you 
 where we are going: but it is no further off than Belgium; 
 I seize all these opportunities of writing because soon 
 there must come a time when we cannot get letters off. 
 
 It is awfully comfortable on board ship after camp. 
 I have a cabin to myself and no one else (out of sixty 
 officers) has. It is very comfortable, and I quite long 
 for bedtime, to go to bed in it! In fact I probably shall 
 not wait till bedtime, but have a sleep after luncheon. 
 
 I left my brown vahse at the Jesuits, with the things 
 I am sending home. Here is the key of it. 
 
 The altar stone should be put back in the chapel on the 
 altar: the papers, etc., in the bureau drawer, where I 
 told you. 
 
 No more room. God bless you and cheer you, my 
 dear! 
 
 S. S. City of Benares 
 Thursday, August 20, 191 4 
 
 We are just entering harbour, and I must get a short 
 letter ready to post whenever I get the chance. They 
 say the best address will be "No. 15 Field Ambulance, 
 c/o the War Office, London, S. W.," and it is a little 
 shorter than c/o Sir Charles McGrigor, etc. 
 
 We sailed the night before last, about 7 p.m., and the 
 scene was very touching. There was a crowd of sweet- 
 hearts and wives on the quay, with other folk, too; 
 the other folk all cheers and shouts, the poor women all 
 tears. Our voyage lasted about forty hours ... it is 
 just after breakfast, and we are slowing in along the 
 quays; they are covered with people waving handker- 
 chiefs and calling out, "Vive I'Angleterre!" "Hip, hip!" 
 and our men yell out "Vive la France!" and as much 
 of the Marseillaise as they can sing. It seems a fine 
 harbour and a gay, prosperous-looking town. The
 
 8 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 streets run right down to the quays, and are not squalid 
 streets like those that melt into the quays at Dublin. 
 Our voyage was charming, the weather exquisite, and the 
 sea a great silver mirror. Yesterday morning we were 
 quite close in to Land's End, which I had never seen 
 before. We ran parallel to the peaceful coast for hours, 
 then drifted south. The channel seemed full of shipping 
 and commerce in spite of the war . . . which shows how 
 effectually our navy protects it — and you. 
 
 I had a service for my men yesterday morning and gave 
 them all scapulars. From luncheon till 7 p.m. I was 
 hearing confessions, one hundred and twenty-seven of 
 them; it was splendid. I think every Catholic on board 
 came. 
 
 The ship has messed us for five shillings a day, and 
 "done us" very well . . . excellent plain food: and they 
 were only bound to supply hot water! I got your letter, 
 written on Sunday, and the parcel of letters Christie 
 forwarded, just as we sailed from Dublin. 
 
 I was so glad and so happy to get such good accounts 
 of you: do keep it up. Be well, cheerful, sanguine; 
 and / can be happy. I cannot tell you how many prayers 
 I have offered for you, and how serenely fixed I feel in 
 God's protection of you. 
 
 We hear on arriving that the Germans are driven 
 back all along the line, that the French occupy the 
 Vosges valleys and that the Germans have left many 
 wounded, guns, etc. behind them. I must not tell 
 you the name of this place, but perhaps the postmark will 
 tell. 
 
 Best love to Christie and the Gaters. I have managed 
 to get ashore: we stay here till to-morrow, when we go on 
 somewhere, twenty-two hours by train; we don't know 
 where.
 
 John AyscougV s Letters to his Mother 9 
 
 15 Field Jmbulance, Expeditionary Force 
 Friday f August 21, 19 14 
 
 I AM going to try and write you a little letter or begin 
 one at all events . . . We are in Rest Camp and arrived 
 here last night at dark; nobody knows how long we are 
 to stop: perhaps a day or two; and perhaps we go on to 
 our "base" to-day. The camp is about four miles 
 outside the town. 
 
 After I wrote to you yesterday I watched the horses 
 and men disembark. It is rather amusing watching 
 them. . . . They have to run up a sort of chicken- 
 ladder to the main deck, then down another to the horse- 
 deck, and some of them kick up awful trouble over it. 
 I got leave to go into the town, and had some luncheon, 
 then bought a few things — a celluloid collar, a large 
 water-proof sheet, a "Brassard" (arm badge with Geneva 
 Cross, to mark one as a non-combatant), a haversack, 
 valise, etc. 
 
 Then I got a warm bath at some swimming baths, and 
 walked about. 
 
 There is not much to see. The town is large, pros- 
 perous and pretty, but not old, and the churches are 
 nothing much. 
 
 About 6.30 I came out here, on my own, with a young 
 gunner officer: and waited for my "unit" to arrive: 
 it looked very picturesque when they did, the light almost 
 gone, the camp-fires quickly blazing up. 
 
 I am really the "senior officer" of the "unit" and was 
 the only one to be allotted a tent to myself: but the 
 Church of England chaplain was to be one of three, so 
 I gave him half my tent. 
 
 I was delighted to see my baggage again: I hadn't 
 seen it since Monday at Dublin, and was very dirty. 
 Then we had supper — bread and tinned salmon. We 
 are regularly on field-service lines now. No chairs
 
 lo John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 or stools, tables, etc. It looked rather picturesque, the 
 group of us huddled on the ground, each with his platter 
 and pannikin, no light but a single candle crammed into 
 a bottle-neck. 
 
 Almost immediately after supper we went to bed: 
 I lent my new sheet and the bigger of my old ones to the 
 officer in the next tent who had none, but I was quite 
 warm with what I had. 
 
 When I began this it was pouring rain, accompanied 
 by thunder and lightning, and looked like rain for the 
 whole day: but it soon got fine again. I am writing in my 
 tent, sitting on my bed with the black box that used to be 
 under your bed for a table. It is quite convenient. 
 
 Some say we shall be here a week: some that we shall 
 go on to-night to Amiens. I would much rather 
 push on. 
 
 I am very happy except for your being left to miss me. 
 God send a speedy end to the War (I am the only officer 
 in the British army that says so, I daresay). It has 
 certainly killed our beloved Pope. I read of his death 
 (that took place in the early morning of yesterday) 
 yesterday afternoon, with pain and sorrow. He was 
 plunged into grief by the prospect of this war, and im- 
 plored the old Austrian Emperor not to begin it. The 
 war will have no nobler victim. Yesterday in the streets 
 they were selling by way of joke, *'The Last Will and 
 Testament of Wilhelm II." 
 
 As far as we can judge, the war is everywhere going 
 against Germany and Austria; but of course there has 
 been nothing decisive yet. 
 
 I find it so hard to realize that I am part of an Expe- 
 ditionary Force engaged in a huge war; it is all so exactly 
 like manoeuvres. But no doubt we shall realize it 
 presently, when we get to our line, and the wounded begin 
 to come in. 
 
 It is twenty to eleven in the morning (Friday morning) 
 and you are sitting up working in bed. It seems about
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother ii 
 
 a year since I was at the Manor House, and yet I was there 
 a week ago. 
 
 To-day Mary comes home to you. You must excuse 
 these scraps of paper; I was very lucky to find any; and 
 still luckier to have brought a fountain pen with me. 
 There is no pen or ink in camp. The French are uncom- 
 monly civil, but not (I think) so truly cordial as the Irish, 
 though we are *'out" in their quarrel. 
 
 Everyone says the German Emperor will commit 
 suicide: the Crown Prince, they say, is wounded, — who 
 knows anything? On each side of the huge armed wall 
 there is ignorance and talk. 
 
 I think I must stop. I write plenty of letters, but 
 never feel sure of your getting them. I post them all 
 myself, but some say every letter is opened and held 
 up if not approved. 
 
 At least, if you suffer, it shall not be through my 
 neglect. I'm sure you read my letters to Christie, or 
 give them to her to read, so I only send her brief messages. 
 I am truly sorry for her, for I know how she would hke 
 to be back at Blackheath. If by any chance Alice were 
 ill, and she had to go to her, would you like to have 
 a Blue Sister to stay with you? Good-bye. Do keep 
 well and cheerful. 
 
 Havre 
 Saturday, 3.30 p.m. August 22, 1914 
 
 Here I am, writing you a letter from an hotel, seated 
 at a civilised table, with an ordinary pen, and a very 
 imposing sheet of paper. It seems quite odd; though 
 I only left Dublin on Monday night and then took to my 
 tent, I feel as if I had not been under a roof for ages! 
 
 I think it more amusing and more healthy to live in a 
 tent; but certainly rooms and tables and chairs are 
 rather convenient. As there is no danger at all of this 
 letter being "censored," I suppose we may as well recog-
 
 12 John Ayscough'' s Letters to his Mother 
 
 nise between us that it is at Havre I have been since 
 Thursday: or rather we arrived here, and our camp has 
 been at Bleville, outside it. 
 
 / was not supposed to tell you; but I thought the 
 postcards would; so, as you know, we may allude to it. 
 The shops and houses are excellent here, but there is 
 nothing interesting to see. Still it is a gay, pleasant town. 
 
 I have bought several things: (i) a much larger water- 
 proof sheet, (2) a sort of goloshes or gum-boots, (3) washing- 
 basin, (4) collapsible bath, (5) little haversack to carry 
 a clean shirt, socks, sponge, soap, tooth-brush, etc. 
 
 I wrote to you yesterday morning while it was pour- 
 ing rain: but it only lasted half an hour, and has been 
 ever so line (and hot) ever since. I came in to Havre 
 about twelve, and my Anglican confrere begged to come 
 with me. I much prefer being alone, for, though he is 
 a giant with legs a mile in length, he shambles along at 
 the rate of half a mile an hour and tires me to death. 
 He is very amiable, but looks and talks like an enormous 
 Fourth Form boy. 
 
 We had lunch in here, and ate too much! 
 
 About tea-time we waddled home, at least we trammed 
 most of the way, and had only to walk the last mile — 
 to Bleville, where our camp is. 
 
 As we passed a rather smart house with a big garden 
 a little girl and boy dashed out with rum and water! 
 They said their Mama wished them to refresh thus the 
 poor tired English soldiers. The French are in love 
 with our soldiers' collar and shoulder badges and wheedle 
 them out of the men: so that half the people you see 
 have 20 H (20th Hussars) R. F. A. (Royal Field Artillery) 
 etc., worn as brooches, on the lapels of their coats. 
 
 We sat and talked in the dark outside our tents till 
 late last night, then went to our rugs (no one has a bed) : 
 and I slept the sleep of the just. 
 
 This morning I found a church. I stayed a long time 
 praying there for you; but every where I am doing that.
 
 John AyscougVs Letters to his Mother 13 
 
 We struck camp at one o'clock and late this afternoon 
 entrain for Amiens, where perhaps I shall find letters. 
 After that I don't know where we go, or when we move. 
 If I find it likely that we are to stop some days in Amiens 
 I shall send you a wire saying, "Write here Poste Restante, 
 Monsignor Bickerstaffe" only. 
 
 Oh dear, I hope you are doing well. It is so trying 
 never hearing anything: but it is all part of the one 
 great nuisance. I enjoy all this in a way, but would 
 give one ear for the war to be over, and for me to be 
 at home. 
 
 It is so odd, living in this impenetrable silence. We 
 see French newspapers, but not one of us has heard a 
 word from his home. 
 
 By writing this here, and posting it "on my own," I 
 avoid (I hope) the military censor. He only approves 
 of a word or two, thus: "I am well. No change. X." 
 
 If I wrote "Active Service" on my letters they would 
 go for nothing, but then I should have to let the censor 
 read them. 
 
 I just walked in here out of the street and asked if I 
 might write a letter and they said "Yes" at once. 
 
 How is Christie, how are the Gaters? Give them my 
 love and thank them from me for being kind to you. 
 
 15 Field Ambulancey Expeditionary Force 
 
 August 28, 1914 
 
 I WROTE you a hasty scribble yesterday. We arrived 
 here yesterday after some strenuous days: indeed it has 
 all been pretty stiff since Sunday last. I cannot say 
 more at present, but I shall have yarns enough to spin 
 when I get home. 
 
 We arrived at the town near this about noon, and 
 I was asked to go and forage for our mess, so was able 
 to get some food (the first for nearly twenty hours) and 
 to see the fine old Cathedral.
 
 14 'John Ayscouglo s Letters to his Mother 
 
 Then I got out here to camp, and we saw our baggage 
 (first time since we left our landing-place) and there 
 was a fine washing and changing of socks, shirts, etc. 
 We were all filthy! 
 
 You mustn't grumble if the chicken or cutlet is tough, 
 but say: "What would not Frank give for it?" 
 
 Till yesterday it was all march, march, and move, 
 move. It is a lovely part of France. Here rich woods 
 and watermeadows; everywhere splendid harvest-lands; 
 in parts very like Salisbury Plain: if you can find Mon- 
 taigne's Essays (in the revolving bookcase in the study, 
 I think, or else in the one between the two windows) 
 you will see at the beginning a picture of his birthplace — 
 there is a house like it in every village here. The country 
 is a picture of peace, with "War" over-printed on it. 
 I have seen some lovely wild-flowers, new to me and 
 perhaps rare, but have never been able to stop and pick 
 them. Here in this field wild colchicum grows — a lovely 
 mauve crocus with no leaf yet. I have picked some, and 
 will try and dry it for you. The people are so splendid 
 to our men; in every village (and we have marched 
 through dozens) they run out and give coflFee, fruit, 
 bread, bread and jam, water, and so on. . . . 
 
 I cannot tell you in a letter what our life is like. In 
 some ways it is simply like a titanic picnic, with a huge 
 country for its scene, an army for its guests. We are all 
 well, and we have had supreme weather (except for about 
 thirty hours of drenching misery). We have never entered 
 a tent for ten days; one eats, sleeps, does everything, 
 in the open air on the open ground, without tent, chair, 
 table, bed, anything. We hardly get our night through, 
 but in the black dark have to get up, scramble our things 
 together as we can, and be off to some new encampment. 
 
 The night dews would amaze you: all that is outside 
 one's waterproof sheet is drenched, and has to be rolled 
 up drenched. But no one has had a cold. 
 
 I am very comfortable in my "bed," i.e. the rugs
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 15 
 
 you saw, and sleep splendidly: all I dislike is getting up. 
 Yesterday we had a hot dinner — fried ham and eggs: 
 our first for days. Our food is generally bread, butter, 
 jam, potted meat, tinned salmon, and of course we have 
 no meal-times: sometimes two or three eatings in a day, 
 and often only one in twenty-four hours. 
 
 Sometimes our camp is in a cornfield, and then we put 
 sheaves under our rugs and are very comfortable; only 
 the harvest bugs devour one. 
 
 Yesterday was the first of September and I actually 
 saw a covey of partridges — it seemed so English, it 
 gave me a lump in my throat. 
 
 A German officer taken prisoner yesterday said that 
 their men had had nothing to eat for four days, and had 
 to be driven to fight at the point of the bayonet. 
 
 On Sunday we were at a village called Coutroy and 
 I had service for my men in the church. The priest had 
 gone off to the war. 
 
 On Monday we passed close to Pierrefonds, a splendid 
 chateau given by Napoleon III to the Empress Eugenie 
 — I remember so well a picture of it she has at Farn- 
 borough. It is enormous, and gloriously placed amid 
 vast forests. I enclose two cards of it, all crumpled, 
 which I can't help. They have been two days in my 
 pocket; one has nowhere but one's pocket to put any- 
 thing. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance^ Expeditionary Force 
 
 September 2, 1914 
 
 I AM going to try to get a letter ready to post whenever 
 any chance arrives. It is Wednesday afternoon, and we 
 are having a rest, perhaps until to-morrow morning, 
 and so I can write. But there is nothing but the ground 
 to write on, and I can't manage it very well. 
 
 We are encamped at a village called Montge, only 
 about twenty-four miles from Paris. It is blazing weather.
 
 1 6 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 but cool in my corner of the camp under the shade of 
 some little trees, for there is a sweet breeze, smelling of 
 harvest. 
 
 You, with your papers, know much more about the war 
 than we do. We move and move and move, always 
 swallowed up in a cloud of mystery and ignorance, of 
 which the column of hot dust that moves with us is a 
 type. All I can tell you is this — ^ we have been in Belgium 
 — rushed thither at once: got on the fighting line, and 
 ever since have been engaged in a "strategic retirement," 
 always moving, moving back on Paris: never far from 
 the fighting, hearing it, and never seeing it. 
 
 I cannot tell you how lovely, how rich, how opulent 
 the leagues and leagues of land have been through which 
 we have been ceaselessly moving: villages whose very 
 name should be "Peace"; endless, endless cornlands, with 
 the generous harvest all standing ready in sheaf to be 
 carried (and never to be carried, because a man's wicked 
 cruelty shall waste all that God's generous providence 
 and poor folks' peaceful labours have drawn out of the 
 willing earth). 
 
 Such farms, such store-places . . . everywhere the 
 evidence of a people living in frugal plenty on the fruit 
 of their steady, contented toil . . . and everywhere 
 flight, and abandoning of all to the mercy of the bar- 
 barian Teutons who know no mercy. The lands are the 
 richest, the loveliest I ever saw; and everywhere one 
 knows that the unequalled harvest will never be gathered 
 in. Oh, my God, what war is! 
 
 It is only at rare intervals that one can post anything. 
 
 We got in here to-day quite early (having been roused 
 from our beds at two o'clock in the morning, in pitch- 
 dark, to come here) and have been washing, shaving, etc. 
 
 The worst of these packings up in black darkness is 
 that one always loses something. This time it was my 
 clothes-brush, another time it was my big waterproof 
 sheet only bought at Havre: and so on.
 
 John Ayscougljs Letters to his Mother 17 
 
 Please don't turn up your nose at rather elderly chicken! 
 Chicken! We no more expect to see roast meat of any 
 sort than we expect to be offered the throne of Germany, 
 
 And soup! or "sweets": nothing of that sort till the 
 war is over for us. Perhaps we shall be in Paris soon . . , 
 but we haven't the least idea. 
 
 I haven't had one letter from you, except the one sent 
 to Phoenix Park; I don't know whether some day I shall 
 get a great pile of letters, or whether they are all lost . . . 
 we know the Germans got two bags full. Miles of coun- 
 try I have seen are just like Salisbury Plain: but in this 
 part the wide cornlands are striped with forest. 
 
 I must stop ... I want to sleep. I hope to be able 
 to post this; but when I don't know. 
 
 The flowers I send are a field campanula and a field 
 aquilegia. 
 
 Please send me two stocks: the best you can find in the 
 left-hand top drawer in my dressing-table. Don't make 
 one on purpose, as they only get knocked about here, 
 but the dew has spoiled the one I have. 
 
 Please don't make one; as it is such a chance if I ever 
 receive it. 
 
 1 5 Field Amhulancey Expeditionary Force 
 
 Friday 
 
 It is Friday, September 4th, and I have just got two 
 big envelopes, forwarding letters, addressed in Christie's 
 writing; these contained two letters from you, the first 
 I have received. One told me of your having Bert to 
 sleep in Joe's room, a very good plan, I think. 
 
 I am so glad to hear you are well, and earnestly hope 
 you may keep well, and cheerful too. 
 
 The weather has been quite glorious ever since I left, 
 except on one day and a half: and I have been, and am, 
 in excellent health. You know I dislike heat, and the 
 heat has been amazing throughout; but I must say when
 
 1 8 'Joh7i Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 one is out in the field day and night, for week after week, 
 it is a mercy to have it fine. 
 
 We originally landed at Havre and then trained to 
 Valenciennes, whence we marched to the Belgian frontier 
 and over it. Since then we have marched daily and are 
 now within twenty-five miles of Paris. 
 
 All details you must wait for till I am back. 
 
 I got a lot of stuff washed the day before yesterday; 
 but we had to go off before it was dry, and I had to roll 
 it all up wet as it was. To-day I am drying it. 
 
 I hate the idea of sleeping indoors now: and I never 
 feel cold, though we have thick white fogs, breast high, at 
 night, and then fierce heat every day. 
 
 I am writing this while waiting to march; excuse its 
 brevity and its stationery. 
 
 Saturday, September 5, 1914 
 
 I WROTE the letter accompanying this yesterday, 
 but could not get it posted. Nor do I know when I shall 
 be able to post this; it is only by a rare chance we run 
 across a "field post office," and all the civil post offices 
 are shut. 
 
 This day week I wrote a number of letters — to you, 
 Christie, Mrs. Gater, Miss Gater, my London agent. 
 Sir Charles McGrigor, etc., etc., and the one to you 
 enclosed cheques. I sent them to a field post office for 
 dispatch, and now I hear that all letters posted closed 
 are torn up! Isn't it maddening — if it be true.^ How 
 can I write business-letters enclosing cheques, etc., 
 and leave them open ? 
 
 We had a tiresome day yesterday. The idea was, it 
 was to be a "rest day" and fellows had washed their 
 clothes, etc. Then at about 8.30 a.m. we had word to 
 hold ourselves in readiness to start, so everything was 
 packed in five minutes, and we stood about waiting 
 till II P.M. — fifteen hours! — before the actual order
 
 John Ayscough*s Letters to his Mother 19 
 
 to move came. And we were on the march all night, 
 from II P.M. to 7.30 this morning. 
 
 A lovely march mostly, through forest, but I was too 
 tired and cold to be enthusiastic. 
 
 We are billeted here in the grounds of a chateau, very 
 like Palluau, only larger, and with finer country round 
 it. It belongs to a Monsieur Boquet who knows Count 
 Clary well. The latter often comes here. 
 
 Such lovely trees and flowers. 
 
 [_Visiting Card'] 
 
 Monday, September 7, 1914 
 
 No paper or postcards available: am trying this, 
 hoping it will reach you. 
 
 Am excellently well, and hope you are. The weather 
 splendid. Altogether flourishing. Had a long talk with 
 Capt. Newland on Saturday: and saw several Tidworth- 
 ians yesterday. Lordly forest-country all yesterday. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 
 September 8, 191 4 
 
 I AM gradually losing all of the very little I have! 
 and now I have lost my fountain-pen, and must write in 
 future in pencil — when I can borrow one. 
 
 One can buy nothing; the few shops one comes across 
 are closed; we so often arrive after dark at our night's 
 stopping-place, and so often leave again in the dark, that 
 it is only too easy to lose things. 
 
 I have been bitten from head to foot by harvest-bugs, 
 and have been as miserable as if I had measles. So 
 have most of us; it is from sleeping on the corn-sheaves 
 or on the stubble. One's whole body looks like a plum- 
 pudding, and the great heat makes the irritation worse. 
 It is so odd knowing nothing of the outside world. I 
 have not seen an English paper since leaving home,
 
 20 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 nor a French one for a fortnight. We know nothing but 
 the rumours of our own Division. Is there a new Pope, 
 I wonder, and if so who is he? What are the Russians 
 doing .? 
 
 The other scrap was written yesterday; but I had no 
 envelope, and no chance of posting it. I am posting 
 this open and hope you will receive it safe some day. 
 To-day is Our Lady's Birthday ... by the time my 
 other Mother's birthday arrives I trust I shall be with 
 her at home. Pray for that, and for the end of the War. 
 
 The forest we marched through all Sunday was full of 
 lilies of the valley, though long finished blooming, of 
 course. 
 
 The lilac colchicum one sees everywhere is lovely. 
 
 Will you please write a note to P. H. Prideaux, Esq., 
 King Edward VI's School, Lichfield, and tell him I am at 
 the front and cannot write anything for the School 
 Magazine till I get back. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance y Expeditionary Force 
 
 September 9, 1914 
 
 You must not think from this paper that I am a 
 prisoner in the hands of the Germans. 
 
 For several days we have been pursuing them, and 
 this sheet of paper is the first German trophy picked up 
 by me yesterday. I began writing, during a halt, on a 
 baggage waggon and I am trying to finish on the ground, 
 during a mid-day pause for rest: it is very hard to write 
 with only a stubble-field for writing-desk. I have just 
 had an excellent dinner of bacon and tomatoes, and am 
 very comfortable, under the shade of a corn-rick in a 
 flat field on the top of a hill, with an exquisite wooded 
 valley skirting it, and a broad quiet river winding round 
 under the hill. The woods are intensely green, but a 
 haze of atmosphere hangs over them.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother ii 
 
 We have now been through lots of villages and towns 
 occupied till within a few hours of our arrival by the 
 enemy. You have no idea of the horrible state to which 
 they reduce every place they occupy. 
 
 Last night I was out till about 11.30, searching for 
 wounded and we were all up again at 4 a.m. We found 
 some English, and some German, wounded: the latter 
 don't bear their pains half so well as our men. 
 
 All yesterday the dust on the line of march was amaz- 
 ing, but a heavy shower, the first for a fortnight, laid it a 
 little. 
 
 I called on the cure of a little town where we rested 
 for half an hour yesterday: a very friendly and nice old 
 man with a queer old housekeeper. The whole town had 
 been eaten up and turned out of doors by the Germans, 
 who had stayed four days: they gave me a glass of cider 
 and wanted to give dinner; but I doubt if they had 
 much to eat themselves. They were so nice and simple. 
 
 The only thing I dislike is being able to wash so little 
 and so seldom. To-day not at all. Yesterday I bor- 
 rowed the pint of water another fellow had washed in 
 and washed in it as well as I could. 
 
 But there are no hardships, only inconveniences, and 
 our health is first-rate. Not one case of sickness among 
 us. The open-air life keeps one well. When I come 
 home you will see me retiring with my bedroom candle- 
 stick to the lawn or the field! But a room is certainly 
 convenient to wash in, or write letters in. 
 
 No post for days: I wonder where all one's letters go 
 to! 
 
 I must stop and go to sleep. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 
 September 13, 191 4 
 
 I AM trying to begin a letter, but do not know if I 
 shall soon have an opportunity of finishing it. I am iri
 
 22 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 a waggon, not on the box, and we have come to a halt: 
 such halts last five hours sometimes and sometimes five 
 minutes. Of course when the waggon is moving no one 
 could write in it, the jolting is terrific. My desk is the 
 bottom of my washing-bowl turned upside-down. We 
 were roused about three this morning and have been 
 marching ever since — it is now about eight o'clock and 
 you have just had your early tea — and we shall go 
 on all day. 
 
 Monday, 7.30 a.m. 
 
 I COULD not get on with my letter yesterday; I was 
 too unwell with one of my appalling goes of neuralgia, 
 shivering, etc. I tried to write to you and had to give it 
 up: tried to read an old newspaper a fellow had given 
 me, and had to give that up, too. 
 
 A young doctor, called McCurry, and generally nick- 
 named McChutney, came and attended to me, and was 
 most awfully kind. For the time I really felt horriby 
 ill, but it only lasted a few hours, and by the afternoon 
 I was quite well. He packed me up on a stretcher in an 
 ambulance with blankets, bottles full of hot water, etc., 
 gave me phenacetin and morphia, and at last I fell asleep. 
 
 About three o'clock I awoke, shaved, washed (having 
 a waggon all to myself for dressing-room) and was packing 
 up my things when the order was given to move camp 
 at once. (By the way, I began this en route; while I 
 was ill the march ended, and we were camped when I 
 awoke.) A cook carrying a vegetable marrow had had 
 it pierced with shrapnel. 
 
 All yesterday (Sunday) there was a fierce battle between 
 our advanced guard and the German rear guard. 
 
 Our lovely weather has ceased and we have rain every 
 day now. Last night I had a delightful sleeping-place 
 in a hole some one had pierced out of the side of a corn- 
 rick. It was on the sheltered side and no rain came in.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 23 
 
 The night before we slept in a house, the first I had 
 entered for nearly a month: it was a small cottage, but 
 the people nice, and the upstairs part of the house quite 
 clean; we had two mattresses on the floor (seven of us!). 
 At three o'clock we had to get up and be off'. I walked 
 all day on Saturday and as it rained and the road was 
 churned into mud (. . . men with their horses, carts, 
 etc., do put a road in a mess), I got into an amazing 
 pickle, all mud. Sir Horace Smith-Dorrien came by in 
 his motor, warm and dry (a shut motor), and Capt. Bowly 
 with him: they pointed me out to each other and waved, 
 and seemed edified at my campaigning powers! 
 
 What makes the marches tedious is the long halts: on 
 Saturday there was a big battle all day: and the halts 
 were spent watching it — one doesn't really see much 
 of an artillery battle. What you see is a ridge beyond 
 which is a valley, then another ridge, and between the 
 two a ceaseless exchange of shells and shrapnel. 
 
 It is much more interesting to see an aeroplane being 
 shelled. I saw one the other day round which eleven 
 shrapnel shells burst in much less than eleven minutes: 
 it was hit five times but not brought down. The churches 
 in the villages are all old in this part of France, and very 
 nice; good architecture; but they are all very poor — 
 everything confiscated at the separation of Church and 
 State, and no money to buy anything but the cheapest 
 and most necessary things. 
 
 In many of the villages are delightful old huge farms 
 and homesteads, once abbeys, Cistercian or otherwise. 
 This house was one, and the lovely old chapel is in the 
 farmyard among the manure! We are only sheltering 
 here, during a halt from the rain. I seize the opportunity 
 to write at a table in the scullery, where the farm-girls 
 are washing dishes. 
 
 I can only repeat again and again — don't be anxious 
 if you get no news: the ordinary posts do not work, and 
 it is only at rare intervals we come across a field post.
 
 24 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 I have received no letter from you or any forwarded 
 letters since August 28th when I received your letter of 
 August 20th. The field post arrangements must be very 
 odd. ... I feel sure you have written often. Any parcel 
 you send need only have English parcel-post rate of 
 stamps on it. I do long to hear you are well and flourish- 
 ing. 
 
 This paper has been for days in my pocket, that is 
 why it is so dirty. 
 
 My dear, I hope you are well and happy. If that be 
 so I am quite content, though I do long to be at home. 
 I hope poor Christie is well. I wonder if Alice would 
 come over and see her from Saturday to Monday or 
 longer? Write and ask her. . . . 
 
 It is maddening hearing nothing: I have no means of 
 knowing how you are managing. 
 
 September 14, 1914 
 
 I WROTE you a long letter an hour ago, but as we are 
 still hanging about this farm and I have a table to write 
 at and a pen and ink to write with, I will add a sort of 
 postscript under another cover, especially as there is an 
 officer of the field post writing at the same table who 
 will see that this letter, at all events, gets off. And so 
 (as I feel sure this will reach you) I just repeat that I am 
 perfectly safe and sound — and quite well, though yester- 
 day I had a perfectly horrible attack of neuralgia and a 
 bad chill. If you read accounts in the newspapers of 
 such and such an Ambulance suffering loss, never be 
 anxious, but be sure that the War Office would inform 
 you direct and at once if there were really any casualty. 
 For instance No. 14 Field Ambulance, our neighbour in 
 the field, was reported "wiped out" in some English 
 papers: whereas it has not lost a single soul. 
 
 I should love to have a painting of this huge farm — 
 once a Preceptory of Knights Templars. Another farm
 
 John Ays cough's Letters to his Mother 25 
 
 I was at on the march here, on Saturday, was a Cistercian 
 Abbey — at a charming village called St. Remy. 
 
 I will now try and give you roughly some idea of our 
 movements: 
 
 August 15th I left home. 
 " 16 arrived at Dublin. 
 
 ** 18 embarked at DubUn, 
 
 " 20 arrived at Havre. 
 
 " 22 left Havre by train. 
 " 23 arrived at Valenciennes. 
 " 23 left train and marched to Jenlain. 
 
 24 marched from Jenlain to La Bosiere near 
 Dour (Belgium). {Battle). Marched to 
 Villaspol. 
 " 25 from Villaspol to Troinvilles near Le Cateau. 
 " 26 big battle. Marched to St. Quentin. 
 and so on day after day in retreat on Paris, till we ceased 
 retreating at Montge, east of Paris. Since then we have 
 been advancing. Having lured the Germans all this way 
 we turn about and force them north. There is a battle 
 every day, but almost entirely an artillery battle, and 
 so we have much fewer wounded. All yesterday the 
 battle was furious, and yet we got only a few wounded 
 or killed. 
 
 I have one or two trophies, bayonets, etc., thrown 
 away by fleeing Germans. 
 
 September 14, 191 4 
 
 This morning I wrote you two letters and said I had 
 not heard from you since August 28th. 
 
 Now half a dozen mails have arrived together and I 
 must let you know I have heard. 
 
 You were well when you wrote and (I think) in good, 
 contented spirits. 
 
 The Gaters seem to have been most kind and neigh- 
 bourly, and I am truly grateful to them: and I am de-
 
 26 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 lighted to hear how good Bert is — as I thought he 
 would be. 
 
 I heard also from Winifred G. and she says our garden 
 looks lovely. I'm glad you like Father Cashman; he 
 is a good little thing and I am very fond of him. 
 
 Mind if you want any money you write to Sir C. 
 McGrigor. As to letters it makes no difference whether 
 you send them to him, to the War Office, or simply to 
 the G. P. O., so long as you put on them my name and 
 15 Field Ambulance, Vth Division, Expeditionary Force. 
 
 Winifred G. says you did not receive my letters from 
 Havre for nearly a fortnight. I wonder how long it will 
 be before you receive this. You might risk sending me 
 
 a box of cigarettes : postage as for England, Mrs. P 
 
 would tell you. The best way would be to ask her to 
 send them and enter it all in my book. 
 
 I do think it good and sweet of Christie staying on to 
 look after you, and if she would like Alice to come over 
 to see her I hope she will ask her. Why not.f" It costs 
 very little, and Ver ought not to grudge her for a few 
 days — if it were only Saturday to Monday or so. But, 
 of course, just as Christie likes. 
 
 I have seen Sir H. Smith-Dorrien two or three times. 
 
 15 Field Ambulancey Expeditionary Force 
 
 September 16, 19 14 
 
 I AM almost too sleepy to write: we (four out of the 
 fourteen of us) have been away on special service, and 
 were marching — really marching on foot — all last 
 night, and all the night before. We only got back before 
 lunch-time to the Field Ambulance, and after lunch I 
 meant to sleep, but a long string of wounded came in, 
 and I have been talking to the poor fellows. Two whole 
 days and nights without sleep or rest make me very 
 drowsy now, so excuse a dull letter, please. 
 
 We are still billeted at the big farm that was a Pre-
 
 ^'john Ays'cough' s Letters to his Mother ly 
 
 ceptory of Knights Templars, and I love looking at the 
 cows and sheep in their huge stone Gothic stables, so 
 airy, light, and comfortable, with quantities of deep 
 clean straw. They, at least, seem unconscious of war. 
 
 We had very wet nights to march in, and it was pitchy 
 dark. All the better as the enemy were all about. 
 
 With the dawn the battle begins and lasts till dark. 
 
 Thursday, September lyth 
 
 I ONLY got SO far, and sleep overcame me, so I had to 
 give it up, and go and lie down for an hour . . . now I 
 will go on. It is Thursday, and we have all had a long 
 night in bed {i.e., in our blankets and rugs) because 
 we are stopping on here, so far as we know, and not 
 making any move — 4 a.m. is our regular getting-up 
 time, and to-day we did not get up till 7. 
 
 On Monday night we got an order, about 9 p.m., to 
 send off six ambulance-waggons and their equipment to a 
 place nine miles from here, where many wounded were 
 expected. I was not supposed to go, but said I must; 
 and went off. We arrived just at dawn, and as we 
 arrived the battle began. We were under fire till dark 
 — fifteen hours, and it was very stimulating and exciting. 
 Not one casualty, even the slightest, happened to any of 
 our officers, men, or horses. Considering how incessant 
 and fierce the fire was, the casualties even among the 
 fighting troops were, I thought, very few. 
 
 Our field-hospital was installed in a charming small 
 country house at the outskirts of the village, the garden 
 dehghtful, sloping to water-meadows beyond which 
 there were interlacing ridges of wood. 
 
 Our hospital flag was riddled with shrapnel, and lots 
 of it fell in the garden and in the lane beside us. But no 
 one got any harm there; our wounded were brought in 
 safely. 
 
 As soon as it was dark we buried our little group of
 
 28 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 dead, only eight, three officers, just beyond the trenches 
 where the hving men were lying in the miserable rain. 
 A most poignant, touching sight, the funeral: brief, 
 bare, simple, and almost silent. The enemy were quite 
 near, listening and watching: the poor grave very hasty 
 and shallow. One poor lad had so stiffened he had to 
 be buried as he lay, and he had his arm up and one leg 
 up and bent, like a reel-dancer, as though he had gone 
 dancing to his death. The lantern light just showed 
 them, but hardly showed they were dead: and of course 
 there was no shroud or sheet; each was as he fell, 
 equipped, accoutred. 
 
 Then we had to be off; our wounded had to be moved, 
 and only in the dark could we do it. It was all very 
 silent. From our field-hospital we had to get to the 
 waggons, and through the empty streets of the now 
 ruined village, all battered by shells since we reached it 
 fifteen hours before, we had to creep quietly for fear of 
 snipers, of whom there were plenty in the deserted black 
 window-holes of the houses. The thick, moonless, rainy 
 night helped us. 
 
 Presently the enemy began casting search-lights over 
 the road we had to go: but by God's grace never did the 
 light fall on any open stretch of road while we were on it : 
 it only fell on our bit when we happened to be passing 
 behind high screening hedges. 
 
 To cross the river we had to wait five hours in a long 
 line with other troops, French and English, to get over 
 by a small pontoon. The rain was pitiless; the mud 
 and slush ankle-deep, all our own men and ourselves and 
 all our wounded who could walk had to walk: and we 
 were all drenched, whole and wounded. We did not 
 know it then, but the enemy had shelled the bridge 
 hardly an hour before we arrived there: if they had 
 done it while a mile-long train of troops were waiting 
 there they would have made a fine mess. 
 
 We got back in the forenoon of yesterday, and have
 
 John AyscougVs Letters to his Mother 29 
 
 sent our wounded on to the base: only new ones have 
 arrived. It had got fine by the time we got in. 
 
 I felt very stiff and cold from bemg wet so many hours, 
 but though I was deadly tired I had determined to walk, 
 and that prevented my taking any ill-effects. I have 
 not caught cold, much less pneumonia or bronchitis, and 
 though I woke very stiff this morning even that has gone 
 off. 
 
 Our people here greeted us with great friendliness and 
 cordiality: they had heard we were in a tight place and 
 hardly knew how we were to get out of it, or whether we 
 had been wiped out ... so it was rather a triumph for 
 the 15th Ambulance that we had brought off all our 
 wounded, and got away without the least loss. 
 
 I must confess I don't think you would have liked 
 fifteen hours of being under violent fire from shrapnel, 
 lyddite, melanite, maxims and rifles: but I really did 
 like it. It was far more exciting than any game, and I 
 would not have missed it for anything. But our Com- 
 manding Officer says he shall not let his people be sent to 
 such a place again. Of course dead doctors are not 
 much use, and a place in the very bull's eye of the shelling 
 is not the best for conducting critical operations on 
 wounded men. 
 
 Many thousands of shells fell in the course of the 
 fifteen hours : very many quite close to us, as for example 
 at the spots marked. 
 
 The noise all day was amazing. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance y Expeditionary Force 
 
 September 18, 1914 
 
 I AM writing you this short note, not because I have 
 anything much to say, as I wrote you and Christie a long 
 letter each yesterday, but simply because I have the 
 opportunity, and may not have another for ever so long. 
 
 We are still at the farm that was a Preceptory of
 
 30 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Knights Templars: but may get the order to move at 
 any moment. 
 
 A lot of wounded came in this morning, but we were 
 able to send them on within an hour or two. Meanwhile 
 I chatted to most of them and gave Extreme Unction to 
 a dying German prisoner. He was only twenty-one, a 
 sad-faced, simple country lad from Prussian Poland, 
 with no more idea why he should be killed or should kill 
 anyone else, than a sheep or a cow. He was horribly 
 wounded by shell fire on Sunday, and had lain out in the 
 rain ever since, till our people found him in the woods 
 last night (this is Thursday). Isn't it horrible to picture.? 
 starving, drenched, bleeding, so torn and shot in the 
 buttock as to be unable to drag himself out of the woods. 
 So his wounds had gangrened, and he must die. He 
 could only lie on his face: he was fully conscious and 
 joined in where he could in the responses of the office of 
 Extreme Unction; but I know nothing more awful than 
 the broken-hearted patience of such lads: the whole 
 face, the dumb eyes, the agonised posture — without 
 cry, or moan; if ever anything was an appeal to heaven 
 from a brother's blood, crying from the earth, it was one. 
 
 I daresay you do not know any more than I did what a 
 Field Ambulance is or does. Well, its great function is 
 to be mobile, able to move always with the fighting 
 troops and be at hand for the wounded in every action. 
 So it can never retain the wounded it treats: if it did it 
 would at once become zVwmobile (a hospital full of wounded 
 men cannot rush about) and its troops would move on 
 and leave it, and they would have no ambulance any 
 more in attendance. 
 
 Our wounded, therefore, are always "evacuated" 
 within six hours; i.e.^ we send them in ambulances to the 
 "rail-head" (the nearest place where there is a train 
 running) where they entrain and are conveyed first to a 
 "clearing-hospital" then to a general hospital, or perhaps 
 direct to the "base" hospital, whence they embark for 
 England.
 
 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 31 
 
 I wonder if you could send me a sort of sleeveless 
 waistcoat, either knitted or made of flannel. I could not 
 bear or wear one with sleeves, but I might manage with 
 only a large open arm-place and no sleeves. 
 
 Ask the Gaters to see if they could find the sort of 
 thing in Salisbury. I believe they are made in "Jaeger" 
 and you could pay for it. (I believe Sir C. McGrigor 
 sent you the £15 I asked him to.) It is possible that 
 Father Wrafter, S.J., of Gardiner Street, Dublin, would 
 do this for you quite as well as the Gaters; if you would 
 write and ask him: and I know it would only be a pleasure 
 to him. 
 
 I must always beg you not to be anxious if a long time 
 goes by without word of me. When we are marching 
 we never get in touch with the field post offices, and all 
 the others are closed. One can never buy anything, 
 either: all shops are long ago closed: and indeed most 
 villages and towns are deserted. 
 
 I'm so glad you saw Mrs. Profeit, and that George 
 came to see you: I got a nice letter from him yesterday, 
 and also a very nice and affectionate, most sympathetic, 
 one from Benie. 
 
 Now, dear, good-bye. 
 
 God bless you both, and keep you both well, cheerful 
 and prosperous. 
 
 My affectionate messages to the good Gater neighbours 
 and to all to whom you write; and say, every time, to 
 Bert and Mary and old Slade that I am truly pleased to 
 hear how well they do their part in the war. I am really 
 fond of Bert, and know he is fond of us. And Mary . . . 
 is sound and a good, trustworthy girl. 
 
 1 5 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 
 Saturday night, September 19, 191 4 
 
 Another mail arrived to-night and brought in a 
 letter from you, dated September 6th, thirteen days ago, 
 telling of George's arrival at your Manor House.
 
 32 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 I am so glad he went to you and was made comfort- 
 able, and am delighted to hear how old Slade played up 
 and rose to the emergency. I heard something to-day 
 that made me very sad. I walked down to the Head- 
 quarters of our Division, and saw our General, Sir Charles 
 Fergusson, who was most amiable and civil. His A. D. C. 
 is young Lord Malise Graham, son of the Duke of Mont- 
 rose (or Athole, I forget which) whom I had met before. 
 He is a very nice fellow and we were talking together. 
 I asked him for news of Percy Wyndham, and he said 
 "He has been killed." I asked if there was any doubt 
 about it, and he said, "Unfortunately, there is no doubt." 
 Poor, dear lad! so handsome, so full of life, so happily 
 and lately married, with all that could make life attrac- 
 tive. However, he died nobly for his country, and in 
 the moment of victory. 
 
 I cannot say how much I feel for dear old Mrs. Percy 
 Wyndham; in how short a time has she lost her beloved 
 and brilliant husband, her eldest son, and now her grand- 
 son! This lad was the only child of George Wyndham 
 and Lady Grosvenor. 
 
 I was down at Headquarters arranging for Mass here 
 to-morrow, which we are having in a huge barn: probably 
 the first time Mass has ever been said here since the 
 Templars were cruelly suppressed five hundred years ago. 
 
 I must say I w^as pleased by the very kind reception I 
 had at Headquarters from the whole staff, from the 
 General downwards. I don't wonder the delay in getting 
 letters tires you: but we must be patient and make the 
 best of it. 
 
 We have got English papers with Sir John French's 
 official dispatch detailing all the actions, including Le 
 Cateau, Mons, etc., into the thick of which we arrived. 
 Very interesting reading for us: but you have read it all 
 long ago. The dispatch contains high praise of Sir 
 Horace Smith-Dorrien, which specially pleased me, as 
 he is my own general at home.
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 33 
 
 I love to hear of the garden and how nice it was looking 
 when you wrote. I hope George will stay on with you, 
 and cheer you with his fresh young presence: he is a 
 dear boy and he is fond of us all. His mother and grand- 
 mother will be pleased to know he is in such good quarters. 
 
 I am off to bed; so will close this. 
 
 I daresay all my letters will not reach you: those I 
 have been able to give myself to one of the censors will 
 no doubt get through. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 
 September 21, 19 14 
 
 We moved into this farm last Monday, and now it is 
 Monday again — a whole week in one place and never 
 before did we stay two nights in one place. Last night 
 I slept in a bed ! there's glory for you. Besides ourselves, 
 nine officers have been billeted here, and they have a 
 couple of excellent bedrooms: we are sleeping on the 
 stone floor of the entrance hall — first come, first served, 
 of course. Yesterday they moved off and we got their 
 rooms. This one (I am writing in it) is large, clean, 
 airy, and prettily papered, and the beds are new, clean, 
 and comfortable. So, having nothing else to do, I went 
 to bed at eight last night and had ten hours' rest. Can 
 you imagine me five weeks without reading anything? 
 Yet that is my pHght. For five weeks I have had nothing 
 to read. 
 
 Yesterday morning we had Mass in one of the immense 
 Gothic barns, and it was crammed; some tell me that 
 there were a thousand men present, but I think there 
 were over six hundred. The men were viost devout and 
 full of piety, attention and interest. They sat on the 
 hay while I preached — for over half an hour — and 
 listened with all their eyes, ears, and mouths. An 
 officer said afterwards, "I wished you would go on for 
 hours." It was really interesting and impressive; the
 
 34 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 great dim barn, the crowd of soldiers crouched in the 
 hay, the enemies' guns booming three miles off, and the 
 thought that once again (after five hundred and fifty 
 years), Mass was being said in this old place of religion, 
 built by warrior-monks, by a foreign priest belonging to 
 a foreign army, for foreign soldiers. At the end I gave 
 away medals, and the crushing up to get them was 
 funny. "Here," I heard one young corporal expostulate, 
 "this ain't a dance, and you aren't a swell tryin' to get 
 an 'am and chicken." It was a loft-barn, and all that 
 huge crowd had to get down by a very shaky ladder! 
 While they were slowly getting olf, some officers came 
 and talked to me — among them young Bellingham, 
 Lady Bute's brother, son of an old friend of mine. Sir 
 Henry BelHngham, of Castle Bellingham in Co. Louth: 
 also a fiery-headed Capt. McAlister, who used to come 
 to see me about his marriage last time we were in Malta; 
 once he lunched with us (I remember) down in the hall. 
 He inquired with unfeigned interest for you, remembering 
 all about your illness, etc. 
 
 The Protestant officers were all impressed by our 
 Mass and our people: it struck them how cheery and 
 chatty the men were, and how glad to get to Mass, though 
 having to walk far in the rain and mud. 
 
 After lunch I walked off and gave afternoon services 
 at two different places, preaching at each to most eagerly 
 attentive listeners. 
 
 I wish you would write a note for me to the Reverend 
 Mother, Sacre Coeur Convent, Roehampton, S.W., asking 
 if she could send me some medals for the soldiers — I 
 have given away about twelve hundred and have none 
 left. Medals, small crucifixes, rosaries, scapulars, Agnus 
 Deis — I could give away lots of, and am always being 
 asked for them. If you would give the Reverend Mother 
 my address, and tell her I asked you to write, I feel sure 
 she would send me some. So would the Reverend 
 Mother Prioress, New Hall Convent, Colchester.
 
 John Ayscough' s Letters to his Mother 35 
 
 Would you ask Mary to buy me three more pairs of 
 those red socks I bought at Hobdens: she knows well 
 what they are like and they only cost a shilling a pair. 
 The colour doesn't much matter, but red, puce, petunia, 
 plum, etc. — any such colour would do. And then 
 would you send them to me: (English rate of postage). 
 Tell Christie not to waste her stamps. She forwarded 
 three letters in one envelope and put 3d on it; id would 
 have done. There is no fear at all of my being charged 
 excess postage. You must pay for the socks — I have 
 no account there. By the way the shop is called Haskin, 
 though it belongs to Hobdens. 
 
 1 5 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 
 September 22, 1914 
 
 I WONDER whether my letters ever reach you? I have 
 written plenty — written pretty well daily since we came 
 to an anchor here yesterday week: but all sorts of tire- 
 some rumours reach us of censors tearing up all letters 
 too long for them to take the trouble of reading, etc. 
 
 Did you, for instance, ever get a letter from me dated 
 August 28th or 29th, and containing various cheques 
 for wages, etc. ? It is a scandalous shame if they simply 
 tear up such letters with the cheques in them without 
 saying anything. I cannot believe it: it is very unlikely 
 that I alone of the British forces should have occasion 
 to send cheques home, and I cannot believe that all such 
 cheques should simply be destroyed without explanation 
 to the senders. 
 
 Meanwhile, if you want some money you must write 
 to Sir Charles McGrigor and ask for it. If you send him 
 enclosed slip I think it will be all right. 
 
 We are still doing nothing but sitting still at this farm, 
 getting our hair cut, our linen washed, etc. A certain 
 number of wounded come in every day, and some sick, 
 especially men who have got rheumatism from lying in
 
 36 John Ayscouglo s Letters to his Mother 
 
 the trenches. Very few of these are CathoHcs, and none 
 of these few lately have been very serious cases. 
 
 I am ever so well, eating about ten times what I ate at 
 home, and yet, if anything, slighter, certainly no more 
 podgy. It was fine all day yesterday and the day before, 
 and will be so to-day, I think; but unfortunately it rains 
 every night, and so the plague of mud continues. 
 
 I always hoped to get back in time to keep your birth- 
 day with you at home; that, I fear, is a dream from 
 which I must wake up; still, everyone says the war must 
 end soon, as Germany has no money to go on with, and 
 no reserve of men to fill up the huge gaps. 
 
 We can only pray, as I do daily and all day long, for 
 Peace, and reunion. 
 
 George, in his letter, spoke of his pleasure and relief 
 in finding you cheerful and bright: I was truly grateful 
 to him for putting it in. I must praise you as I am 
 always praising Christie, and all of them: them for their 
 care of you, and you for doing what I asked — my last 
 word to you was, "Keep well and cheerful till I come 
 back." 
 
 I cannot in each letter repeat the messages I mean 
 you to give from me. But whenever you see the Gaters 
 say how much I feel their neighbourly attentions to you, 
 and in your chats with Christie say how fully I appreciate 
 her goodness in staying away from her beloved Alice to 
 cheer and take care of you. . . . 
 
 1 5 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 
 Wednesday, September 23, 1914 
 
 Yesterday I went for a walk, almost the first. . . . 
 You see till we stopped here ten days ago we were always 
 on the move and tired enough without extra walking, 
 and even here we are not supposed to wander about: 
 because one might easily walk into the enemy's lines, or 
 outposts, or be rounded up by their Uhlans. Therefore
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 37 
 
 we never go out without leave, and are not supposed to 
 ask for it often. Yesterday I did go, and enjoyed it. 
 First we (myself and a young officer called McCurry, 
 nicknamed McChutney) went down to the village, a mile 
 away, where the Headquarters of this Division are. 
 There I immediately fell in with Lord Malise Graham, 
 and we had a talk about our various friends in the war. 
 . . . He is a very nice fellow, young, handsome, serious^ 
 with a fine character in his face. 
 
 Then I went and said my prayers in the village church 
 and arranged for the use of it, if I want it, next Sunday: 
 the priest here (as is the case in ninety-nine cases out of 
 a hundred) has gone off to fight for his country. It is a 
 beautiful little church, at least eight centuries old, I should 
 say. 
 
 Then we walked on and met three charming French 
 officers, very keen about Mass next Sunday, with whom 
 we stayed chatting for nearly an hour. McCurry thought 
 our talk very briUiant! ("Pass the jam" is about the 
 average of our conversation at Mess here.) One of the 
 Frenchmen knows the Clarys well. 
 
 Next we met General Forestier-Walker: I don't mean 
 the ghost of our old friend. Sir Frederick, but his cousin 
 who was at SaHsbury, and whose wife was Lady Mary 
 Liddell, daughter of the Lord Ravensworth whom Athol 
 Liddell succeeded. He was quite gushing, and insisted 
 on driving us home here in his motor. He told me that 
 General Drummond had gone home, sufi^ering from a 
 total break-down. You know he was given command 
 of the 19th Brigade. Isn't it bad for him.^ I am sure 
 he will be dreadfully cut up about it. You see in an 
 officer of his rank it means the loss of such a chance of 
 distinction. It was a pleasant change or outing and I 
 enjoyed it very much. 
 
 I heard something which sounds almost too good to be 
 true. 
 
 The Commandant told me yesterday afternoon that
 
 38 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 he knew unofficially my name had been recommended to 
 be "mentioned in dispatches" for what I did at Missey. 
 That is to say for "distinguished" or "meritorious" 
 conduct during the fifteen hours we were under heavy 
 fire. If I am mentioned in dispatches it will be ripping. 
 So old a man who comes a-soldiering can hardly hope for 
 more than to escape being called behind-hand and lazy. 
 Of course this may explain the wonderfully respectful 
 welcome I got on Saturday from the Headquarters Staff, 
 which struck me at the time. 
 
 However, though I may have been recommended for 
 mention, it does not follow I shall be mentioned : if I am 
 I daresay the Gaters will see it in the papers, or hear it in 
 Salisbury and tell you. 
 
 A soldier servant washed out some linen for me the 
 day before yesterday, and brought it back just now. 
 It was hlack, whereas it wasn't very dirty when I gave it 
 him to wash: so I have had to wash it all over again! 
 
 Remember your letters are not touched by the censors, 
 only ours. 
 
 September 24, 191 4 
 
 This will be a very short letter; but I have just received 
 two from you and want to acknowledge them. 
 
 While we were on "trek" we never came near a field 
 post office and neither got letters nor received them: 
 now we get a mail almost every day and can post letters 
 every day; whether they will ever go anywhere or get 
 anywhere is quite another question. 
 
 You write as though you had not heard anything of 
 me for ages — that was on September 12th (just twelve 
 days ago), but I hope you will soon have a regular succes- 
 sion of letters. Oddly enough two of your letters arrived 
 together, one nearly a fortnight older than the other — 
 i.e., one dated September ist, and the other September 
 1 2th. George wrote by the same mail, a very nice letter,
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 39 
 
 indeed, dated September nth. His letter is rather 
 amusing and shows he has an observing pair of eyes in 
 his head. 
 
 I saw Lord Malise Graham again yesterday down at 
 Headquarters and gave him a letter to you to post. 
 
 Then I met some soldiers who asked if they might come 
 up here to confession, so I said / would go to them, and 
 fixed last night at the village church. About forty came, 
 and to-day I got up in the dark — before five o'clock — 
 and carried all the things for Mass down there in my 
 hand and said Mass for them and gave Holy Communion. 
 
 The parish priest himself is away fighting for France 
 in the trenches, like thousands and thousands of others. 
 It is a lovely old church — very old, perhaps eight or nine 
 centuries. 
 
 Now I am going to rest. God bless you, and may He 
 end this hateful war. 
 
 1 5 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 
 Friday, September 25, 1914 
 
 I HAVE just written such a long letter to the Bishop 
 that I will merely send you a line to say I am quite well 
 and flourishing. 
 
 I received enclosed from George last night: isn't it a 
 nice letter.^ Please keep it. I should like to keep all 
 the letters I receive during the war. 
 
 We have now got back to fine weather: the rain all 
 gone, the mud dried up, and we have bright sun, blue 
 sky and cool air: much nicer than the blazing drought 
 that came before the rain. 
 
 I wish I could draw, like you; the country is so pretty, 
 and the villages, churches, and farms are most picturesque. 
 But the only pictures I can make are with the pen. 
 
 Now I will stop — I said this was to be only a mere 
 line.
 
 40 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 {Card~\ 
 
 Friday^ September 25, 1914 
 
 These cards are supposed to be extra-special — bound 
 to reach you, and to reach you soon. I am so sorry you 
 have not been hearing: I have written tons of letters. 
 I assure you I am extremely alive, and you must believe 
 I am so till you hear officially to the contrary from the 
 War Office. I had a charming letter from George, and 
 am so glad you had him to stay. My best love to Christie, 
 the Gaters, etc. We are having perfect weather now, 
 which adds much to our comfort. 
 
 1 5 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 
 September 26, 1914 
 
 Last evening I had a cheerful letter from you dated 
 the 15th, saying you had received mine of August 28th 
 and September 2d. I hope that now you will be receiving 
 a regular succession of letters. 
 
 Yesterday I walked down to the Divisional Head- 
 quarters and gave Lord Malise Graham some letters to 
 get through for me: the General, Sir Charles Fergusson, 
 kept me talking for half an hour. He is a most charming 
 man, and a great friend of the Drummonds. He told me 
 his wife wrote saying she had only had one letter and 
 three post-cards from him since the war began, whereas 
 he has written between twenty and thirty letters and 
 scores of postcards. So you see you are not the only 
 sufferer! He says some enterprising young censor has 
 been tearing up Sir John French's letters — who doesn't 
 see the joke at all! 
 
 Sir Charles begged me to come down and chat again. 
 
 I got a charming letter from Christie last night and 
 will answer it this afternoon: also a card from Winifred 
 Gater of same date, and letters from Herbert Ward and
 
 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 41 
 
 his mother. He is near Tidworth and I hope you will be 
 kind to him. The telegram was from Lady O'Conor, 
 Mrs. Wilfrid Ward's sister, and was about Aubrey 
 Herbert, youngest brother of Lord Carnarvon, and 
 cousin of the Portsmouths. I do hope his wounds are 
 not severe and that he is no longer missing. 
 
 This is only to tell you I am quite well. I must shut 
 up and go down to Headquarters to arrange about 
 to-morrow's Masses. (This is Saturday.) You will get 
 a grey post-card (posted to-day) on Monday because a 
 King's Messenger is taking it in his bag. 
 
 1 5 Field Ambulance^ Expeditionary Force 
 Sunday^ 7.30 a.m., September 27, 1914 
 
 Yesterday afternoon I got your big envelope, enclos- 
 ing the two stocks and the bit of silk, and by the same 
 post a letter from Christie, one from Father Mather, and 
 one from you, all speaking of your being jubilant on 
 account of a budget of letters from me. I wish you 
 would always date your letters, and also mention the 
 date of the last of mine received. The stocks seem to 
 have been sent off on the i6th, and so they took exactly 
 ten days to arrive — as the King's Messenger does the 
 journey from London to us in twelve hours, I can't 
 think why it should require ten days for an ordinary 
 letter. 
 
 We have just had a very annoying false alarm. . . . 
 
 Yesterday being Saturday I arranged with the General 
 commanding this Division, Sir Charles Fergusson, to have 
 the troops here for Mass to-day at 7.30 and at the village 
 church at 9.30. Lots of troops were coming, and yester- 
 day afternoon I was hearing the confessions of lots of 
 men anxious to go to Communion to-day . . . when, 
 lo and behold, at 4.20 this morning, comes a motor- 
 bicyclist messenger with a dispatch, "Be ready to move 
 at once," and all were up and off. The altar I had rigged
 
 42 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 up yesterday with all the Mass things on it had to be 
 packed up instantly, and all, officers and men, had to 
 gobble up anything ready in view of a day's march and 
 no regular meals. 
 
 I was the last reluctantly to break my fast. Almost 
 as soon as I had done so news came, "False alarm; carry 
 on as usual." 
 
 It is maddening; of course the men are disappointed, 
 and wonder why there's no Mass: and it all upsets me 
 and makes me feel quite ill. 
 
 No doubt lots of men will roll up just because the 
 Mass has been countermanded. 
 
 Father Mather wrote in excellent spirits and seemed 
 to be enjoying his brief visit to you. 
 
 Michaelmas Day, September 29, 191 4 
 
 We have been so long stationary in one place that 
 you must expect monotony in my letters. . . . 
 
 Yesterday afternoon I walked with one of our officers 
 to a village about four miles from here, chiefly for the 
 walk, and partly to buy anything we could see for our 
 Mess. What we did see was a goose (the first in mufti), 
 which we bought for to-night's dinner in honour of St. 
 Michael. 
 
 It was a very pretty walk — into another valley, deep, 
 green, wooded like this one, and hiding long stone villages 
 and farmhouses with barns fit for churches. 
 
 At C. I bought some shiny gaiters to wear when the 
 muddy weather returns: they were not splendid but 
 neither were they dear. 
 
 (How deeply interested the censor will be in these 
 important particulars! One almost feels bound to invent 
 something a little exciting to put in, lest he should fall 
 asleep in reading!) 
 
 I enjoyed the walk, the getting away from the group 
 — a lot of people together never do suit me — and the
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 43 
 
 quiet talk with one person. My companion was a 
 fellow called Thomson, a doctor, of course, but really a 
 civilian: out here as a volunteer. As a volunteer he 
 went out to the Balkan war last year, and he seems to 
 have been everywhere — in the China revolution, in 
 Canada, in Australia, etc. He is a nephew of Labouchere, 
 the founder and originator of Truth, and also of Thorold, 
 Bishop of St. Albans, whose children became Catholics 
 (one of them, Algar Thorold, I knew well years ago). 
 
 This morning I went out, attended by my servant, 
 armed with a market-basket, to buy some vegetables if 
 I could. We found a small, rather prosperous-looking 
 farmhouse, lonely in a narrow gorge-like valley. The 
 farmer, with two men, we saw gathering Indian corn for 
 the cattle. He smiled and assumed (very easily) an 
 expression of complete stupidity ... of vegetables, 
 apparently, he had never heard. But his wife "under- 
 stood vegetables and anything else we wished," so we 
 went on to the homestead. The woman — comfortable, 
 sagacious, as hard as a brick — with four children, came 
 out to parley. The children all idle and bored, schools 
 being shut, "cause de la guerre." 
 
 I was careful to show my money. I am always in 
 dread of these poor folk thinking one comes to get their 
 stuff out of them for nothing. Would she sell us as 
 many vegetables as she thought two francs would justly 
 buy? 
 
 She evidently meant to — and did. But while digging 
 the potatoes, onions, carrots, etc., she spoke — and, as I 
 thought, wisely. 
 
 "Money!" says she. "Look at those four little ones with 
 each a mouth — and their father has a mouth, too — all 
 open. And, when winter comes, what shall I put in, if 
 I sell away all the stuff we have planted and w^atered for 
 our winter provision.'' Presently you go back chez 
 vous?" ("Please God," says I). 
 
 *' Bien!" says she. "You go back: and you find your
 
 44 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 stuff there: but we stay, and see — ours Is all gone, if we 
 sell it to you. Thus does it seem to me." 
 
 However, she filled the basket, and put in a little 
 extra after I had given her small girl two sous to buy 
 sweets. 
 
 I cannot tell you how entirely reasonable I thought the 
 poor woman, who looked at it all from the point of view 
 of a mother with four children and a big fifth child of a 
 husband. Still, I did argue a little — to encourage her. 
 
 "Doubtless Madame understands," said I, "that it is 
 not our joke that we come here to France, some to get 
 killed, some to have their ears blown off, and so follow- 
 ing. It is perhaps — " 
 
 ''Nous aider y'^ she chipped in, "bien." 
 
 "Jlors!" say I. "You give me ten francs' worth /or 
 ten francs; and keep the rest. If we had stayed at 
 home it would have been the Germans who would have 
 taken all — and there would have been no francs." 
 
 "C'est ^a!" says she. 
 
 It was an interesting visit: a tiny war parenthesis. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 Written September 30, 1914, z^'ill be posted, 
 
 October i, 1914 
 
 To-morrow, Thursday, will bring us a new month. 
 Saturday will be your birthday, and this year you must 
 keep it without me — the first time for two-and-twenty 
 years. Well, I shall say Mass for you, and say many, 
 many prayers for you, though that I am continually 
 doing. 
 
 Yesterday morning we had Mass for Michaelmas in 
 our huge barn loft; and a number of men came to it; 
 just behind the altar was the back of the great dove-cote 
 — a fine architectural feature of the great range of once 
 monastic buildings: and the pigeons kept up a pleasant
 
 John Ayscough' s Letters to his Mother 45 
 
 mothery noise all the while. *'Boo-hoo" they seemed to 
 be saying to War. 
 
 I wrote a long letter to Mr. Gater this morning and it 
 took all the time; it was on business and I daresay he 
 will bring it to you. It contained a sort of explanation 
 about what money there would be in case of my death. 
 I feel uncommonly lively, but one may as well be business- 
 like and get things ship-shape. Yesterday afternoon I 
 went for a walk all alone, which I do not often do; we 
 are not supposed to wander forth without leave or saying 
 precisely where we are going and our C. O. does not like 
 me to make a practice of it lest I should be snapped up 
 by Uhlans (I've never seen one yet) or saunter into the 
 enemy's lines! However, it was rather a treat, the 
 purposeless stroll all alone, with no one to make talk for, 
 just through the woody valleys and not to any town or 
 village. The path led through a delightful wood, lining 
 a deep valley with richly cultivated bottom, very 
 secluded, silent, and peaceful; you might have forgotten 
 there was any war but for the monotonous boom of the 
 guns, and for the busy aeroplanes spying far up in the 
 blue — one of these last came down most beautifully, in 
 a perfect cork-screw spiral of very narrow radius. I 
 said my rosary as I walked, and picked this flower for 
 you — very pretty when I did pick it. I loved my 
 walk and the quietness and loneliness of it; of course I 
 was thinking of you all the time and as homesick as if I 
 were five and forty years younger and a small boy at 
 school. 
 
 Thursday^ 8 a.m. 
 
 Well, October is come in — come in wreathed in cool 
 smiles, brilliant but autumnal. By 6.45 I was out and 
 enjoying a short stroll with my French dog. (I don't 
 know to whom he belonged originally — not to the 
 people of the farm — or whence he came, but he has
 
 46 John Ayscougifs Letters to his Mother 
 
 adopted me and goes where I go, sits under the table at 
 my feet at meals, and always turns up whenever I go out.) 
 It all looked lovely, though not so exquisite and unearthly 
 as last night after moonrise, when the moonlight and the 
 opal relics of the sunset were rivals in the sky. 
 
 There has been no return of the rain yet and the health 
 of all our troops is splendid. It is no longer warm, but 
 not really cold: of course we have no fires and are in no 
 hurry for the cold weather. 
 
 Friday, October 2, 1914 
 
 I WRITE this from a new place. I was peacefully 
 darning my socks last night, just before dinner-time, when 
 orders came for an instant move and off we came. It 
 was a lovely night, with a huge moon, and the "trek" 
 was not long, so I quite enjoyed it. One could see the 
 beautiful country through which we were passing per- 
 fectly, deep, deep valleys brimming with shining mist, 
 wooded ridges rising like islands above the white sea of 
 fog; then, in other places, no mist but clear field and 
 spinneys, camp-fires setting their yellow and red lights 
 against the moon's silver-blue. There were big groups 
 of soldiers sitting around these fires, with wonderful 
 effects of black and red. I wish to goodness I could 
 paint; what studies I could get here! Halfway along 
 the march I felt a little soft push against my leg and 
 there was my French dog, w^ho was determined not to be 
 left behind: and here he is — here he was, indeed, the 
 moment I arrived last night. I spent most of yesterday 
 walking: a little stroll before breakfast, a walk in the 
 woods between breakfast and lunch, after tea a walk with 
 one of our Majors, and then the march. 
 
 We are again billeted in a very good house tacked on 
 to an old ruined castle: the latter exactly the sort you 
 may see in dozens of Irish villages; a thick round tower 
 almost without windows, and not much else: the cabins 
 huddled close up against it.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 47 
 
 At our last place we could post letters every day and 
 got mails four or five days a week — I don't know how 
 it will be here. 
 
 The man who owns this chateau or farm is away fighting 
 at the war and his father is in charge here: he is a grim, 
 rather dismal person who mopes around, bemoaning the 
 war — it has cost them, he says, 60,000 francs here 
 already — that is £2400. 
 
 When I have done writing this I shall read: there 
 are plenty of books here — the first I have seen since 
 leaving home — mostly French translations of English 
 books. I shall start on Pickwick in French. 
 
 I hope you will have a nice day for your birthday 
 to-morrow. It is dull here to-day, with a Scotch mist; 
 so that we are lucky to have an excellent roof over our 
 heads. 
 
 I think my letters get duller and duller; but here one 
 hears of nothing but the war, and it is exactly the thing 
 one must not write about. 
 
 Sunday, October 4, 1914 
 
 I AM writing this at a comfortable writing-table in a 
 very beautiful room of a singularly beautiful and interest- 
 ing chateau. It was once a great Cistercian Abbey, and 
 in the huge and lovely ruins of the Abbey Church I said 
 Mass this morning. We arrived here last night at 
 about eleven o'clock: and most lovely the ruins of the 
 abbey looked in the brilliant moonlight. 
 
 The chateau we found full of "bosses" — Head- 
 quarters of the Brigade, Headquarters of the Division, 
 etc., troops everywhere: the whole beautiful park a 
 camp. 
 
 Our billet was a barn, deep in clean straw where we 
 were very comfortable, but where the rats were also 
 very comfortable and at home. 
 
 I got up early and as soon as I could get hold of any of
 
 48 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 the Staff people I arranged to have Mass in the ruins 
 at 9.30. 
 
 The Comte and Comtesse de Montesquiou-Fezenzac, 
 to whom the castle belongs, came and were very much 
 edified and pleased. They talk excellent English and 
 the Comte told me he would give me a room to write to 
 you in. 
 
 So here I am; the castle is really huge and fine, the 
 rooms very large and beautifully designed, furnished, 
 etc. It is the most charming and most imposing private 
 house I ever saw in France. 
 
 And the Chatelain and Chatelaine seem very nice 
 people. The abbey was destroyed at the Revolution 
 about one hundred and twenty years ago, the magnificent 
 church dating from 1250, about — it is quite immense, 
 as big as a cathedral. 
 
 I will try and get some picture post-cards to show 
 you later on. 
 
 I thought much of you yesterday, and hoped you 
 were well and happy on your birthday; but I could not 
 drink your health in anything stronger than water. 
 
 We left our last place about six o'clock last night and 
 got here about eleven. 
 
 All afternoon I was darning my socks — quite success 
 fully. I must stop now. With best love to Christie. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 
 Tuesday, 8 a.m., October 6, 1914 
 
 On Sunday I wrote to you from the chateau of Long- 
 bridge. (There's no such castle in France, but Long- 
 bridge is my nickname for it, in allusion to an anecdote 
 which I will tell you some day.) After luncheon I went 
 for a walk about the place; the park, woods, etc., remind 
 one very much indeed of Wardour, except that the ruins 
 at Wardour are those of a castle and those at Longbridge 
 are abbey. That first walk I took by myself: and said
 
 John AyscougV s Letters to his Mother 49 
 
 my rosary for you meanwhile. It was all marvellously 
 beautiful and picturesque, the woods full of troops and 
 picketed horses exactly like some picture by Detaille. 
 At one point in the woods there was a pretty waterfall at 
 which two soldiers were shaving! As soon as I got back 
 from my solitary walk I went for another with one of 
 our officers. At nightfall we marched and arrived here 
 at six o'clock yesterday (Monday) morning, after ten or 
 eleven hours on the road. We are in very comfortable 
 quarters, — beds, chairs, washing-stands, etc., and it is 
 all exquisitely clean and fresh. Quite close to us are 
 the ruins of another abbey, with a perfectly lovely and 
 intact rose window in the western gable. About a mile 
 beyond the ruins, or less, is a magnificent castle perched 
 high on a rocky, wooded bluff — as fine as any I have 
 ever seen in France: oddly enough it belongs to people 
 of our name, Dru: for Dru and Drew are both given 
 indiff'erently in Domesday Book to the same man, our 
 famous founder. The little village, instead of cowering 
 under the castle as so often happens, hides behind it on 
 the top of the rock. The church is interesting and 
 contains many ancient pictures given by M. and Mme. 
 Dru of the castle. After luncheon I walked through the 
 woods behind this house and got magnificent views of the 
 castle, quite different from those one gets from the road. . . . 
 Last night we stayed on here, and had a luxurious sleep 
 in excellent clean beds and this morning I had some 
 warm water to wash in ! There's glory for you. My new 
 servant is a treasure. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 
 8.30 A.M. October 10, 1914 
 
 Excuse this paper being a little dirty — I began and 
 got as far as the date yesterday, and had to pack up, 
 so that the paper and my brushes, sponge-bag, etc., 
 have been jumbled together all night.
 
 50 'John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 I have been doing a good bit of marching (I mean 
 real marching on foot) lately: and we have been moving 
 each day, so that we have not had any letters — we 
 only get them when we are stationary for a day or two. 
 
 You must not picture me sleeping out in the fields 
 now, for I have slept indoors quite a long time: some- 
 times in a regular bed with sheets, and sometimes on the 
 floor in my own rugs. I can always sleep very well in 
 the latter, and do not find it at all uncomfortable or 
 cold. 
 
 Also we have had heaps to eat. On the line of march 
 meals are odd and taken at odd times: but when we are 
 stationary we get regular meals at regular hours. 
 
 On Tuesday afternoon we left the place near which was 
 the fine family chateau I told you of. We marched 
 through several villages to a town called St. Martin 
 and there slept. At 6.15 on Wednesday we breakfasted 
 and at 7.15 marched again, passing through many vil- 
 lages with interesting old churches and one with a fine 
 calvary at its entrance. 
 
 About midday we reached a place on the railway and 
 at 6 P.M. were entrained and moved on. It was nearly 
 eight weeks since we had been in a train before. The 
 Commanding Officer and I had a first class to ourselves 
 (my French dog shared my half of it). I am treated as 
 senior officer in everything except the command, and 
 get best bed, best place, etc. : so you see I do get some 
 good out of being a ''full Colonel." 
 
 It was on the morning of that day I met Sir Horace 
 Smith-Dorrien and had the talk I told you of. I expect 
 Lady Smith-Dorrien has been to see you by this time. 
 They are a most devoted couple and she, too, must be 
 sad without her man. It was bitterly cold that night 
 in the train, but as soon as the sun was up next day it 
 got brilliantly fine and very warm. Besides I was 
 marching again and that soon warmed me. We marched 
 some five or six miles to a big town called . . . and
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 51 
 
 another five beyond it; then a long halt to await orders; 
 at 6 P.M. set ofF again on a further march of twelve miles. 
 At I A.M. (in the middle of the night) we reached our 
 billet — a small, not very clean farm. However, the 
 kitchen was warm and we had a meal and went to bed. 
 I had quite a grand one and the farm folk made no end 
 of a fuss of "Monseigneur" — certainly the first they 
 had ever entertained. 
 
 Last night at seven o'clock we marched to a village 
 called . . . and had good beds there. We were all in 
 different houses, I, my servant, and another officer: 
 I used the Oxo cubes Winifred Gater sent, and with 
 the beef-tea they made and some ration biscuit we made 
 an excellent supper. 
 
 At 6.30 we marched on here — only two or three miles: 
 and here we are stuck till two or three in the afternoon 
 waiting for motor lorries to carry us forward. 
 
 Unfortunately the long stops are always in poky, 
 uninteresting places; if we come to a Cathedral town 
 with things to see we skirt it, or hurry through at quick 
 march with no chance of seeing anything. I hope you 
 are all well and flourishing. My best love to Christie, 
 and to the Gaters; and be sure to tell Bert how grateful 
 I am to him for his care of you all. 
 
 Now I must stop, simply because there is nothing 
 to tell you. 
 
 Monday, 4 p.m., October 12, 1914 
 
 I AM always having to apologise for my note-paper; 
 by keeping a sheet or two in my haversack I can often 
 write you a letter during a halt, or at some place on the 
 march, when otherwise it would be quite impossible. 
 But then such sheets of paper have to be crunched up 
 with all the other contents of the haversack, and get 
 dirty and crumpled. 
 
 This morning we had to be up soon after four o'clock,
 
 52 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 and dress nearly in the dark to get off by six: and just 
 as we were starting, an enormous mail was put into my 
 hands — five fat parcels and close on fifty letters. 
 
 The parcels were (i) cardigan jacket and three pair 
 
 of red socks from you, but addressed by Mrs. P ; 
 
 (2) a writing block and indelible pencil from Mrs. Gater 
 — very useful: and I wrote to her on it during a halt 
 on the line of march to-day, (3) some books from Chatto, 
 (4) ditto from Smith, Elder & Co., (5) a packet of things 
 for the men from my kind Jesuit friend at Gardiner 
 Street, Dublin, Father Wrafter, who says he is also 
 sending a rug for myself. His affectionate kindness all 
 along has been most touching, seeing how very brief 
 our acquaintance was. 
 
 So far I wrote this afternoon: now I begin again at 
 9 P.M. but am too sleepy to finish, having been up since 
 soon after four. 
 
 This evening I had another big post, with two letters 
 from you — one telling me of Christie's departure, and 
 of Winifred Gater's arrival. I am so sorry to hear of 
 Ver's being ordered away: it will be a trouble to Ahce 
 and her mother, and of course they will be anxious for 
 him. Still I am glad to think there is the Manor House 
 for you all to be together in. 
 
 I also had charming letters from the Duchess of Wel- 
 lington, Christie, the Gaters (Mrs. and Miss), Herbert 
 Ward, Father W'-after (2), Father Keating — also S.J., 
 Father Mather (2), and the dear Bishop — a most delight- 
 ful letter full of heart and cheerful encouragement. He 
 speaks with admiration of the courageous, cheerful 
 letters he has had from you. 
 
 I got your letter long ago with the white heather, 
 and am pleased that you had mine with the bits of flowers 
 I enclosed. 
 
 The Duchess said you had written her a delightful 
 letter: and both she and her husband seem to have 
 been immensely pleased with my letter to her. I'm
 
 John AyscougV s Letters to his Mother 53 
 
 glad you had so nice a letter from Lady O'Conor: she 
 is a most faithful, warm-hearted friend, and has never 
 cooled or wavered in a friendship of over thirty years* 
 standing. It touches me to hear of her speaking as 
 if it were anything to my credit that / should remain 
 unchanged in spite of having become a "famous author." 
 
 So Jack and George are both officers — and Herbert 
 Ward too: how the world hurries these days! 
 
 You say the frost has finished up asters, begonias, 
 etc. Here we have had some night frosts, but I see 
 lots of begonias in the gardens we pass. 
 
 It is hard to describe my recent occupations, as they 
 have all consisted of movements from place to place, 
 and I must not mention any of the names of those places. 
 
 Here we are, for the first time, quartered in a town 
 (about the size of Salisbury), with quaint, twisty streets, 
 a huge "place" with a marvellous thirteenth-century 
 belfry in the midst of it, a fine church, and some fine 
 Renaissance houses. 
 
 Now I cannot hold my eyes open and must go to bed. 
 
 I am glad you like hearing of my French dog: poor 
 little beast, he is so fond of me, and has followed me 
 such a huge distance. But he can't abide my going into 
 a church, because he mustn't, and it makes him fright- 
 fully jealous; he can't make up his mind if I go in to 
 eat wonderful meals or to pat some dog whom he sus- 
 pects but cannot bite. 
 
 Friday^ October 16, 19 14 
 
 Since Monday I have had a letter written for you but 
 have had no opportunity to post it. On that day, 
 about 2 P.M., I came away with a "section" of the Field 
 Ambulance to open a Clearing Hospital here; and it is 
 only when we are with our "unit" that we can get letters 
 censored and passed for post. Since midday on Monday 
 I have been busy every moment of the day, and have
 
 54 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 been quite unable to write, nor can I write much now, 
 as I must go off to visit wounded in another hospital — 
 there are three for me to visit. 
 
 During the last four and a half days all my time has 
 been spent in the wards attending to wounded — not 
 spiritually only (or chiefly) but giving them tea, coffee, 
 beef-tea, sweets (fellows with slight wounds), chocolate, 
 bread, jam, cigarettes, etc. I had no letters for a week; 
 then came a huge mail on Monday night, and a mail 
 every day since. This morning I had a letter from you 
 and two from Christie ... I do receive all your letters 
 and other people's — also all parcels — in time, but they 
 come irregularly. 
 
 I have received the big box of biscuits, and distributed 
 them, with coffee, to wounded, half an hour after I got 
 them. Also chocolates, medals, crucifixes, sweets, etc. 
 from nuns at Darlington, New Hall, etc.. Father Wrafter, 
 and others. Your cardigan and socks arrived a week 
 ago: and I have had all the cigarettes. 
 
 We are in a billet here, and the people of the house 
 cook for us — excellent French middle-class cookery — 
 a bit szvashy, but a welcome change after our eternal 
 bacon and tinned beef. 
 
 The French dog has been unwell but is better: I 
 should like to bring him home if possible. He is very 
 well-behaved, moral, domestic in his tastes, and de- 
 murely intelligent, but I fear egoistic and absorbed in his 
 own creature comforts. 
 
 It is odd being in a town — this first time during the 
 war: but I have been too busy to sally forth and view it. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 
 Sunday, October 18, 191 4 
 
 I HAVE just been told that they are sending letters 
 to the field post office immediately, so I can write you
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 55 
 
 a mere word to tell you I am all right — well in health, 
 and in veiy comfortable quarters. 
 
 We are where we have been all the week, in a country- 
 town of 65,000 inhabitants in charge of a temporary- 
 hospital: and I have been very busy all the time. 
 
 I say Mass at seven o'clock each morning in the chapel 
 of a permanent hospital taken care of by Franciscan nuns, 
 of whom two are Irish: dear creatures. 
 
 I heard another priest's Mass this morning before my 
 own — a man with a handsome, keen, manly face: 
 and when he took off his vestments in the sacristy at 
 the end of Mass, he was a French soldier in red pantaloons, 
 huge knee boots, etc.! It does seem to me so touching 
 — these poor priests having to go off and soldier. You 
 understand he is not a chaplain; just a private 
 soldier. 
 
 You are not to bother about me and the cold: re- 
 member we are indoors in good quarters, and I do not 
 in the least believe I shall feel the cold. The French 
 dog sends his love. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force, 
 
 Tuesday, October 20, 19 14 
 
 I MET one of the Staff of our Division just now, and 
 he congratulated me on my name having been mentioned 
 in dispatches — published in the Times of yesterday, 
 October 19th, which a King's Messenger brought out 
 here. He also said, "You will be mentioned again for 
 subsequent services." 
 
 I am glad, I must say. . . . 
 
 All last week we were very busy in our temporary 
 hospital, but now we are slack again, and there are not 
 many cases left in it, and no new ones have come in 
 hardly during the last forty-eight hours. 
 
 It is the same in the other hospitals in this town which
 
 56 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 
 
 I attend as chaplain — most of the cases gone off to the 
 "base," and no new ones arriving. 
 
 I have been given such a lot of things lately: Father 
 Wrafter sent me a beautiful rug, large, warm, and soft 
 as silk: six large white silk handkerchiefs, one pair of 
 soft grey leather gloves, one pair soft brown wool-lined. 
 
 Madam Clary sent me long knitted socks, six fine 
 cambric handkerchiefs and cashmere socks. 
 
 A certain General Hickey ... on being invalided 
 home gave me as follows: a soft woollen shirt (just like 
 silk), I've got it on now; a soft Jaeger jacket as light as 
 a feather, but very warm; inner vests, drawers, socks, 
 woollen helmets, large towels, etc. I have given some 
 of them away and kept the rest. They would cost a 
 lot, and are a most useful gift — please don't encourage 
 anyone now to send me anything. I have more than 
 I want: also I receive abundant presents of cigarettes, 
 etc. 
 
 Don't let the Gaters send more; they will need to 
 be thinking of Cyril and his needs. 
 
 I must stop now. I hope you are well, and in good 
 spirits. Don't imagine me enduring any hardships, 
 for we are in excellent quarters. And go on looking 
 forward to my speedy return. 
 
 1 5 Field Ambulancey Expeditionary Force 
 
 Friday, October 23, 191 4 
 
 I HOPE you are quite well. I have had plenty of 
 parcels from all sorts of people, but no letter from you 
 lately: and most of your recent letters were undated. 
 Oddly enough, any letters from Dublin reach me much 
 more quickly than those from you or other places in 
 England. 
 
 I haven't much to say now that I am writing: because, 
 though we have been very busy since coming here, it is
 
 John AyscougU s Letters to his Mother 57 
 
 always doing the s^me thing, i.e., attending to wounded. 
 
 There are four hospitals which I visit, and they are 
 all receiving a constant stream of new wounded. 
 
 This is so terribly sad and depressing to me to see, 
 that I don't feel equal to writing about it too. 
 
 I am quite well and am in very comfortable quarters; 
 in a house quite close to our temporary hospital. The 
 nights are cold now; but instead of sleeping in the fields 
 I have a most sumptuous bed (with sheets, blankets, 
 etc.) to sleep in; nor is it at all Hkely we shall sleep out 
 any more. 
 
 1 5 Field Ambulance^ Expeditionary Force 
 
 Saturday y October 24, 191 4 
 
 Ten weeks ago to-day I left home to join my unit at 
 Dublin ... it seems like ten months, at least. Your 
 last letters have not been quite so cheerful as the earlier 
 ones, as though you were finding it hard to keep up 
 your courage — but cheer up, I believe the war is really 
 coming to an end. In this battle which still continues 
 there have been many, very many, wounded: but we 
 hear that our own losses are nothing compared to those 
 of the Germans; and the places of the German killed 
 are taken by boys and old men, which shows their re- 
 serves are being quickly used up. 
 
 Austria cannot fight much longer, and would not be 
 fighting now if she pleased herself. I believe that the 
 enemy will soon want an armistice. . . . 
 
 The French dog sends his love and begs to say that 
 he hopes to see you some day. 
 
 Father Wrafter continues to send me parcels of all 
 sorts of things for myself and for the men. Isn't he 
 wonderfully kind? 
 
 I'm sure you'll say this is a very dull letter; but I 
 mayn't tell you war news, and there's nothing else to tell.
 
 58 '^ohn Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 1 5 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 
 October 27, 1914 
 
 Though I wrote to you yesterday I forgot to mention 
 what I was thinking of when I began writing — that it 
 was thirty-six years ago yesterday that I became a 
 Cathohc: the really great event of my hfe. 
 
 This letter can only be a mere "Good Morning" for 
 I have nothing to say. 
 
 For over two weeks now my time has been entirely 
 spent in work among the wounded, in hospitals, and 
 one day is exactly like another. 
 
 Yesterday at sunset I buried the German lad to whom 
 I gave the Last Sacraments the day before. It made 
 me very sad. 
 
 Just before that I found two German prisoners in a 
 ward at one of the hospitals, and one of them heard me 
 talking in German to the other. "Who are you talking 
 to?" he asked; "am I not the only German here?" 
 (He was wounded in the chest and unable to sit up and 
 look round.) I told him there was another German there 
 and had them put side by side, so that they could talk 
 to each other, and they both seemed delighted. One of 
 them thought he would reward me by a little flattery 
 and asked if I was not a German Bishop. (I can really 
 speak very little German and he knew it well.) Another 
 German prisoner, in our own hospital here, was found 
 to have six gold watches on him! So I fear he had been 
 making a collection of them. . . . 
 
 • 15 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 
 Thursday, 9 a.m., October 29, 1914 
 
 Please excuse this funny little French envelope: 
 I had about two hundred envelopes and lots of paper 
 the day before yesterday, but gave one envelope and one
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 59 
 
 sheet of paper to each man who asked me, and it all 
 disappeared. So now I have left no envelope but this 
 one till I buy some more in the town. 
 
 Of course I can buy nearly everything here, for the 
 Germans have never been here: in the towns where 
 they have been one can buy nothing, as everything has 
 been swept away. As I went out to Mass this morning, 
 about six forty-five, it was just like a London morning 
 in late autumn, a chill white fog, with black houses and 
 trees groping through it. (I was very glad we were 
 not sleeping out but in excellent beds.) Now, however, 
 the fog has nearly gone, and will soon be gone quite, 
 the sun is bright and we shall have another lovely day 
 like yesterday and the day before. I wonder if I shall 
 have any more marching — I like it, and the pictures 
 it has left in my memory are cheery and pleasant — 
 except of the earlier marches when we passed over ground 
 where there had been shelling or fighting. 
 
 After writing to you yesterday I worked hard in our 
 own hospital till three, lunched, and went off at once to 
 No. 6 Hospital, where I was busy for a long time giving 
 the Last Sacraments to English and German soldiers. 
 
 There was a good many German wounded prisoners, 
 besides those dangerous, practically dying cases I have 
 just mentioned. It is extraordinary how their officers 
 keep them in the dark. None had the least idea where- 
 abouts in France they were: some did not know they 
 were in France at all, and many thought they were on 
 the coasts! (Embarkation for England, I suppose.) 
 They are almost all nice fellows, some few not, but very 
 few. 
 
 One lad under eighteen and looking fifteen, was most 
 touching. Such a baby, with such childish manners, 
 yet fully conscious that he was dying, and quite cheerful 
 about it — only hopping with eagerness at sight of a 
 priest. I suppose I shall always look back on this as the 
 most interesting time of my life, however sad it may be.
 
 6o John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 
 
 We all feel sure that the war is on its last legs. I 
 believe this battle will about end it: the Germans have 
 failed (i) in the attempt to reach Paris; (2) in the long 
 battle of the Aisne — the longest in history, with the 
 largest number of men engaged; (3) and they have failed 
 here. They meant to turn our left and get round that 
 way towards Paris. And they wanted to get to Paris 
 and they have failed: on the Belgian coast they have 
 been hammered horribly. 
 
 Tou will see that I am right and that the enemy will 
 very soon be crying out for an armistice. After her 
 treatment of Belgium and French towns and villages 
 she will never let it come to an invasion of Germany by 
 the French and Belgians. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 
 This will be a very short letter. Still it will tell you 
 that I am very well and flourishing, and have heaps to 
 do, which always suits me. 
 
 Yesterday I got a heap of parcels (three from Fr. 
 Wrafter) and your letter of the i8th; that is not so bad, 
 arriving in exactly a week. I think you may be always 
 sure of my getting your letters sooner or later. Father 
 Wrafter sent me two hundred more cigarettes for myself, 
 besides all he sent for the men. 
 
 Yesterday I gave the Last Sacraments to a German 
 prisoner, most devout, and only eighteen. He died 
 almost at once, but thanked me again and again for my 
 ministrations. "O dear God! What will my mother 
 do?" he kept saying. "Only eighteen, and to die to-day. 
 Yes, to-day. And I have done no harm to die for. 
 Oh, my poor mother! She will look always for me com- 
 ing back, and never shall I come. Try to sleep.? I 
 shall sleep without any trying, and no trying will ever 
 waken me . . ." 
 
 Thank God our fellows are most kind to the German
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 6i 
 
 prisoners. They would do anything for them: does it 
 not show a noble nature in them? You will see a rough 
 English soldier strip off his own great-coat and give up 
 his own blanket eagerly for a prisoner, and he feeds his 
 prisoner like a pet (like a wounded rabbit or bird!) and 
 would steal any other fellow's grub to give to his prisoner. 
 . . . When I think of our soldiers I never know whether 
 to laugh or cry. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance y Expeditionary Force 
 
 Friday, 2 p.m., October 30, 1914 
 
 I WROTE to you this morning, and now I write 
 another this afternoon just to tell you not to be surprised 
 if there follows a period of hearing nothing: for we 
 have just received orders to clear our hospital, and to 
 rejoin our headquarters to-morrow, and perhaps shall 
 have no chance of writing or posting letters for days 
 to come — on the march we never can. 
 
 The building we have been using as a hospital since 
 last Monday fortnight, i.e., since October 12th, is to 
 be used as a temporary hospital for Indian troops, and 
 we move right away. We have had more than 2500 
 patients and the work has been very heavy, and very 
 sad sometimes. A little marching will be a relief to the 
 mind and heart, though we shall not be so comfortably 
 placed as to food and quarters. 
 
 The room where we eat and sit, when we have time to 
 sit, opens out of the kitchen where there is a baby — • 
 from that baby I shall part with perfect resignation. 
 He has never ceased yelling ever since we arrived. 
 
 My first is in ^ed but not in pillow 
 
 My second's in ^Im but not in willow 
 
 My third's a drink for afternoon 
 
 My fourth's the first letter of honeymoon 
 
 My fifth is the fifth of English vowels 
 
 My sixth is in napkiw but not in towels
 
 62 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 My last is in mating and slifeping and beating 
 My whole is a town where your son is now writing 
 While others are noisily shelling or fighting. 
 There's a puzzle for you. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 Monday, 8.30 a.m., November 2, 1914 
 
 I WROTE the enclosed on Friday when I heard we were 
 leaving B. but, after all, had no means of sending it to 
 the field post and have been carting it about with me 
 ever since. We left B. about nine on Saturday morning: 
 I said Mass at the chapel of the nuns in charge of the 
 civil hospital, and said good-bye afterwards to the two 
 dear Irish sisters and the Reverend Mother. Then 
 I ran home, had some breakfast, and off we marched. 
 My French dog got lost in the confusion of departure and 
 was left behind: an officer in Bethune has promised to 
 bring him on, but I am very sad about it, because the 
 poor animal is so devoted to me I know he will be wretched. 
 
 We arrived about four o'clock at a long, clean village 
 called M. and there found billets: for the men, horses, 
 waggons, etc. at the village school, for ourselves in the 
 chateau. That chateau will have to come into some book 
 of mine — evidently built about 1720 by some family 
 of distinction (the Barons de R.) and now bought by a 
 decent middle-class man for the sake of the farm only. 
 
 The house large, fine, and in perfect repair indoors; 
 out of doors just beginning to show signs of neglect and 
 decay. A magnificent gloomy staircase of rosewood; 
 suites of locked rooms, and for us the whole second floor; 
 above, a wilderness of ghost's bedrooms. , My own room 
 was very comfortable, and though I fully expected to 
 see a ghost, I did not! The lawns and gardens outside 
 the chateau are turned into fields, except an island 
 garden with a stone-walled moat round it, approached 
 by a lovely stone bridge of five arches, and glorious
 
 John Ayscouglfs Letters to his Mother 63 
 
 wrought-iron gates: that garden is simply left to itself, 
 and has chosen to be a wilderness of tangled trees and 
 shrubs. 
 
 Yesterday morning (Sunday) at eight o'clock, I said 
 Mass in the village church — very large, old and fine, 
 in excellent state, with a charming old Dean and parish 
 priest. There was a large congregation, to whom he 
 belauded me from the pulpit! 
 
 He told me that the village used to belong to the 
 Montmorencies, who were Dukes of it. I never saw such 
 a clean village anywhere — by the way, it is large for a 
 village, three thousand inhabitants. At 9.30 a.m. we 
 marched again through H. and other villages and towns 
 to P. where we rejoined the Field Ambulance after three 
 weeks' absence: and v/here we found letters, etc. I had 
 two from you, besides others. 
 
 It was rather odd, but the moment we rejoined Head- 
 quarters (within a quarter of an hour) orders to move 
 again arrived: and we were all soon on the march — a 
 most lovely day it was for it, sunny, still, cool but not 
 cold. A fortnight ago the Germans had been at P. and 
 had demanded of the cure the keys of the church tower 
 that they might mount a maxim gun at the top. He 
 tried to explain that the sexton in the village had the 
 keys, but they would not listen, put him up against the 
 wall, and shot him. 
 
 As we marched we had to stop to let a very long line 
 of French African cavalry go by (Moroccans); pretty 
 wild looking, but fiercely picturesque. 
 
 The country here is absolutely flat. Not beautiful, 
 but homely and prosperous-looking, and there are de- 
 lightful churches, farms, cottages and windmills, the 
 latter of this sort {Sketch). 
 
 Long after dark we reached our billet, the farm at- 
 tached to a huge lunatic asylum. 
 
 / slept in the asylum as the guest of the director: 
 and have never been so well-lodged during the campaign.
 
 64 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 The main body of the asylum is Hke a really beautiful 
 palace, the director's quarters constitute a large separate 
 block like a good country house: and the staircases, 
 corridors, rooms, etc., all very fine and also very con- 
 venient. The park is lovely, and it contains isolated 
 chalets for some of the rich patients, who pay ^^500 a year 
 each. 
 
 The director is a most kind, genial man, and his wife 
 and children charming. In charge of the eighteen 
 hundred patients are seventy nuns. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance y Expeditionary Force 
 
 6 P.M., November 2, 1914 
 
 I AM writing this in a priest's house (while the priest 
 eats his supper), with the priest's pen (which is horrible), 
 because I have the opportunity, not because I have 
 anything special to say, seeing that I wrote to you this 
 morning. But very likely we shall be marching to- 
 morrow, and I write when I get a chance. 
 
 I hope you will not judge of my health by my writing, 
 and think it in a feeble state when the writing is like 
 this — it all depends on the pen. 
 
 My health is quite excellent, and no wonder, seeing 
 what a lot I eat, and that I digest it all perfectly. 
 
 The priest in whose house I write is the chaplain of 
 the lunatic asylum where I slept last night: he is a nice 
 man, kind and courteous, but rather Flemish, and when 
 he talks to his servant I can't understand much. All 
 the same we are still in France, so far. The director 
 of the asylum gave me some charming picture post- 
 cards of the place this morning, and when you see them 
 you will say they are very pretty. 
 
 This morning I went over much of the asylum with 
 him, and it is really beautiful — like a French palace 
 in a beautiful *'parc" — not park.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 65 
 
 I received this cheque just after I had given in my 
 letter to you this morning and so I send it on to you 
 in a postscript. 
 
 Bert will always get any cheque cashed for you, and 
 with this one you can pay some wages. 
 
 I also received a dear, but rather sad letter from you 
 in which you seem to think I was cross with you for 
 wanting me home: indeed I was not. I think it most 
 natural you should want me home, and most just, as 
 you may be sure it is where I would like to be: indeed, 
 from the beginning to now you have been quite splendid, 
 and no one could have been more self-sacrificing and 
 good. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance y Expeditionary Force 
 
 November 4, 1914 
 
 This will really be a short letter; because to make 
 it so will be my only chance of getting it off by this mail. 
 
 I have been writing all morning, chiefly to thank 
 people who have sent large parcels of things for the men: 
 and now the post-orderly will be off in a few minutes. 
 
 We are still in the same place, resting, and I still 
 sleep in the Director's Mansion of the Lunatic Asylum, 
 
 Yesterday we saw a whole community of Belgian 
 nuns, evicted from their convent, coming in over the 
 frontier each carrying the little bundle that was her all; 
 it gave a peculiar impression of sadness and war-ruin 
 to see these poor, orderly creatures, whose lives are 
 habitually so retired and private, tramping along in the 
 confusion of a road which had three columns of troops 
 (Hussars, baggage-trains, artillery) blocking it, amidst 
 all the noise, shouts, jingle of harness and accoutrements, 
 etc. 
 
 I walked into the town — it is close to — yesterday, 
 and saw the jewellers' windows filled with the empty 
 cases out of which the Germans have taken everything — 
 watches, bracelets, rings — every single thing.
 
 (id 'John AyscougV s Letters to his Mother 
 
 I saw Gillingham again, and Colonel Boyle (who used 
 to command the Munsters at Tidworth) he jumped ofF 
 his horse and had a talk. He said, "You look a thousand 
 times better than / ever saw you. War evidently suits 
 
 you. 
 
 He is on the Staff here. I got quite a charming letter 
 from the Bishop yesterday — no allusion in it to yours 
 to him. I don't believe you will find the increased 
 deafness permanent; I got awfully deaf a month ago, 
 and now it is better again. Foggy, damp weather always 
 increases deafness. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance y Expeditionary Force 
 
 November 6, 1914 
 
 We are still at B. with our men billeted at the farm 
 of the asylum; and the photograph I enclose represents 
 me surrounded by a little group of Catholics to whom I 
 have just been giving crucifixes, medals, rosaries, etc. 
 (The dog is not my dog.) You will see my servant next 
 to myself, and a French soldier next but one to him. 
 
 A French photographer saw the men around me, and 
 asked to be allowed to "chronicle" the group. 
 
 He sent me this proof and I thought you would like it. 
 
 Yesterday I went into B. (not the B. we were at last 
 week) and on the way met a Captain Dunlop of the 
 Headquarters St?ff of this Division. He stopped and 
 kept me talking three quarters of an hour; . . . then 
 the Fourth Dragoon Guards, from Tidworth, came riding 
 by, and some of my own boys nearly skipped out of their 
 saddles with joy at seeing their old friend and father 
 again. One of them, a very nice fellow called Doyle, 
 his comrades told me, was being recommended for the 
 Victoria Cross for splendid gallantry and saving of several 
 lives the day before. Then the Duke of Wellington's 
 came by — which was at Tidworth four years ago —
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 6y 
 
 and a lot of them also came running up with smiles to 
 talk and shake hands and wish good luck. 
 
 At last I got into B. It is a town of 12,000 inhabitants 
 (doubled now by the soldier population) with a long, 
 open market-place, a quaint belfry on the town hall, and 
 a fine church behind the town hall: then I came home, 
 as it was raining, and wrote letters to George Shackel, 
 Lady O'Conor, Cardinal Gasquet, etc. 
 
 The chaplain of the asylum lets me use his study as 
 my writing-room: and it is a great convenience. 
 
 Please do not think, my dear, that I was cross or at 
 all surprised at your wanting me back: I think it exactly 
 what you should want; and I can only pat you on the 
 back for your excellent courage and patience all this 
 time. ... 
 
 November 6, 1914 
 
 Postscript: We are all moving off, and (of course) 
 suddenly, as all our moves are. We may dawdle away 
 ever so long in a place, but our move, when it comes, 
 always comes suddenly. 
 
 I don't know, of course, where we go, or how long we 
 may be on this march; if long, you will hear nothing 
 for a corresponding time. 
 
 I saw Major Newbigging (is he Major or Captain? — 
 I forget) yesterday and had a chat. He looked extremely 
 well as I think we all do. He enquired for you with great 
 regard. I am terribly sorry for the poor Antrobuses. 
 
 {_Field Cartfl 
 
 November 9, 19 14 
 I AM quite well. 
 I have received your letter. 
 Letter follows at first opportunity.
 
 68 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 15 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 
 November 10, 1914 
 
 The field postman is just going, so I can only put in 
 a very short line to say I am, as I was yesterday, alive 
 and very well. The natural result of eating very well 
 for three months is that I am grown fat, which doesn't 
 please me at all. 
 
 This is the nastiest billet we have had: a small and 
 very dirty farm (about half the size of the place where 
 Ewence, our milkman, lives) with two hundred men 
 crammed into it. Of course no sanitary arrangements; 
 but dung heaps all round. I share a room about five 
 feet by seven with two other senior officers; when it is 
 time to get up I go out and wash and dress in a very 
 dirty stable. Yesterday afternoon I went for a walk 
 with one of our officers, but I shall refuse another time, 
 for he talked "war" the whole time, and I'm sick of it. 
 Fancy for three months never having any subject but 
 one discussed, at meals, at any time! 
 
 / find Flemish very easy to tmderstaiid though hideous 
 to the ear, a sort of unshaped, uncouth English. 
 
 The country is as flat as the people, and as dull, but 
 rather homely in its dun-coloured November atmosphere. 
 
 I don't call this a letter at all, but still it will show 
 you I am alive and well. 
 
 Quite a big mail has just come in for me, and the other 
 mail is just going out. So I can write the merest word 
 of "How do you do?" 
 
 I heard from you (two letters: November 9th and 12th), 
 Christie, Alice, W. Gater, the Duchess of Wellington, 
 the Bishop, Lady Antrobus, Mr. Huntington, etc. 
 
 I enclose the Bishop's letter. 
 
 I was so glad to see the congratulatory letter of thanks 
 from the Friends of the Poor; no wonder you are proud 
 of it.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 6g 
 
 15 Field Ambulance y Expeditionary Force 
 
 November 12, 1914 
 
 Again I must begin my letter by saying that I have 
 nothing to put into it, except my love and the assurance 
 that I am very well. 
 
 We are still squeezed into this miserable little Flemish 
 farm (which is no more than an English cottage) and 
 still idle. Of course there are heaps of wounded, but 
 there are now so many motor ambulances out here, that 
 run direct down to the " rail-head," that the Field Ambu- 
 lance stage is apt to be skipped altogether. 
 
 To-day it is bright and clear, but there is a tearing 
 wind, very cold, and not a dry wind, either. In the 
 night it thundered, lightened, and hailed: and at the 
 same time the sky was lit up by the blaze of a couple of 
 burning villages. The artillery fire, of course, never 
 stops: very, very rarely during three months has one 
 ever been without it, day or night, as the dull back- 
 ground of sound to every other. 
 
 Yesterday morning I walked up the road to watch 
 them shelling D., a village three miles from here, with 
 two fine steeples: it was obvious the Germans were 
 training on them; it is always the churches they aim at. 
 
 This region is crammed with troops, English, French, 
 and Belgian: but above all with French, and every little 
 farmhouse is crammed with them, too. . . . 
 
 The people are ugly, lumpish, and pudding-faced, 
 and their language is enough to disgust a corn-crake. 
 All this complaining tone comes from the annoyance one 
 feels at having nothing to do, and having one's enforced 
 leisure coincide with a place where there is nothing on 
 earth to do or see. When I get home and come to tell 
 you of the places I have been at you will find how few 
 were places of special mterest; those we have been near, 
 but the fortunes of war have either kept us just away 
 from them, or hustled us through them.
 
 70 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Thus we have been through Rouen, Amiens, Cambrai, 
 St. Quentin, etc., and quite near Soissons, Rheims, Lille, 
 etc., but never at them. 
 
 I wonder if you think I am still wearing the very thin 
 suit I came out in? I am not, but am wearing a thick 
 suit made by St^de and Gerrish and sent out here: and 
 boots like this {sketch) made of rubber and reaching up to 
 the knee. So one's feet are always dry. Of course I 
 don't march in them. They also come from Salisbury, 
 made there, and sent out here. 
 
 Do you wonder if we ever get a bath? Those of us 
 who were not at Bethune have hardly had any. During 
 the three months' war I have had five! ! on an average 
 one every three weeks. How I long for a daily bath, 
 as a matter of course. 
 
 The place where I stayed in the lunatic asylum was 
 called Bailleul: one wing of it was joined to the other 
 by a glass corridor about one hundred yards long filled 
 with the most glorious chrysanthemums; I counted 
 one hundred and ninety-seven, each in its own big pot. 
 
 The farm which had been a Preceptory of Knights 
 Templars where we stayed in September was called Mont 
 de Soissons. The chateau of Comte de Montesquiou- 
 Fezenzac, where I had Mass in the ruins, is called Long- 
 point. There is no objection to giving you these names 
 now. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 
 November 18, 19 14 
 
 I HAVE just written to Sir Ian Hamilton, the Duchess 
 of Wellington, Lady Antrobus, Sir Edmund Antrobus, 
 and three others; . . . and the mail is going out very 
 soon, so I can only send you a mere bulletin to say I'm 
 all right — as I am, in spite of the cold. 
 
 We woke to a white and frozen world this morning; 
 then came sun; then snow; now sun again. We have 
 no fires, and we can't shut the windows, as the number of
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 71 
 
 us is so great for the two tiny rooms. One's feet are 
 always cold, and that gives one a headache. But — 
 Well, it is war, and one must expect discomforts. 
 
 The noise of the battle was so furious during the night, 
 and so near, one could not sleep much: but I think our 
 affairs are going very well. 
 
 You would not believe how entirely unconcerned one 
 is by an incessant artillery fire, whose mere noise keeps 
 one awake; it is a mere matter of habit. 
 
 Some one has just sent me a nice present of good things 
 from Fortnum and Mason's — some wounded officer gone 
 home, I expect, to whom / gave good things over here. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance^ Expeditionary Force 
 
 November 20, 1914 
 
 Yesterday I did not write to you, the first day I have 
 skipped when I had the chance. But directly after 
 breakfast I went out, meaning only to stay out for half 
 an hour; instead of which I only got back at 12.30, and 
 found that the mail had left. 
 
 I walked to R., the nearest village, about one and a 
 half miles from here, but along a road so blocked by 
 artillery train, and so churned up with mud two feet 
 deep, that it took me quite a long time to get there. 
 Besides, I had to stop fifty times on the way to chat 
 with French or Belgian soldiers; they seem to know me 
 now, and are always demanding medals, etc. At R. 
 the whole village was, as it has been ever since we came, 
 crowded with French troops : and a long English artillery- 
 train was going slowly through: so I stood still to chat 
 with a young French chasseur-a-pied from Dijon with 
 whom I was quite an old friend before we parted. It 
 was then snowing hard, so I went into the church for 
 shelter: I found a whole French regiment bivouacked 
 in it. It made a most picturesque scene: the church
 
 72 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 is old and quaint, with aisles, side-chapels, etc. : so that 
 it affords picturesque perspectives — the men's rifles 
 were stacked in front of statues, on the steps of the 
 altars; the men themselves sitting, l3^ing, standing, in 
 groups everywhere. 
 
 Presently there was another group, specially large and 
 ever increasing in numbers, scores and scores of soldiers, 
 crowding in upon an elderly white-headed priest from 
 whom they were getting medals, scapulars, rosaries, 
 crucifixes, etc. I am very fond of all soldiers, but really 
 I love the French ones. . . . 
 
 The flat Flemish landscape was looking beautiful as 
 I came home: now it looks exquisite — deep in glistening 
 snow, under a brilliant sun. The mud has frozen hard 
 in the night, and the roads are passable if only the sun 
 does not thaw them. 
 
 Can you picture me^ in the last half of November, in 
 a house with stone floors, no carpets, no fires, no beds, 
 only one's rugs, deep snow outside, and hard frost? 
 Yet really I feel the cold very little, and once I go to 
 "bed," not at all. 
 
 I get letters from you now nearly every day, and you 
 seem to be getting plenty from me. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance y Expeditionary Force 
 
 At a Convent of Sisters of Charity 
 Sunday, November 22, 1914 
 
 We left our Flemish dunghill yesterday at eleven, and 
 are now in very different quarters. However, to carry 
 on my diary from day to day — on Friday afternoon, 
 the day before yesterday, several of us went for a really 
 delightful walk. The snow was everywhere, and there 
 was the peculiar exquisite mist that goes with snow: the 
 sun was brilliant, and the distances, in that level land, 
 were far off, and melted out of fields and sky in equal
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 73 
 
 parts. Our little party consisted of the fellows I like best 
 in the Field Ambulance, chief of whom is a young officer 
 called Helm. Poor fellow, he is not long married and he 
 has been in almost perpetual danger ever since the start: 
 attached to a regiment every officer of which who came out 
 with him has been killed, or sent home wounded, or 
 taken prisoner by the enemy. 
 
 Well, we walked up to the firing line, and had quite 
 an interesting time watching some big guns of ours, 
 sixty-pounders, firing on the enemy. A funny sort of 
 "object" for an afternoon's walk, eh? 
 
 We went for another walk the moment after breakfast 
 yesterday (Saturday) and when we got back found the 
 "unit" all ready to march. 
 
 The march was charming: not long and very pictur- 
 esque: one felt like a man in a war-picture: the snow- 
 landscape: the long lines of troops, waggons, guns, limbers; 
 the cottages so like our own; farmyards with somber 
 blue groups of French soldiers round their fires. . . . 
 
 Out of the flat Flemish fields we bore up a long, low 
 hill, wooded, v/ith a windmill on its crown — on the top 
 one of our fellows photographed me, with one leg in 
 Belgium and one in France; a group of French soldiers 
 on my left. 
 
 I am so glad to be again in France. . . . 
 
 About four o'clock we reached this village: and our 
 men are billeted in the village: we are in a convent. 
 Most awfully comfortable. We have a sitting-room with 
 a fire; excellent beds; real beds in bedsteads; and the 
 bosses (I, and the three senior officers) have rooms to 
 ourselves. 
 
 I HAVE A HOT-WATER BOTTLE! ! ! 
 
 The nuns are quite overcome by the honour of having 
 a "Monseigneur" in their house, and nearly cry at the 
 idea of my having had to sleep on the floor, and wash 
 myself out of an empty beef-can, and so on. 
 
 I went straight to the church to arrange for Mass and
 
 74 John AyscougV s Letters to his Mother 
 
 also to hear confessions: the church is pretty, and quite 
 smart, and well-tended, and prosperous. 
 
 I am being violently urged to go out. ... So good- 
 bye. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance^ Expeditionary Force 
 
 Monday^ November 23, 1914 
 
 My letter of yesterday trailed off into incoherence 
 because two young officers were asking me every thirty 
 seconds to be quick and finish it and come out for a walk. 
 I was writing such nonsense that I gave it up at last and 
 went. It was really lovely: the landscape exquisite 
 and homely, like an old-fashioned Christmas-card: bril- 
 liant sunshine over the glittering white fields, and an 
 air like iced champagne. 
 
 After luncheon we walked again — to B., the place 
 where I was lodged in the lunatic asylum. I took my 
 two companions to call on the Director and we went over 
 the place again. 
 
 When I got back, there was a long letter from Mrs. 
 Drummond enclosing an excellent one from Dr. Fison 
 to her, as also one from Lady Kenmare. . . . 
 
 15 Field Ambulance^ Expeditionary Force 
 
 Wednesday, November 25, 191 4 
 
 I WROTE you a long letter last night which will be 
 posted in London this afternoon. You will receive it 
 to-morrow. 
 
 I have just received a jubilant letter from Christie — 
 she and you had just heard that I am coming home soon. 
 Last night the CO. also went home on leave: he made a 
 little speech after dinner, full of praise of my work and 
 my influence, and saying that I should command the 
 unit better chan himself! He thanked me again in private 
 for my "wonderful and splendid" influence here.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 75 
 
 Mind you, these officers are almost all Ulster Protes- 
 tants who came out here from Carsondom, so it really 
 is rather a triumph to have conciliated their good will 
 and good opinion. 
 
 There are about ten officers talking at the top of their 
 voices, and I really can't write. 
 
 15 Field Ambula7ice, Expeditionary Force 
 
 November 25, 1914 
 
 Sir Horace Smith-Dorrien has just been to see me: a 
 great honour from the Commander-in-Chief of the Army 
 Corps to a humble chaplain: and he was full of most 
 friendly cordiality and kindness. He came chiefly to 
 tell me that he was asking for a special recognition of 
 my services — I haven't an idea what. I write to tell 
 you because I know it will please you. 
 
 This afternoon we — three of us — walked into B. 
 where Headquarters are. One of them had to see the 
 Surgeon-General. He said to him: "I see you came in 
 with Monsignor; he is one of our great men!" Sir 
 Horace said he had asked his wife to go out and tell 
 you how General Porter (this very Surgeon-General) 
 had spoken to him of my work at Eethune. 
 
 Then I asked the other fellows to w^ait a minute while 
 I went and said my prayers for a minute or two in the 
 church: but they followed, and I explained it all to them. 
 When we got outside one of them said, "I shall always, 
 when the day month before Christmas comes, remember 
 how we stood in that church and you talked to us." 
 They are all so nice and respectful to me and the religion 
 I represent. 
 
 Last night the C. O. in his little speech said "Monsig- 
 nor's presence among us has taught us all a wider-minded 
 charity like his own, and a deeper respect for the great 
 Church he serves." So you see, my time among them
 
 'j^^ John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 has not been wasted. You were asked to bear a great 
 trial, and I know it will repay you to think that your 
 sacrifice has not been idle: and also, I think, you will 
 understand better from all this how reluctant I was to 
 seem eager to run home from my work and place here. 
 As it is I go with a clear conscience, feeling that I owe my 
 duty to yoii now, and that a younger man, fresh to the 
 work, can do it better now than I could. The war is 
 a great strain, and one grows stale, and new blood is 
 wanted. As a matter of fact viany of the Generals 
 have been relieved, not because they were wounded, or 
 incapable, but simply because the strain was telling and 
 they were growing stale. 
 
 This is not like any previous war; those who were in 
 South Africa say the latter was a picnic compared with 
 this, this is so vast and so terrible. And no one has 
 done better in it, or made a greater name than Sir Horace 
 Smith-Dorrien, so that we Sahsbury Plainers may be 
 proud of him. He has a very warm and generous heart: 
 and all here who have come in touch with him are en- 
 thusiastic about him. 
 
 Really this letter should be to Christie; it is her turn; 
 but I thought you would not like to hear these little 
 chips of gossip at second hand : so she must not mind. 
 
 Our wounded bear the most terrible wounds without 
 a cry or a complaint, and nothing has struck me more 
 than the heroic patience of them all. I have myself 
 helped countless English soldiers, Protestant as well as 
 Catholic, simply shattered to pieces, who have talked 
 and laughed as if they were in bed with a chilblain. 
 Their heroism is unspeakable.
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 77 
 
 15 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 
 November 27, 1914 
 
 I HAD a letter from you this morning, dated Novem- 
 ber 2ist, in which you say nought of my return, though 
 Christie, in her letter which reached me the day before 
 yesterday, writes jubilantly of it. It has been arranged 
 for and I am expecting the official order to return at any 
 moment now. I shall telegraph from the first English 
 post office I see to tell you I am on English soil: but 
 must, I think, stop in London one night, or perhaps two, 
 on official business. 
 
 We are all just off to walk to a Cistercian monastery 
 that these officers are very keen to see. 
 
 Most of the billy looking letters you sent on prove 
 to be circulars or requests for Christmas orders from my 
 old tradesmen. 
 
 Field postman waiting. 
 
 15 Field Ambulance, Expeditionary Force 
 
 I HOPE this particular letter will reach you quicker 
 than usual, not because of its importance, for it has none 
 in particular, but because I am giving it to someone to 
 post in London to-morrow or the day after. It is quite 
 true Sir Horace Smith-Dorrien was on leave in England, 
 and all the officers of this Army are getting six days' 
 leave to England. / am not asking for any because it 
 is pretty certain that I shall be going home altogether in 
 a week or two. 
 
 Mrs. Drummond by no means neglected your letter 
 to her — but worked very hard about it. If I went 
 home I should probably remain two or three nights in 
 London to save another journey up there immediately. 
 I must see the Cardinal and tell him about things here;
 
 78 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 I must also see some people at the War Office: and want 
 also to see a dentist, for I have been bothered all the time 
 of the war by a tooth badly broken, with the nerve 
 exposed. Having to stay in London I shall take the 
 opportunity of seeing friends. Lady O'Conor, the Glen- 
 conners, etc. 
 
 I had a charming letter from Lady Glenconner last 
 night: most cordial and affectionate. They have done 
 their share, too, for the war. Bim, the eldest boy, only 
 seventeen, has joined the Grenadier Guards, and Chris- 
 topher (only fifteen) is on a man-of-war: Lord Glen- 
 conner has equipped, and is bearing the whole expense 
 of, a hospital at Hull for two hundred and fifty patients; 
 he has sent out an armoured train, and a field kitchen 
 for a Scots Regiment, and they have sent all their motors 
 out here and kept none for themselves. She speaks so 
 tenderly about you, and says, "If I had been at Wilsford 
 I should have gone to see her long ago; but since the war 
 began I have not been near it: my time has all been 
 spent working here (in London), or with Christopher 
 at Weymouth, where his ship was till it went to sea." 
 They have Belgian refugees at Wilsford. I think her 
 heart is sore for her boys; they are such children to be 
 fighting for their country. She feels the death of her 
 nephew, Percy Wyndham, very much. I know he was 
 always very much devoted to her. 
 
 Lady O'Conor's box, from Fortnum and Mason, duly 
 reached me at "Midden Hall," and I must write and 
 thank her now I know whence it came. 
 
 Lady Glenconner sends me warm gloves, a woolly 
 waistcoat, socks, etc., knitted by herself. 
 
 She makes me laugh by asking me when the war is 
 going to end! I tell her to ask the Prime Minister, as 
 he is her brother-in-law. We are no longer at Midden 
 Hall, but in a convent of Sisters of Charity where the 
 nuns spoil us all. 
 
 We have each of us an excellent bed, and I a com-
 
 John AyscougV s Letters to his Mother 79 
 
 fortable room all to myself. And this change is all the 
 more apropos as the cold has been bitter. 
 
 We are no longer in Belgium, but back in my beloved 
 France, though only two miles from the frontier: about 
 two miles, too, from B. where the lunatic asylum is. 
 
 I had a hot bath to-day and boiled some of the dirt 
 off myself — a most luxurious bath in a room with a 
 fire in it! Bert wrote me a charming little letter which 
 arrived last night; mind you say how pleased I was with 
 it. He says, "I was proud to read Sir John French's 
 dispatch with your name in it for bravery on the field: 
 and I hope you will let your humble poor servant to offer 
 you his proud congratulations; and may God bring you 
 soon home to us all, safe and well, who all miss you 
 very, very much." 
 
 I think more of such simple, kindly congratulations 
 than I can say. The same mail brought me two dear 
 letters from you. You need never fear that in coming 
 home I have sacrificed myself for your sake. I feel I 
 have done my "whack" here; and now I feel in my 
 conscience free to think of home and you. It would be 
 different if we were in the midst of strenuous work. 
 
 Of course, when it comes to the point, I shall have 
 regrets: I have lived so long with these good comrades 
 I shall be unable to leave them without feeling sad at the 
 parting and having to leave them out here. But I do 
 feel that the war is in its last phase and please God all 
 will be going home soon. It would be impossible to 
 exaggerate the kindness they have shown rre, and show 
 me now, when they know I am going. They all say I 
 should go, and might well have gone long ago: but all 
 say how they will miss me. To live together for over 
 three months in the field of war is like nothing else, 
 and one can never forget it. One thought, never uttered, 
 has been common to us all, the longing for home, and for 
 those we left there: God knows how silent it has often 
 made us.
 
 8o John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 The whole thing has been a dream: and one has felt 
 Hke a figure in a dream, or a man in a picture, a picture 
 of poignant meaning hardly realized by oneself. 
 
 I must stop. God bless you all and may He in His 
 great kindness bring me soon among you all. 
 
 Authors^ Club, 2 Whitehall Court, S.W. 
 
 5.30 P.M., December 2, 1914 
 
 How are you? I had an excellent breakfast in the 
 train, and read my own study "An Hour of the Day" 
 in the Month — and I liked it very much ! 
 
 I went straight to the Cardinal and found him most 
 cordial and nice. He kept me an hour, listening with the 
 keenest interest and appreciation to what I had to tell 
 him of the war. Then it was too late to go to the War 
 Office before going to luncheon at Lady O'Conor's; so 
 I went off to Sussex Gardens at once. 
 
 I found Mrs. Wilfrid Ward there, too, up for the day, 
 and two of Lady O'Conor's daughters. They would not 
 let me go till five, and we had a charming long talk 
 about old times and new. Aubrey Herbert and his wife 
 came in, and added to the interest of the party. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Ward! Her husband is going for the winter 
 to America to lecture: Herbert going off to India with 
 his regiment — and all his happy Oxford life knocked 
 out of his grasp, where he was so capable of distinction. 
 
 At four o'clock the editor of The Ti77ies wanted me to go 
 and see him: but I am going to-morrow at four instead. 
 
 I hurried back here to write this little letter to you 
 lest I should miss the country post. Lady O'Conor's 
 last word was, "Mind you congratulate dear Mrs. Brent 
 from me, and say how much I liked getting her letters 
 (I shall never write like that if I am ever eighty-five) 
 and how glad I am to hear she is getting quite well again. "
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 8i 
 
 Authors' Club, 2 Whitehall Court, SJF 
 
 December 3, 1914 
 
 I HAVE been dashing about all day. 
 
 1. To the War Office, where one had to wait ages before 
 seeing anyone. 
 
 2. To Vandyck to be photographed: he kept me an 
 hour trying all sorts of positions. 
 
 3. To see the Cardinal again at Archbishop's House 
 by appointment. 
 
 4. To get luncheon. 
 
 5. To see the Editor of the Times, by appointment, in 
 the far wilds of the City. 
 
 6. Back to the far west to see Bimbo Tennant — 
 who was in his bath, just come off parade, etc. — he 
 came down to the hall in his dressing-gown and we had 
 a long chat there: he is not a bit the Guardsman, but 
 just the same delightful boy as ever. 
 
 I gave him a German bayonet and he was delighted 
 with it. 
 
 Lady Glenconner telegraphed from Wilsford to ask 
 me to move to their house, but I told Bimbo I was going 
 down to Winterbourne to-morrow and should not leave 
 my present quarters for the one night. I am just off to 
 see Mrs. Drummond by appointment. 
 
 To-morrow I have to go and face two more photog- 
 raphers, and see the Cardinal again. I hope to catch 
 the 3.30 and to reach Salisbury at 5: which would bring 
 me to Winterbourne at 5.30 about. 
 
 The weather is excellent here. 
 
 Authors' Club, 2 Whitehall Court, S.W. 
 
 Monday 
 
 My guests here were Lady Glenconner and her son 
 Bimbo, now a Guardsman: (of seventeen) and Lady
 
 82 John AyscougV s Letters to his Mother 
 
 O'Conor and her daughter Fearga. Lady Glenconner 
 begged me to come there to dine and sleep to meet Sir 
 Edward Grey, the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, 
 whom I have always wanted to know; he is an admirer 
 of my books and I am always hearing about him from 
 the Glenconners. 
 
 So I shall sleep up here, at the Glenconners, to-night 
 and go down to-morrow morning, reaching home at 1.30: 
 so they had better have luncheon at 1.30 or 1.45.
 
 II 
 
 British Expeditionary Force 
 
 Saturday^ February 13, 191 5 
 
 I can't write at all a long letter this morning, as I 
 have not yet reported myself to the General here, and 
 must do so; but I want to have a little letter in my 
 pocket to post at Headquarters, so I must write before 
 going out. 
 
 I arrived here at 7.30 last night. The journey was 
 very comfortable, and I was glad to come on at once. 
 They begged me to understand there was no hurry and 
 that I need only come on when it suited me. But when 
 I'm going anywhere I like to get to my journey's end 
 as soon as possible. 
 
 As I write, every time I lift my head there is the sea 
 (dark and grey to-day), the coast line of white cliffs, 
 ships passing up and down channel, going to England 
 and coming from it — I delight in it. If only you can 
 make yourself content without me for a bit, I shall really 
 enjoy this place for whatever time I have to stay here. 
 Do think how different this is from my former going 
 away — then it was to share in all the unknown dangers 
 of the campaign, and its hardships. Here we are as safe 
 as you are on Salisbury Plain, and I am simply in luxury. 
 I shall write a good bit here, and that will pass the time 
 away. 
 
 Saturday Evening, February 13, 191 5 
 
 I WROTE to you this morning and took the letter up to 
 the Base Commandant to post. I wonder how long it 
 will take to reach you, several days I fear; for I expect, 
 though we are within two hours of England, that our 
 
 8?
 
 84 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 letters go back to Rouen, which takes one day, then they 
 go down to Havre, and thence to London to the War 
 Office. 
 
 I found them very civil at the Base Commandant's 
 Office, and they lent me a motor to go round and see the 
 various troops this afternoon, directly after luncheon — 
 it really was civil, as they only have two. 
 
 Now I will go back a bit: at Rouen I went to see the 
 Cathedral, the Palais de Justice, the very famous Church 
 of St. Ouen, and the Church of St. Maclou. They are 
 all quite glorious; in the Cathedral I saw the tombs of 
 some of our ancestors, the Dukes of Normandy, including 
 Rollo; and thought how Jack Whittaker would have 
 adored them. 
 
 The principal streets of Rouen are fine, modernized, 
 and full of smart shops: the side-streets very curly and 
 picturesque — those old houses in the picture over your 
 bedroom chimney-piece are in one of them. I walked 
 about a good deal, but did not feel in the lionising humour 
 a bit; and I was really glad to get into the train with my 
 book and opportunity to rest and be without bothers. 
 You have no idea of the enormous number of officials I 
 have had to see since leaving home — all strangers, to 
 whom I had to explain who I was and what I was come 
 for, etc. : most tedious. I think that is nearly finished 
 for the present. Now to bring my letter on here again: 
 
 I walked to the Base Commandant's this morning: it 
 is perhaps a mile away, just at the other end of the place: 
 in front of this hotel there is a wide stretch of smooth 
 grass, about three hundred yards broad, and over a 
 mile long: along the outer edge runs a paved esplanade 
 very pleasant to walk on, and beyond that the shingles 
 and the sea. 
 
 I told you it was grey and glowering this morning: 
 but just as I went out the sun appeared, and it has been 
 a very bright, gusty day, the sea all covered with white 
 horses. I had to go right to the end of the "plage":
 
 John Ayscoiigh^s Letters to his Mother 85 
 
 at the end, on a steep cliff, is the old castle: up a hill to 
 the left the Commandant's Headquarters. 
 
 Well, in the car I drove far out into the country, and 
 saw six different lots of troops (but the whole garrison 
 of English is only twelve hundred, and I don't think 
 there are a hundred Catholics: whereas at Tidworth, 
 etc., there are three thousand). I saw the few there 
 were, spoke to them a sort of little sermon, and they 
 were immensely nice, so glad to see me, and so gentle, 
 loving, and respectful: the first priest they had spoken 
 to for three months. I am going out to give some of 
 them a service to-morrow night. 
 
 I came in just now, had tea, and am writing this. I 
 must say I like my quarters, but I can't look at that sea 
 without wanting to jump over it. England is not in 
 sight, but very nearly. 
 
 Monday evenings February 15, 191 5 
 
 How I wonder how you are! Since the letter you 
 wrote on the very day I left, and which I received in 
 London on Wednesday last (the tenth) I have not heard; 
 and, of course, I could not hear. When letters do begin 
 to come I shall be curious to see how long they take; 
 probably nearly as long as from the front (though if this 
 were peace-time you would get a letter from Dieppe 
 the morning after it was posted). 
 
 Dieppe is quite a fascinating little place; the two 
 churches (fourteenth century) most beautiful, outside 
 and in. 
 
 Saturday afternoon was sunny and bright. That 
 night a very strong gale came on, and in the morning I 
 saw a very wild sea, with huge waves, from my window. 
 This is a rough attempt at the sort of thing one sees 
 from it: Away to the left (west) a high coast of tall 
 white cliffs and headlands; in front the flat "plage and 
 digue," and to the right the harbour and lighthouse, etc. 
 Thence at twelve each day the boat goes to England,
 
 86 John Ays cough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 and I send my love by it each time, though it doesn't 
 know anything about it. 
 
 Yesterday morning I said Mass at St. Remy, one of 
 the two churches; at six in the evening I motored to 
 St. Aubyn and held a Httle, very informal service for the 
 Catholics there — only about sixteen of them. 
 
 I have my own little table in one of the big windows of 
 the dining-room, in full view of the sea. The food is 
 
 excellent. I wonder what sort of food Mrs. is giving 
 
 you. And very much I wonder whether Ver got his 
 extension of leave, and whether he has any likelihood of 
 a new staff appointment. 
 
 You have probably by now sent for the Atlas and 
 looked up Dieppe on it: if so you will realise that here 
 we are nearly as far from the fighting as you are. This 
 afternoon I have been visiting the hospital — only six 
 Catholics in it, no wounded, only sick — influenza, 
 colds, etc. It all seems so odd after the front. 
 
 One of the patients I sat talking to was a young Mr. 
 
 , son of an American Admiral; he has enlisted in 
 
 our army: quite a gentleman, and pleasant, but with 
 the most appalling stammer I ever heard. 
 
 I shall go one of these days to Arques: it is quite near, 
 and the ruined castle was the cradle of the Drews; there 
 Drogo was born, his father William being Comte d'Arques. 
 
 If you were ten years younger I should just tell you to 
 come over here: but you could not stand the journey, 
 and especially the sea-passage, which is rather rough and 
 bad, the boats being very small and roily. So I hope 
 you have not had any such idea in your mind, and the 
 boat starts from Folkestone, a very long journey by 
 rail from Salisbury. 
 
 Now I will stop. 
 
 February i6, 191 5 
 
 I HAVE just got back from Arques; the castle is really 
 enormously interesting, and I can't tell you how lovely
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 87 
 
 the situation is — a terrible climb up to it, but the view 
 when you get up truly splendid. The castle was a very 
 important fortress, and would interest anyhoAy: but it 
 certainly is more interesting to us, as it was the home in 
 childhood of Drogo, whose father Guillaume, Comte 
 d'Arques, built it. You know he was uncle to William 
 the Conqueror, brother of William's father, Robert the 
 Devil, and himself son of Duke Richard II of Normandy. 
 William the Conqueror, being illegitimate, his uncle, the 
 other William, Count of Arques, thought he had more 
 right to the Norman crown and fought for it, but lost. 
 Afterwards the two Williams made friends, and the 
 Count of Arques sent his sons Walter and Drogo to 
 England with their cousin. 
 
 Richard Coeur de Lion owned the castle, as King 
 Stephen had done; and there King John held captive 
 his niece Eleanor of Brittany, and carried her off thence 
 to another prison at Cardiff. 
 
 All through the Middle Ages the castle was important 
 and was constantly undergoing sieges, etc. 
 
 I did not expect to find a place nearly so beautiful, nor 
 with such extensive and fine ruins; I thoroughly enjoyed 
 my pilgrimage there. 
 
 The village church, far beneath the feet of the castle, 
 is very beautiful, but of a date long subsequent to our 
 family connection with the place. 
 
 It has been an exquisite day, very warm and sunny, 
 and an amazing contrast to the day before yesterday. 
 The sea is smooth and creamy, and there are no big 
 waves breaking along the shore. 
 
 February 17, 191 5 
 
 This will be a very short and dull letter: to-day — 
 Ash Wednesday — has been another day of wild rain and 
 wind, and I have been indoors in my comfortable room a 
 good deal of it.
 
 88 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 
 
 I went out early to say Mass at St. Jacques, the finest 
 of the two very fine churches here. There are really 
 more than two, but the others are quite modern and 
 quite uninteresting. 
 
 There is a small party of EngHsh naval officers in this 
 hotel on what is called naval transport duty: and I 
 talk a good lot to them. The senior of them is called 
 Captain Benwell, a name which at once reminded me of 
 the broken-hearted Captain Benwell in Jane Austen's 
 "Persuasion," whose broken heart Miss Louisa Musgrove 
 mended up by tumbling down the steps of the Cobb at 
 Lyme Regis. 
 
 The Lieutenant is called B., and he has a very fine eye: 
 only one fine one, large and brown and liquid; he showed 
 great taste in the purchase of it. The other (a very 
 poor match) was provided by nature, and is small, of a 
 muddy colour, and looks much more glassy than the one 
 which really is glass. He manages to be nice-looking, 
 and I believe some one will fall in love with his younger 
 eye. 
 
 The third is called — , and he is in an awful fright of 
 being thought Irish, whereas, he carefully explains, his 
 family is a London family. Captain Benwell is very nice, 
 pleasant and cordial. He knows Malta, Plymouth, and 
 Portsmouth and some of the people we knew. 
 
 We are all wondering whether the Germans will really 
 do, or try to do anything, to-morrow, the i8th. 
 
 I wish to goodness they would bring their fleet out 
 and smack at us; it would do something to end the war. 
 
 People went to-day to see off the "Sussex," the packet 
 that runs to England. It leaves here at midday, and it 
 ought to come back to-morrow, but of course it may be 
 prevented. No letters have come yet, but I begin now 
 to expect them every day: I am keen to know how you 
 are. You must keep well and in good spirits: at all 
 events you may feel sure I am comfortable and safe. 
 
 It is so odd; after the front, to be splendidly housed,
 
 John AyscougV s Letters to his Mother 89 
 
 with excellent beds, food, and attendance, and as much 
 hot water as one wants — and also shops to buy any- 
 thing one wants. 
 
 I purposely brought no English books with me, as I 
 want to read only French here and so practice and 
 improve myself. 
 
 February 19, 191 5 
 
 I DID not write last night because the letter I had 
 written the night before had not left for England: the 
 mail-packet for England did not sail, nor (I believe) 
 has it sailed to-day. The above address does not mean 
 that I am in a different place: I am in the same com- 
 fortable quarters; but it is the correct military address: 
 and you had better use it. But so far no letters have 
 arrived, from you or anyone, except one from Sir Ian 
 Hamilton written on the tenth. Of course the German 
 blockade of England began yesterday, and perhaps 
 letters will arrive rather irregularly. The only sign of 
 it one sees here is a patrol of torpedo-destroyers guarding 
 the approaches to this place. 
 
 You may see in the papers of to-day the account of a 
 merchant ship towed in here yesterday (I saw it brought 
 in) that had been torpedoed by the Germans. It did not 
 happen in this region, but thirty miles away in the 
 channel. No lives were lost. 
 
 The concierge has just come into my room and brought 
 me a bundle of letters. Two very cheery and bright 
 ones from you, dated Sunday and Monday. No other 
 letters, though you mention a packet of twenty-three: 
 no doubt they'll turn up. I'm so glad to see what satis- 
 faction it gives you my being in such comfortable and 
 safe quarters — poor Alice must be envious. She, I 
 see by Christie's letter, is by this time (6.15 p.m. Friday) 
 back with you. I am so glad of that, for your sake and 
 her mother's (and poor Togo's) ; I think she will like the
 
 90 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 quietness and rest of our house after the noise and rush 
 of London. 
 
 I feel ever so much cheerier since hearing from you: 
 I could not help being anxious till I did hear, and evi- 
 dently you are putting a good heart on it. Really there 
 is so much to be thankful for. Here one feels so near 
 home, and all the discomforts and strain of the front 
 are absent. 
 
 February 20, 191 5 
 
 This morning I received about thirty letters, twenty- 
 three in one envelope, and I have also received four 
 parcels: (i) Universes; (2) shirts; (3) boots; (4) some 
 shirts, socks, etc., for soldiers. 
 
 The esplanade on the sea front is a mile long and is 
 pleasant walking, always dry and easy to the feet. I have 
 now three pairs of good boots besides the big gum-boots. 
 I was never so well provided for for years. 
 
 I received a very cordial letter from Gater and another 
 from Winifred; the latter tells me poor Sir Edmund 
 Antrobus is dead. I expect my poor friend Lady A. 
 will feel it very much, though not in the same way she 
 did her boy's being killed. I gather from Winifred's 
 letter that you have the bath-chair, which I am glad of, 
 as now you can get out whenever a fine day comes. 
 
 I am the only chaplain of any denomination who has 
 been mentioned t-zvice in dispatches during this war; at 
 least I am told so. 
 
 I must stop now to answer some of those other letters. 
 
 February 21, 191 5 
 
 When I gave you the number of our army post office 
 in my last letter I left out S. So I hasten to put it right. 
 
 I am in jumping spirits, having just seen last Thurs- 
 day's paper (February i8th) and seen my name in the 
 second dispatch, as well as in Sir John French's first
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 91 
 
 dispatch. It is something to get one mention; but to be 
 mentioned in both his dispatches is tremendous luck. 
 
 It is a perfect day here and the sea looks lovely under 
 the bright sunshine. 
 
 This morning I had a special Mass for the English 
 troops (eleven of them!) — in a side chapel of St. Jacques. 
 It was rather funny, for while I was trying to make them 
 hear me preaching in a very low voice (not to disturb 
 the congregation in the body of the church) they were 
 trying 7iot to hear a French priest with a voice like a bull 
 bellowing a sermon about twenty feet away. 
 
 The boat went again last night, and is going to-night, 
 so I suppose our mails will become regular again, 
 
 February 23, 191 5 
 
 It is awfully cold here to-day, though very sunny and 
 bright: a fierce north wind, and of course we stare due 
 north over the sea. It looks very pretty; sapphire, 
 emerald, amethyst, all mixed, and laced with strings of 
 pearls. 
 
 There is hardly anyone in this hotel now. The naval 
 people stay on, almost all the rest are gone. Did you 
 see the picture of me in the Daily Mail of yesterday.'' 
 I wonder how they got hold of that old portrait when 
 there are so many good ones .^ 
 
 To-morrow Alice comes back to you: poor dear, she 
 must wish her soldier was safe and comfortable at Dieppe: 
 all the same this soldier would rather be at the real front. 
 However, I heard from my late C. O. to-day, and he 
 evidently thinks there would be very little for me to do 
 up there at present. 
 
 I must go to the hospital and shut this up. 
 
 Wednesday, February 24, 191 5 
 
 It is 4.30 P.M. and I have just had tea and a letter 
 from you. It had no date, but it enclosed a cutting
 
 92 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 from the Globe alluding to my second mention in dis- 
 patches. 
 
 I am so thankful and glad that you are well, and that 
 you are happy at my being in good and safe quarters. 
 
 It is a very cold day here, with a sleety rain and a 
 bitter northeast wind: the sea outside looks very angry 
 and grim, like our foes who maraud upon it. 
 
 It is bad news the Russians having taken such a knock, 
 and lost so terrible a number of prisoners. But you 
 may be sure it will buck them up and make them more 
 than ever determined to get their own back. 
 
 I always wondered what those Belgian youths were doing 
 at Porton; it explains why they hid away when I went 
 to see them, and only sent out the old one to talk to me. 
 
 There is a huge barrack here devoted entirely to 
 Belgian troops, and full of young fellows drilling and 
 training for the front: they look very business-like and 
 capable. 
 
 When I wrote to you on Friday I thought Alice was 
 going down to you that day, and pictured her just arrived: 
 now I am doing the same thing over again. I am sure 
 she will congratulate you on my second "mention." It 
 is particularly comfortable coming just at the time of 
 my return to France, for reasons I need not explain. 
 
 When I sit up in my bed in the morning on awaking, 
 and look out across the sea I think of you in your bed 
 looking down this way: we are pretty nearly face to face. 
 
 We have no boss officers here; the garrison so far is 
 too unimportant; a Colonel or Lieutenant-Colonel is the 
 highest. I should think the English soldiers find it very 
 dull: but I fancy they are rather hard-worked. 
 
 The parish priest made me a little visit of ceremony 
 yesterday afternoon, a very nice, stout old party, full of 
 civility and good-will. He seemed to think my room 
 very chic, but I planted him by the window, where a 
 good strong draught blew in his ear, and he moderated 
 his transports.
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 93 
 
 I must bring this very dull letter to an end, with all 
 the usual messages to Christie, Alice, Togo, Bert, Mary, 
 etc. 
 
 I have to write to poor Lady Antrobus. 
 
 February 26, 191 5 
 
 Please don't address Army Pay Office, as you did 
 your last, for the nearest Army Pay Office is at Abbeville 
 forty or fifty miles away, and they might send all your 
 letters there. 
 
 I wish my letters didn't reach you, as they seem to, 
 in batches: I write every day and should like you to get 
 a letter every day. 
 
 It has been horribly cold here, but now has got milder 
 again; the cold gets hold of my liver and makes me 
 seedy. Of course this situation, exposed to north, east, 
 and west winds is very cold; and often it is quite mild 
 in the streets of the town behind, and bitter here. Still 
 it is much the nicest situation, and I don't suppose it 
 will always be cold. 
 
 After luncheon yesterday I went for a walk along the 
 shore: very pretty, but very hard going: the "plage" 
 ends where the casino shows in your big card; then it 
 becomes at once quite a desolate coast, with very high, 
 precipitous cliffs. At the foot of them there is no sand, 
 only coarse shingle, very hard to walk on, and further 
 out a sort of floor of prickly rock full of pools. There 
 I found a lot of wounded French soldiers, convalescents, 
 busily picking mussles — millions of them cover the 
 rocks — and I asked if they cooked them, and how; 
 but they promptly proceeded to show me how they ate 
 them raw: Hmpets, also. 
 
 One of the lads told me that in addition to his wound 
 he had just had typhoid. "You'll have it again in about 
 half an hour," I reassuringly told him. 
 
 There are no shells along this shore, but I think one 
 could pick up hundreds of pebbles that would polish well.
 
 94 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Aoout a mile away I saw a family — perhaps two — 
 living in a cave — they live there always and must 
 often be shut in by the tide. The door of the rock house 
 is about forty feet above the base of the cliff. I am 
 trying hard to get off my chest an immense number of 
 letters owing to people: I write over twenty a day, but 
 there seem heaps still to get through. So I am only 
 going to make this one to you a short one. 
 
 February 27, 191 5 
 
 I FOUND to-day in the town a card of the cave-dwellers 
 along the cliffs, and so I send it to you. Also some of 
 the old castle that I happened to visit on duty to-day, 
 in search of CathoHc soldiers: it is at present occupied 
 by about sixty English soldiers, and very rough their 
 quarters are: old mediaeval rooms tumbling to decay, 
 with rotten floors, and crumbhng roofs, no beds, and 
 no straw, only a blanket or two on the damp and dirty 
 floors: and no fires! However, they were very cheery, 
 and did not grumble an atom. They showed me all 
 over the place, quite proud of an English officer for a 
 visitor. I never saw a more ghostly place: and how 
 cold it must be these tearing nights of frost, sleet, wind, 
 and fog, perched up on that cliff" exposed to every gale 
 that blows. The sixty soldiers in it are like half a dozen 
 peas in a barn. 
 
 Isn't the east end view of St. Jacques lovely.^ and the 
 interior, too? 
 
 You must understand that the cave-dwelling illustrated 
 is high up the face of the cliff. A weird enough place to 
 live with the ocean thundering at your feet in high tide, 
 and quite cut off from all other human intercourse at 
 times. 
 
 It is very late and I must go to dinner.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 95 
 
 February 28, 191 5 
 
 This is Sunday, and yesterday I got your letter written 
 on Thursday: not bad to get it the day but one after it 
 was posted, was it? and with it came the parcel containing 
 the school magazines, and the printed slips from Arrow- 
 smith. 
 
 I went this morning to say Mass at seven, at St. Aubyn, 
 one of the outlying places where there are a few soldiers 
 about eight kilometers from here. I only have about 
 eighteen or twenty-six there, so my congregation was 
 not large, but it was very attentive and devout. At 
 ten I said another Mass in St. Jacques. 
 
 They have given me for my Mass a side chapel dedi- 
 cated to Our Lady of Good Help, rather large and very 
 interesting; from the groined roof hang quaint models of 
 ships, put up as ex voto offerings from sailors or fishermen, 
 in thanksgiving for escape from shipwreck. Dieppe has 
 always been a great sea-place, and in the old days suffered 
 continually from English descents upon it. The old 
 castle was built to defend it against us: and now the 
 streets are pervaded by English soldiers who come as 
 friends. 
 
 The Belgian soldiers training here are a very nice set 
 of men: with such good, honest, pure-minded faces: and 
 alas! such boys. They drill and march splendidly. 
 
 The long line of hotels are all hospitals except this 
 one, full of wounded French soldiers: and it is they who 
 are to be seen limping along on the "plage." And, alas, 
 you hardly see a woman (not one well-dressed one) who 
 is not in mourning. Of course they are not all widows, 
 but Frenchwomen put on such tons of crape that they 
 all look like it. 
 
 The chamber-maid who does my room, **Jeanne," 
 has her husband fighting at the front, in the Vosges 
 district where the fighting is so bitter, hand to hand, and 
 incessant. She is a very good, nice girl, and I made her
 
 g6 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 very happy yesterday by sending off to her husband a 
 Httle parcel containing two shirts and a pair of knitted 
 socks. 
 
 The interpreter at the Base office here is a French 
 private soldier, also a Jesuit priest, called Pere Constant: 
 a really nice young fellow. Of course he is lucky to have 
 the job, but all the same I feel sorry for him. His only 
 companions all day are the other (English) private 
 soldiers, and they just call him "Constant," and treat 
 him as they treat the soldiers who are chauffeurs, etc. 
 He tells me that thirty Jesuit priests have been killed at 
 the front — not chaplains, you know, but fighting as 
 soldiers. 
 
 There is a nice little Belgian lady in this hotel; she 
 came here seventeen days ago to meet her husband who 
 was expecting seven days' leave from the front. To-day 
 he arrived and she presented him to me with great pride: 
 he is an officer, about twenty-six, and very smart and 
 also very nice. It does one good to see the little wife's 
 happiness. 
 
 The sunset just now behind those western cliffs was 
 quite lovely. A very angry sea in front, dark olive- 
 green, with black patches, and wonderful clear yellow 
 patches; the headlands, and behind, saffron and primrose 
 sky showing through rags of fierce cloud. 
 
 The tide, as you say, would be dangerous under those 
 cliffs, but it does not seevi to go out, or come in much, 
 because the shore is really steep, and the water is very 
 deep quite close: big ships come quite close in. 
 
 The mail goes to England regularly every night, but 
 it is escorted by French torpedo-destroyers. 
 
 The naval officers here seem to think that since the 
 blockade began we have not been really losing any more 
 ships than were being destroyed by the Germans before 
 the blockade started, while we have been sinking many 
 more of their submarines. 
 
 The worst of this hotel is, it is very dear: but the
 
 John Ayscough'' s Letters to his Mother 97 
 
 others in the town are very fifth rate French country- 
 town inns, and I don't feel inchned to try them. I have 
 looked at some, but they were so grubby, so noisy, and so 
 un-sanitatious that I decided not to venture on one. 
 
 Most of the Enghsh officers are at one by the railway- 
 station: and I thought it quite beastly and if the Germans 
 did send a little Zeppelin, of course they would make for 
 the railway-station and try to drop their bombs there! 
 There is really nothing to tempt the enemy here: there 
 is only one barrack and that quite avv^ay from the town 
 inland. 
 
 I must stop now and write some other letters. 
 
 March i, 191 5 
 
 I HAD a long and pleasant letter from Lady Glenconner 
 to-day: I did not confess to you that when I went to 
 luncheon with her in London her house was a hospital: 
 Bimbo, the eldest boy, the Guardsman, in bed with in- 
 fluenza; David, the third boy, with diphtheria. How- 
 ever, both were doing very well; and now Bimbo has 
 jaundice, and lies in bed, she says, with long hands that 
 look like rare yellow orchids. Poor Sir Edmund Antrobus 
 died, it seems, after an operation at Amesbury. Chris- 
 topher, Lady Glenconner's second boy, the Naval one, 
 is she thinks (but does not know) helping to take the 
 Dardanelles. She herself is a prey to neuralgia after all 
 her nursing, and lies with a hot-water bottle on the nape 
 of her neck: but apologises for mentioning it, saying: 
 "I ought to imitate the admirable Lady Sarah Bunbury, 
 who at the end of a long and interesting letter about 
 politics, etc., tells Susan Fox-Strangways, in an ex- 
 cellently restricted postscript, 'I have lost the sight of 
 one eye.'" She also apologises for a little ignorance of 
 hers about a minute matter and says: "Did I ever tell 
 you of Sir Henry Newbolt's friend, who dreamt such a 
 good word? He dreamt he was arguing against a wrong-
 
 98 John j^yscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 headed man and kept saying, *I tell you it's more than 
 ignorance, it's pignorance.'" And she hopes I'll forgive 
 her pignorance. 
 
 You will say I am mean to fill up my letter out of 
 another person's letter. But there is no news. 
 
 We had another terrific gale last night, and indeed it 
 is going on still — enormous waves breaking right over 
 the light-house. 
 
 I have heard quite often lately from Madame Clary 
 and she always sends really loving messages to you. 
 I think she is more cheerful since her total blindness than 
 she used to be. 
 
 Now good-bye. 
 
 I don't apologise for dull letters, because I know no 
 one here, and don't want to know anyone, and there is 
 nothing to tell in a daily letter. 
 
 Tuesday y March 2, 191 5 
 
 I SHALL have to write rather a short letter if I finish 
 it to-night, for it is late, and just on dinner-time. I 
 have been out with the Senior Naval Ofl&cer here, to see 
 that ship the "Dinorah" which I told you the Germans 
 torpedoed on the i8th, and which I saw towed in here 
 that same day. 
 
 I went out at 6.30 this morning and said Mass for 
 Pierce, and shall do so to-morrow, too. At eleven I took 
 my letter to the Base, and found yours of the 28th, with 
 the little cutting about Kyffin Salter's will. Fancy his 
 leaving over £100,000! Most of it the Langford money 
 he inherited from our old friend. 
 
 The post also brought me a letter from Lady Antrobus. 
 
 Well, at five I went to look at the torpedoed " Dinorah, " 
 originally an Austrian ship, taken by the French and 
 used by the Government for conveying oats, hay, and 
 trench-timbers to Dunkirk for the troops. The hole is 
 very big, about nine feet high and nine long showings
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 99 
 
 and more of it under the very low-tide water-level in the 
 dock. We examined it outside, then climbed down to 
 examine it from within. The torpedo struck just amid- 
 ship and the torn-ofF plate is in a coal-bunker, separate 
 compartment from the rest of the ship, otherwise she 
 would have gone straight to the bottom. We went up 
 and talked to the captain and engineer; I doing inter- 
 preter: such nice men, simple, plain, honest fellows, 
 with no buck or swash-bucklering about them. They 
 said the noise, when the torpedo struck the ship, was 
 horrible: she, poor thing, shivered and leapt up in the 
 air, then came down, and they no doubt thought she was 
 going down to the bottom of the sea. It was 2 a.m. 
 and every light was extinguished by the explosion; how 
 terrible that darkness must have been! They showed 
 us a bit of the torpedo itself, that the force of the explo- 
 sion had flung up onto the roof of the engine-house — 
 a piece about two feet long and eighteen inches wide, 
 weighing a huge amount. 
 
 It was a most interesting visit: my Naval Officer had 
 never seen a torpedoed ship any more than I had. After 
 all the damage done is only slight and can soon be re- 
 paired: no doubt the Germans flatter themselves the 
 ship and her crew are lying far beneath the waves. 
 
 I must stop. It is not nearly so cold and the gale has 
 subsided. 
 
 March 4, 191 5 
 
 Yesterday, Wednesday, I received your letter written 
 on Monday: it seems the regular thing now to get letters 
 from England the day but one after they're written. 
 
 Yesterday I also received enclosed letter from Dora 
 Severin, now Dora Hardy, an orphan niece of Mrs. 
 Bland's, whom that most generous and self-sacrificing 
 (and very poor) woman adopted and brought up. As a 
 tiny child you may remember her at Ellesmere one 
 summer when all the Blands took lodgings there.
 
 100 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Our cold weather has quite gone, and we have muggy 
 but much warmer weather, that in Malta would certainly 
 be called a sirocco, which I confess I like better. I can 
 sit in my room in comfort without freezing. 
 
 Good-bye for to-day. 
 
 March 4, 191 5 
 
 I THINK I have even less than usual to make a letter 
 out of to-night. I walked to the Base office after Mass 
 and got your letter of Tuesday — the day before yester- 
 day — and a lot of others. Also the Month for March: 
 did you get a copy, too.^ 
 
 By same post came a perfectly charming letter from 
 Sir Charles Fergusson, who commanded my Division at 
 the beginning of the war, and was very kind to me, and 
 who now commands a whole Army Corps. He had been 
 reading the thing of mine in the February Month, and 
 immediately wrote home for the January and all suc- 
 cessive numbers. 
 
 He begs me to go and stay with him at the Head- 
 quarters of the Army Corps, which of course, I can't. 
 
 Also I heard from Lady O'Conor, who is sending me 
 out things — I really need none; but it is very nice of 
 her. 
 
 The head priest at St. Jacques is a queer old boy, and 
 rather amusing. I said Mass for the Dead to-day, and 
 told him it was for all those killed in the war. "All 
 those killed among the Allies, you mean," he said. *'0h, 
 no! for the dead of all armies," I told him. He made a 
 very ugly face and said: "I won't do that. The Bon 
 Dieu must look after the Germans Himself, for me." 
 I laughed and said: "Perhaps the Bon Dieu will say that 
 He has no time, then, to look after you." Whereupon 
 the sacristan giggled and he went away shaking his old 
 head. 
 
 There are two nice Misses La Primaudaye nursing in
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother loi 
 
 a French hospital here: nieces of Mr. La Primaudaye at 
 Malta, and cousins of your beloved Margaret Pollen. 
 
 I have been answering letters for four and a half hours 
 in a row, so I shall make this a short one. 
 
 To-day has been mild and windless, with a thick sea 
 mist, very wetting, but it is only on the "front;" in the 
 town there's none. 
 
 I give the little chap who serves my Mass a few pennies 
 every day — he is a rather sad-looking (sailor's) orphan. 
 I asked him to-day if he bought cakes or sweets with his 
 pennies (all cakes and sweets are very dear here). ''Je 
 71 en achete rien^'^ he answered, "/^ les ecoyiomise" It 
 sounds so much finer than: "I save them up." 
 
 Now to dinner. 
 
 Friday y March 5, 191 5 
 
 How do you do? 
 
 It has been very mild, almost stuffy, here for the last 
 day or two, sometimes quite windless; but to-day, 
 especially to-night, with a strong, not cold, westerly gale. 
 A very thin rain or sea-fog (only it isn't a fog on land) 
 all day, thickening towards evening. 
 
 Saturday 
 
 I only got so far, and was interrupted last night. 
 To-day is a most wild day, and the sea outside a turmoil 
 of waves, rain, spray, spin-drift, and howling wind: 
 inside it is very cosey, not cold a bit. 
 
 The ships can't get in to port at certain states of tide, 
 and eighteen have just accumulated outside, with torpedo 
 destroyers fussing round them in case of a submarine 
 turning up! 
 
 I have been watching them (very glad I was not on 
 board any of them, they jumped and rolled so horribly); 
 they have just been able to get into the port, and it was 
 very pleasant to see them slip in one by one.
 
 102 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 I got a lot of letters to-day, including two of yours 
 of the third and fourth. 
 
 Your letters are anything but dull, always most cheery 
 and pleasant reading: none more interesting to me. I 
 also got a long and very pleasant letter from Lord Malise 
 Graham, A. D. C, to my other friend Sir Charles Fergus- 
 son, whom I used often to mention to you in the early 
 days of the war. When Sir Charles went home he had 
 to return to his battery; now Sir Charles is commanding 
 a whole Army corps he has come back to him. He says 
 "I had to go and shoot Germans for two and a half 
 months, but the only thing I know I shot was a Flemish 
 cow. 
 
 Send a post-card to Ryders, Seedsmen, St. Albans, and 
 ask them to send you a catalogue and one to me here. 
 Army post office, S. 8., B. E. F. and between us we will 
 choose seeds. 
 
 I must dry up because I have to go and hear con- 
 fessions at St. Jacques. 
 
 Sunday y March 7, 191 5 
 
 I WAS dehghted to get your letter to-day, and to 
 know you were taking good care of your little cough; 
 don't let it grow a big one. Bed is the best place for 
 coughs. 
 
 I had two letters to-day from people who recognise 
 
 I did them good turns: Major who has just got the 
 
 D. S. O., and Martin, who has been mentioned in dis- 
 patches. Both say they owe it to my asking it for 
 them, as I did. Martin writes a long letter and ends up: 
 "It was a great privilege being with you and I shall 
 always think you one of the finest men in the world."!! 
 
 These kindly letters do make up for the malice and 
 jealousy of some other people. 
 
 Sir Charles Fergusson sends another letter, full of 
 genuine affection and respect, and I never knew him
 
 John Ayscough' s Letters to his Mother 103 
 
 till I served under him. He commanded my Division 
 then, now he has succeeded Sir Horace in command of 
 a whole Army Corps, Sir H. being in command of the 
 2d Army. He says, "Will you think it very impertinent 
 of me if I ask you to go and see my wife whenever you are 
 in London again? I have talked to her hundreds of 
 times about you, and our children would simply adore 
 you." Lady Alice Fergusson has her share of anxiety 
 from the war: her husband at the front, and two brothers: 
 (a third brother already killed there). 
 
 I tell you all this not out of vanity, but to console you 
 with the idea that there are plenty whose opinion is 
 worth something who think thus of your son out here. 
 
 "The men," says Major Ormsby, "never forget you, 
 or cease talking of you. 'There was nobody like Mon- 
 signor,' they say, *he was a gentleman.'" 
 
 You aren't the only person who thought it odd that 
 with the double mention in dispatches there was no 
 "recognition." 
 
 I left here to-day at 6.30 a.m. to go and say Mass for 
 the few sheep I have in the wilderness at St. Aubyn, and 
 then said Mass at St. Jacques at ten. I had quite a 
 long talk with the two Misses La Primaudaye — they 
 made my congregation thirteen. They said: "What 
 are you here for? Someone jealous somewhere, I 
 suppose?" 
 
 Our soldiers are playing football outside on the grass 
 between my window and the sea. I love to see them 
 enjoying themselves. The Jesuit soldier, Father Con- 
 stant, is coming to dine with me here to-night; he is a 
 very nice man. 
 
 Monday Evening, March 8, 191 5 
 
 It is nearly dinner-time, and I have only just come in 
 from a rather long visit to the hospital; not because I 
 have many sick there, for I only have two, but because, 
 after talking to each of them a good while, just as I was
 
 I04 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 coming away the matron asked me if I would mind 
 going in to chat with a sick officer who would be very 
 glad to have me; so I stayed on another hour with himl 
 He proved to be nice. His name is Captain Lyttelton, 
 and he was out in Malta when we were, with the Northum- 
 berland Fusilier Militia; do you remember them? Poor 
 young Lord Encombe who died was in them, so were the 
 Roddams (a deaf lady), and the Jervoises and a lot of 
 others whom we knew slightly or well. 
 
 My Jesuit priest-soldier who dined with me last night 
 enjoyed his evening, I think. 
 
 On Saturday I meant to tell you about the weekly 
 market here, which is rather quaint. The actual market- 
 place by St. Jacques is not nearly large enough, and for 
 a quarter of a mile along the principal street, the market- 
 women plant themselves on the pavement, and set out 
 their goods to tempt the public. 
 
 They are almost all uncommonly plain, and not very 
 un-English looking: there are some dark and handsome 
 Normans, but in general they are fairish, with eyes of no 
 particular colour, and features of no particular shape — 
 quite unlike the Latin type, French or Italian. They 
 are, like all French people, frugal and careful, content 
 to make a little money slowly, but using everything and 
 wasting nothing. Some had a chicken to sell; one had 
 a turkey. Some had even two chickens: hundreds had 
 eggs, a good lot of eggs, and there were Belgian non- 
 commissioned officers Vv^ith big baskets buying hundreds 
 of eggs for barracks. But some had only very small 
 affairs — half a dozen bunches of snowdrops, a mere 
 handful of salad, enough white "honesty" seed-pods to 
 fill a small vase, three or four cheeses at twopence each; 
 they despise nothing. Imagine a Wiltshire villager walk- 
 ing to Salisbury to sell a handful of "honesty" pods, 
 or a handful of radishes! 
 
 It was quaint and interesting, and I think they them- 
 selves think the market very serious business.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 105 
 
 The few hens, and the one turkey sat very composedly 
 by their owners' sides, waiting to be bought. 
 
 Very few of the women wear hats, in fact scarcely 
 any; the younger ones are bareheaded (even in church) 
 the elder wear very unbecoming little black knitted 
 capes with a sort of cap forming part of it, and drawn 
 over the head. I must say the capes and caps look 
 grubby, and are not picturesque or flattering to a plain, 
 drab face. One or two wear regular bonnets (very stale 
 and greasy) always greasy and always black, of the build 
 I call lodging-house woman, or char-woman — generally 
 made of wool: and probably the ancestral home of a 
 humble but contented population. 
 
 If you sit close to these elderly females in church you 
 are conscious of a sourish, frowsy atmosphere. 
 
 In all the streets (we here, of course, are not in a street, 
 but on the "plage") there are runnels of water beside 
 the pavements. At intervals are sort of taps out of which 
 the water, always running (and quite good and clean) 
 comes. But those runnels are really the drains. Every- 
 thing out of the houses is emptied into them in the early 
 morning, and as I go to Mass at 6.30 I see awful things! 
 
 I must say that the sea-front is the place to live on. 
 All the same, Dieppe is not smelly: the water runs so 
 incessantly that all atrocities are rapidly carried ofi^ into 
 the avant-port or arriere-port. All the same I shouldn't 
 care to eat mussels here (nor oysters, either). 
 
 To-day at luncheon there were mussels: yesterday, 
 enormous whelks. I tackled neither, nor do I think any 
 of us do. I saw a man go the length of tearing a whelk 
 out of its shell, but it looked so horrible that he got no 
 further. 
 
 It is time to stop and go to dinner. Tell me if you 
 can easily read my letters written on both sides of this 
 very thin, but excellent paper. If not I will only use 
 one side of it, and I think one is only supposed to write 
 on one side of it.
 
 io6 'John AyscougVs Letters to his Mother 
 
 Wednesday Evenings March lo, 191 5 
 
 This is the third letter I have written to you to-day: 
 first, a very short one asking for a new stock, which 
 I took to the Base office with a lot of other letters, and 
 found yours in which you were making yourself miserable 
 because of some idea that I was up at the front, or 
 might be. 
 
 So I sent you a second letter to assure you I am still, 
 and am likely to remain here, where I have been all along, 
 until I go home: if I do go home. 
 
 And now I am writing my regular evening letter to 
 post to-morrow. I hope you will be fit again before 
 this reaches you. 
 
 I promise you not to apply for any change from this 
 place, though my being here is ridiculous, and also hor- 
 ribly expensive. At the front one's personal expenses 
 were almost nothing — £1 for messing about once in 
 three weeks! Here they rush me over £4 a week. Of 
 course if they wrote and said there was a chaplain needed 
 in some more active place and would I go, I should say 
 yes. 
 
 Yesterday I was late coming in because I had been out 
 into the country. Up at the front I nursed a young 
 French cavalry soldier (among many) whom our men 
 picked up badly wounded and brought in. He was 
 enormously grateful and often wrote to me, and often 
 wrote to his people about me: they are Norman peasants 
 living at a hamlet called Etran near here. As soon as 
 he knew where I was he begged me to go and see them, 
 which I did. It seems he had sent them a little portrait 
 of me cut out of a newspaper, and as soon as I arrived 
 they called out, "It's Charles's priest!" 
 
 They were nice, very simple country-folk: but re- 
 spectable and well-to-do. I told them how wonderfully 
 sweet and patient, gentle and grateful, Charles had 
 been when sufi^ering with a bad shell-wound in his hip,
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 107 
 
 and they sat round listening with a most deUghtful, 
 simple pride. 
 
 The mother is a stout old party, with a large Norman 
 face, the daughter rather like her brother, but less good- 
 looking, and the two little boys listened with all their 
 eyes while I expatiated on their young uncle's bravery 
 and goodness. 
 
 I have now been out to another place in the country: 
 Varengeville. The Commanding Officer there is a Colonel 
 Acland, a very nice man to whom I had written to arrange 
 about my going out to give services for his twelve men. 
 
 He very civilly came to see me, and we motored out 
 there, and then I motored back. 
 
 He is a brother of Sir William Acland, an Admiral we 
 used to know at Plymouth, and he and Sir William mar- 
 ried sisters, both daughters of W. H. Smith and Lady 
 Hambleden, Rebecca Power's sister. So we had great 
 talks. I have promised to go to luncheon with him, 
 and go and see a wonderful old house called the Manoir 
 d'Argo near there. 
 
 I send you the German Hymn of Hate! Ask Alice to 
 try the music of it. It was in the Weekly Dispatch 
 wrapped round a book. I did not buy the book, but one 
 of the French waiters here gave it me for a present. 
 
 Thursday^ March 11, 191 5 
 
 I RECEIVED a nice letter from Alice this morning in 
 which she mentions that you had re-appeared, or were 
 re-appearing in the drawing-room, and were really 
 better, which it cheered me very much to hear. I asked 
 them at the Army Post Office what the rates are for 
 postage to us, and they say: 
 
 Up to quarter pound for letters, etc. (anything), id. 
 
 Over quarter pound and up to one pound, 4d. 
 
 Over one pound and up to two pounds, 8d. 
 But even if letters are overweight they have never sur-
 
 io8 John JyscougFs Letters to his Mother 
 
 charged, and (never from you) I have received plenty 
 that were a good bit over-weight. 
 
 To-day is mild and warm, rather misty: and I must 
 say I prefer it to the tearing windy days; because the 
 wind is always cold. 
 
 Both yesterday and to-day I have been overtaken in 
 the street by the Base Commandant, who joined on and 
 walked and talked: he does the latter with great vigour. 
 He is clever, but full of theories. He has all sorts of 
 theories about races (I don't mean the Derby or the 
 Grand National, but peoples) and he loves to sit on their 
 backs (the theories' backs) and ride them. 
 
 Unfortunately I don't think history quite confirms 
 them. He is serenely aware that the French, Spaniards, 
 Romans, Greeks, Assyrians, etc., all had their day, and 
 passed it: but he cannot perceive that what happened 
 to them might some day happen to the British . . . 
 because we are Northerns. Northern races, he seems to 
 think, are immortal: I hope so. 
 
 However, he is not quite sure whether the British or 
 the Russians are to boss the world after the war. I think 
 he finds me an agreeable listener, for I have had three 
 goes of his theories in twenty-four hours: anyway, he's 
 uncommonly civil and I would rather hsten to theories, 
 for a change, than unending war-talk. 
 
 Besides the two Church of England Army chaplains here 
 now, there's a regular Church of England chaplain for 
 the Dieppe English Colony. He is a German, and the 
 French, of course, hate him, and his wife is an Irish 
 Catholic: which the members of his congregation highly 
 disapprove. The senior Church of England Military 
 chaplain lives in this hotel, and we sit together at meals. 
 He is a very friendly and pleasant person, and we get on 
 very well. He can't take his eyes off a very remarkable- 
 looking young French lady who sits at the next table 
 (with her husband). She dresses beautifully and would 
 not be bad-looking, only she whitewashes her face and
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 109 
 
 paints her lips bright scarlet; her paint makes her truly 
 alarming to look at, and I avoid an acquaintance. My 
 brother chaplain is always watching to see if the scarlet 
 comes off her lips onto her napkin. 
 
 You never saw anybody so thin as this lady: Mrs. 
 H. C. is fat and podgy in comparison with her. She 
 and her husband look very well-bred and are very quiet. 
 
 You see what stuff I have to fill my letters with; this 
 place is not remarkable for incident, and I carefully 
 avoid getting to know the English colony. In places 
 like Boulogne, Dieppe, etc., there is always an English 
 colony, always furiously gossipy and quarrelsome, and 
 the only way to be safe is to keep out of their clutches 
 altogether. I fancy the English who choose to live in 
 small French towns near England have little histories 
 very often, and are apt to be queerish: but of course 
 I don't know. 
 
 So far as I can judge there is no French aristocracy 
 here; you hardly ever meet anyone in the streets who 
 looks like a real lady, and the few gentlemen are officers 
 who don't belong to the place. In fact Dieppe is very 
 expensive and I think French aristocrats would not 
 choose it to live in, for it is dull and they would get very 
 little for their money. Almost next door there is one 
 very big private house, and the princely coronet and 
 arms over the door made me rather curious to know who 
 could live there. When the Base Commandant over- 
 took me just now he had been to call there: they are Rou- 
 manians, a Prince and Princess Sburza. Why on earth 
 should a Roumanian Prince build himself a huge house 
 at Dieppe? 
 
 Now I must bring this long but very dull letter to an 
 end. Up at the front (and at home, as you know) I 
 tried wearing very thick knitted woollen socks, and they 
 were always damp, no matter how often I dried them. 
 Now I've gone back to the sort I always used to wear, 
 thin ones, and my feet are ten times warmer.
 
 no John AyscougJfs Letters to his Mother 
 
 Friday Evening, March 12, 191 5 
 
 I HAVE not changed my address! A. P. O. is only the 
 recognised contraction for "Army Post Office" as B. E. F. 
 is for British Expeditionary Force. You can use the 
 contraction or the full as you like — the only thing that 
 matters is the letter S and the number 8. 
 
 Our postal service is very well managed, and is not 
 carried out by ordinary soldiers, but by trained post 
 office reservists serving out here in that way. 
 
 I got your dear letter of Wednesday to-day, Friday; 
 it is such a blessing getting one's letters so soon. 
 
 After luncheon I went for a walk to a place called Puys, 
 along the coast eastwards. I had to cross the harbour 
 and then got on to the fields at the top of the cliffs: 
 you need not fear my walking too near the edge of them, 
 for I am frighte7ied of them; I keep well away, and could 
 not go and look over. It doesn't make me giddy, but 
 it gives me a sort of horror. To tell the truth, I can't 
 think of anything else that does frighten me. The shells, 
 etc., up at the front, never did in the least: but I shrink 
 away with a most singular dread from the edge of cliffs, 
 etc. 
 
 The coast is rather fine; the cliffs enormously high; 
 along the shore an odd floor of rock. 
 
 Puys isn't much to see when you get there. I hoped 
 to find a fishing village, but found a valley running up 
 from the shore (a chine really) full of empty villas and 
 an enormous empty hotel. 
 
 However, it was a walk. 
 
 I saw only two people all the way after leaving the 
 town: two English soldiers, walking much too near the 
 edge of the cliff. I warned them not to, and told them 
 how rotten and crumbly the chalk is; when I came back 
 I found them both lying fast asleep about three feet 
 from the edge of a precipice three or four hundred feet 
 high.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother iii 
 
 I am nearly sure that old people cannot get spotted 
 fever, but you are right to keep suspects away. 
 Ryder's catalogue has not turned up yet. 
 I must trot off to dinner. 
 
 Sunday., March 14, 191 5 
 
 I AM sending you by this same post, but separately, 
 a Dieppe pate: which I hope will arrive in good time and 
 in good condition. I think them uncommonly good. 
 
 Yesterday and to-day have been heavenly days, warm, 
 soft, bland, with a bright sun and a windless sea. On 
 the latter a warm mist, but the boats near land casting 
 the most extraordinary reflections of themselves in the 
 unrippled water. The cliffs close at hand stand out 
 white and gleaming, but their line curves away into the 
 pearly haze out of sight. 
 
 At this moment I feel tired : at six I arose and went to 
 Varengeville to say Mass, preach, etc., for Colonel 
 Acland's lot; then back to say Mass, preach, etc., at 
 St. Jacques. 
 
 I have just had my breakfast, and am sitting at my 
 big window, both leaves of it wide open. The French 
 soldiers (convalescents from wounds) are playing foot- 
 ball on the green outside, the bright sun bringing into 
 full glory their exquisite red legs! 
 
 I am cracked about that colour and want to have 
 a dressing gown made of it. Please tell me how many 
 yards of cloth would be needed to make me a dressing 
 gown: putting the breadth at a metre — forty inches. 
 Don't forget to answer this ! 
 
 This paper is not so good a quality as the last — (it's 
 rather like what one covers jam-pots with). Can you 
 easily read if I write on both sides .^ 
 
 I got a very nice letter this morning from a Mrs. Brent, 
 very cheerful, and laughing at herself for thinking her 
 son had been wafted up country somewhere. 
 
 I must tell you they've made a new order now (and
 
 112 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 issued it to every officer so that none can say he "didn't 
 know"): I enclose it. You will see we are not to put 
 even the military address at the head of our letters; we 
 may still embody it in the text, thus A. P. O., S. 8., 
 B. E. F. (You shouldn't put Expeditionary Force and 
 B. E. F. as one stands for the other, but whichever you 
 find least trouble.) 
 
 Of course this new order sounds awful tosh, but we 
 have to obey it; so you see I put only the date at the 
 top of this letter. 
 
 I heard from you both yesterday and to-day: yesterday 
 I took my letters and read them on the strand in the sun. 
 The place I walked to on Friday afternoon, Puys, was 
 a favourite retreat of Alexandre Dumas the elder, and 
 of a number of French men of letters, of his time: I 
 daresay it was a fishing-village when they began to go 
 there, but their favour made it fashionable. Alexandre 
 Dumas died there. The late Lord Salisbury went 
 there every summer, and his villa. Chalet Cecil, is to the 
 fore still. 
 
 I'm glad you enjoyed my account of market-day here; 
 I only wish I could draw. 
 
 Normans aren't a bit like real French people: they 
 have tow-coloured hair, and mud-coloured faces, and 
 boiled-looking eyes. They can't bear the English or the 
 Belgians — who united to bombard the town in 1694 and 
 utterly destroyed it, leaving it a mere heap of ruins — and 
 now the streets are full of Belgian and English soldiers! 
 
 I received a most affectionate letter to-day from my late 
 Commanding Officer, Colonel Slayter. . . . The Pres- 
 byterian principal chaplain has been going the rounds 
 and visited 15 Field Ambulance. , . . 
 
 I must stop for to-day. 
 
 March 16, 191 5 
 
 The stock arrived to-day and fits beautifully — ever 
 so many thanks for it. It was not in the least crushed
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 113 
 
 on the way. You put 8d on it and it weighed much 
 under one pound, so it should only have had 4d. You 
 waste your stamps every day in writing to me. 
 
 It is very heavy, muggy weather and I can scarcely 
 keep my eyes open, so I shall not attempt a real letter 
 now; but will take this to the post (it has to be there 
 by 6 P.M.) for to-night's boat, then come back and write 
 you a decent letter. 
 
 There is no Sunday boat to England now, nor from it, 
 so you can get no letter from me on Tuesdays now, nor 
 I from you on Mondays. 
 
 I must go off" to the post before I fall fast asleep. 
 
 Ever so many thanks for the stock. 
 
 St. Patrick's Day^ March 17, 191 5 
 
 I HAD another nice letter from you to-day, very cheer- 
 ing and bright: also I received from you Ryder's cata- 
 logue, which I will go through and make out an order, 
 which I will send him through you, so that you and I 
 may not order the same things twice over. As to vege- 
 table seeds, we usually get them at the post office, as we 
 do seed potatoes, and Bert had better get them there 
 this time. They come from a Society called "One and 
 AH" and are very good. 
 
 I wore your new stock to-day and thank you afresh for 
 it. I received ajter Mass a box of shamrock and a large 
 box of good cigarettes, a present from Cork: unfor- 
 tunately, they were addressed thus: "No. 8 Post Office, 
 Expeditionary Force" and had been to No. 8 P. O., up 
 at the front; No. 8 Cavalry Post Office; Headquarters; 
 and finally here. 
 
 The sender is a Mrs. Scriven (Helma Scriven), a well- 
 to-do Irish farmer in her ozvn right: (Mr. S. is gone to 
 Abraham's bosom) whom I never saw, but I knew two 
 very nice nephews of hers in the Irish Rifles at Tidworth, 
 John and Denis Lucy: John (only quite a lad, but very
 
 114 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 charming and refined) is now a Sergeant; Denis, un- 
 fortunately, wounded and a prisoner since last September. 
 
 Wasn't it nice of her to think of sending me the cigar- 
 ettes? It's not as if her boys were here and I could 
 do anything for them. 
 
 The Scarlet Lady, as I called her, has gone away long 
 ago. Her name was Madame B. 
 
 I walked to Puys along the cliffs again after luncheon 
 to-day: at the top of the cliffs are quite flat fields. 
 
 On Sunday night I went out to dinner, invited by an 
 elderly French widow who seems to feed priests. There 
 were six of them! We had quite a delicious dinner, 
 thoroughly French, very light and agreeable: and I liked 
 my old hostess. 
 
 I had a very cheery letter from Colin Davidson from 
 the front, where he is very happy. He spoke much of 
 you and hoped you were well and cheerful. This morn- 
 ing at 3 A.M. I heard four explosions out at sea and said: 
 "There the Germans are, torpedoing some ship: I 
 suppose they'll send our letters from home to the bot- 
 tom." But it was only fog-bombs, let off to signal the 
 way in to the mail-boat through a thick mist. 
 
 I have acquired a most painful habit of saying awk- 
 ward things. The other night I was introduced to a 
 magnificent old French Staff Officer as bald as a coot: 
 and he said, "I have admired your white hair so much." 
 "Oh yes, I've plenty of them," I replied cheerfully. 
 "And I none at all," he remarked, rather grimly. 
 
 And I was sitting talking to four naval officers who 
 have all been here since the beginning of the war. They 
 spoke of a young Army Service Corps officer here, and 
 I asked what his work was. "Oh, seeing hay unloaded 
 from England," they told me. Then I said, tactfully, 
 "A nice safe way of getting the war medal." You should 
 have seen those four faces. Of course they'll all get the 
 medal, too: I believe they thought I said it on purpose. 
 Mr. B's glass eye glared in its socket.
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 115 
 
 Now I must take this letter off to the post. They 
 have to be there by six or they lose the night boat. 
 With best love to Christie, Alice, Togo, etc. 
 
 Thursday Afternoon, March 18, 191 5 
 
 I ENCLOSE two more letters for you to read — they 
 need neither be returned or kept. 
 
 One is from George . His wife was the lady who 
 
 said to Lady Auckland, "Lady Auckland, why do you 
 say 'Not at Home' to people when they can see you are 
 
 in.?" and to whom Lady A. replied: "Mrs. , 
 
 why do you paint your face when people can see that it 
 is painted.?" 
 
 We have another character in this hotel now: the 
 French Commandant of the place, an ancient Colonel 
 — the gentleman to whom I made the happy remark 
 about my abundant white hair. He is splendidly uni- 
 formed, and our fellows call him the Chocolate Soldier. 
 I never met such a talker; he grabs you and keeps you 
 an hour or two while he gabbles. Last night he kept 
 me in the hall till everybody else was in bed. 
 
 I saw the hall-porter cleaning his valises this morning 
 and observed demurely, "A charming person!" 
 
 "He talk mosh too mosh," said the concierge in English, 
 "nobody don't want to pay no spies while he talk — 
 everything told for nothing." 
 
 He is a very flamboyant Catholic, and is supposed to 
 have been a martyr to his religion: but I should say his 
 tongue had something to do with it. However, he is 
 all bows and amiability. 
 
 After luncheon I walked to Puys again — because it 
 is the walk by which you can get at once into the country. 
 I am sure that the sea has washed away miles of those 
 cliffs, and I suppose that once Hampshire and Sussex 
 were all in one piece with this land. You can see valleys 
 that have evidently lost half of themselves in the sea,
 
 Ii6 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 quite abruptly ending, not verging down to the shore: 
 and you can see other pieces of cHfF getting ready to col- 
 lapse into the sea. 
 
 Puys itself is to me the most dismal sort of place — 
 a crowd of chalets and villas, all shut, not one house open: 
 and no small houses or cottages: not one house that is 
 or ever was anybody's home; houses built simply as 
 pleasure resorts for a few summer weeks. Not one house 
 that ever grew there out of anyone's necessity, as farms 
 grow, and cottages. 
 
 It is a coldish, snappy day, with a raw mist, no sun, 
 and a nipping wind — as every day has been for a fort- 
 night except Sunday and Saturday, which were en- 
 chanting. 
 
 Apropos of the Army Post Office address, I ought to 
 tell you that supposing by any chance (which I pray 
 may not be) you were seriously ill, you could telegraph 
 to me at the hotel addressing thus: — Monsignor Bicker- 
 staffe, Grand Hotel, Dieppe. 
 
 And I should get the telegram quite soon. 
 
 One of our military guests here had a mother ill and 
 she telegraphed and he got the wire very soon and got 
 leave to go over by that night's packet. 
 
 Now I must trot off to the post and also to the hospital 
 where I have already been this morning after Mass. 
 
 With best love to Christie and Alice. 
 
 Friday, March 19, 191 5 
 
 I AM very glad the pate arrived all right and that you 
 found it good. The charcutier, the man who sells all 
 those sorts of good things to eat, is a great institution 
 in France. 
 
 I send you to-day a pate tube de soldat: it does not 
 mean a pate made of German soldiers slain in battle — 
 or subsequently for the table, but is intended as a little 
 present to send to a soldier.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 117 
 
 I have sent lots of French soldiers things of the kind. 
 
 The point for the soldier is that it needs no tin-opener, 
 and that the part not used at first opening doesn't get 
 spoiled or dirtied, nor does it grease other things. The 
 stuff inside is very good. 
 
 It is bitterly cold here to-day, and I am revelling in a 
 fire, the first I have seen since I left England. I have 
 to write something to-night, and last night I found I 
 was cold so that I could not. So when to-day came colder 
 than yesterday I told them I must have a fire, or change 
 to a room with central heating. Now I have a lovely 
 wood fire. . . . 
 
 This is a scrubby little letter, but I viust write this 
 evening, and first there is the journey to the post with 
 this: It is quite a mile away! 
 
 Monday, March 22, 191 5 
 
 I AM writing this from Eu, where I am for a little 
 outing from Dieppe with Captain Benwell, the Naval 
 Commandant. We had luncheon at twelve, caught the 
 one o'clock train and came to Treport. . . . Captain 
 Benwell had to come and inspect the place. It is a 
 pretty journey from Dieppe, and Treport is pretty too. 
 The old church stands in a fine, bold position on a rock 
 over the little port, and inside it is very beautiful: out- 
 side quaint and picturesque. We had tea at Treport, 
 and walked to Eu; about three miles along a pretty 
 road. . . . The church is very fine indeed, and the 
 chateau is close to it; the back of it looks on the church, 
 the principal fa9ade into the great park. It is a royal 
 residence; it was the special family residence of Louis 
 Philippe, and it was there that he entertained Queen 
 Victoria and the Prince Consort. The present owner 
 and inhabitant is the Comte d'Eu, grandson of Louis 
 Philippe; and the Comtesse d'Eu is grand-daughter of 
 the Emperor of Brazil. I expect you remember another
 
 Ii8 John Ayscouglo s Letters to his Mother 
 
 grandson of the Emperor of Brazil, Prince Louis of Saxe- 
 Coburg, who came to see us at Plymouth and told you 
 that he was used to speaking-trumpets because his grand- 
 mother the Empress of Brazil used one. 
 
 We are going to dine in this inn, and then catch the 
 train which leaves for Dieppe at eight-thirty and arrives 
 there about ten. I have made Captain Benwell go out 
 for a walk while I write this. I must say I enjoy the 
 Httle change and outing. 
 
 Here's Captain Benwell, and I must stop. 
 
 Wednesday y March 24, 191 5 
 
 I AM so glad the hats arrived safe, and gave such 
 satisfaction; and particularly glad to think that you had 
 your share of them. Alice tells me you made a most 
 engaging summer bonnet out of the two Tuscan straws: 
 I am sure they would not lose their smartness in your 
 hands. 
 
 I went to a glover's for the suede gloves, not to a dra- 
 per's, and sent you the pair of black ones by this morning's 
 boat. I thought the thread pair might do (to match 
 the Tuscan straw!) for sitting in the garden, etc. They 
 are not common, though cheap. 
 
 Yesterday I v/ent to Arques again, and walked up the 
 beautiful wooded valley behind the castle, away from the 
 broad main valley in which the church and village are: 
 in the Middle Ages it was not a village but a "bourg" 
 more important by far than Dieppe, which was only 
 a fishing village. 
 
 I took a paper with me, and read it sitting by the 
 roadside, alone with the woods and the throstles that 
 were tuning their spring songs. Alas! the first thing I saw 
 in the paper was that poor little McCurry, the youngest 
 officer in our Field Ambulance, was killed on the fifteenth. 
 It made me very, very sad. He was such a bright, 
 boyish lad, and he was absolutely devoted to me. Before
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 119 
 
 the war he was one of Carson's gun-runners, and of course 
 I used to chaff him for making friends with a terrible 
 Popish priest: but the truth was he hadn't an ounce 
 of prejudice or bigotry in his whole body: he only went 
 in for gun-running for fun, just as he came out to the 
 war for fun, and this is the end of his young and hopeful 
 Hfe. 
 
 I was really ill one day, and only one, and he was 
 kinder and more tender to me than any woman could 
 have been; indeed, though barely twenty-one, not 
 twenty-one then, he was a very clever doctor. 
 
 The night I left he came to my room and said: "Mon- 
 signor, I had to come and see you alone to say good-bye. 
 Of course, I'm only a kid, and I don't know how to talk, 
 and I'm not clever or well-read; but none of them have 
 been so fond of you as I am; do let me come and see you 
 in England: will you.^ You have taught me to look 
 at life in a different way, and shown me nobler things 
 to live for. And, O dear Monsignor, I do love you 
 so much." 
 
 I cannot tell you how it horrified me, reading of his 
 being killed. We called him our baby, and death and 
 he seemed to have nothing to say to each other. I 
 came home very sadly: and to-day I said Mass for his 
 brave and simple soul. 
 
 I bought more cards for you in the village at Arques, 
 though I daresay you have them nearly all. 
 
 You cannot think how many lovely views of the old 
 ruined castle there are as one walks up that valley. 
 If I could have drawn I should have made a dozen pic- 
 tures; in some places it was through the naked boughs 
 of tall trees that one saw the stern grey fortress, and the 
 afternoon yellow light fell on it and them. And the 
 exquisite leafless woods are all spread with a golden 
 carpet of daffodils. 
 
 I'm glad Father M. came, and that you and he are 
 burying your very uncalled-for hatchet. . . .
 
 I20 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Now I must stop. 
 
 Tell Alice and Christie about poor little McCbutney, 
 as we called him; I have often made them scream with 
 laughter over him. 
 
 March 25, 191 5 
 
 "I HOPE you are quite well, as this leaves me at present," 
 and I really don't know what else to say! 
 
 It has been raining all day to-day and yesterday, 
 and the sea looks very damp and cold. But this is 
 almost the first rain there has been in all the weeks I 
 have been here. 
 
 Yesterday after luncheon the French Commandant 
 (the brilhantly uniformed old Hussar, with Eton-blue 
 jacket covered with embroidery and astrachan fur, and 
 geranium-coloured legs) to whom I made my brilliant 
 remark about plenty of hair, told me that he had seventy 
 or eighty German prisoners arriving — in fact just 
 arrived. I said, "Now, mon Colonel, don't be unkind 
 to them." He seemed to think it very funny, and got 
 everyone round to tell them how Monsignor had forbidden 
 him to maltreat the Boches. After dinner he told me he 
 had seen them. 
 
 "Mind," said I, "you have promised to be nice to 
 them." 
 
 He skipped with amusement. "You shall come to 
 see them." (That was just what I wanted.) "You 
 shall give them your benediction." 
 
 It turned out, too, that one of them had been servant 
 to a friend of his, and they had recognised each other 
 at once. 
 
 I got a card yesterday from the little wife of the Bel- 
 gian officer who was here, to tell me she had got as far 
 as Holland on her way home. 
 
 I hate telling you sad things, but I am going to tell 
 you one: yesterday I heard that one of the French
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 121 
 
 soldiers, convalescent after being wounded, in one of the 
 hotel-hospices close to, had received the order to go back 
 to the fighting line. Probably he had been here since 
 September. The poor lad hanged hin>self. Isn't it 
 horrible to think, not only of the act, but of the unspeak- 
 able anguish of mind that ended in it.^ 
 
 My poor McCurry killed, nobly, in the way of duty, 
 all his hopeful youth finished, that was sad enough; 
 but how much more horrible to think of this ignoble 
 way of exit, in evasion of duty, of one whose youth was 
 hopeless. But it was not, I am sure, mere cowardice: 
 it was simply a breaking-point of endurance, reached 
 after long horrors of anticipation. To go hack to that 
 awful fighting, remembering it, and saved from it by a 
 terrible wound — the thought of it so mfinitely more 
 unbearable to a lonely, morbid mind than the first going 
 to it. 
 
 For that poor soul, too, I said Mass to-day: do say 
 a prayer for him. 
 
 There is another little French dog in this hotel who 
 wants to adopt me, but I won't be adopted; I was too 
 sad when I lost my other little friend. One of the land- 
 lord's many daughters saw me talking to him and said 
 in English, "We will give him you a present. 'E no- 
 one's dog. 'E 'ave no 'ouse. 'E come from no place. 
 'E arrive, no one sending 'im no invitation. If you 
 'ave 'im, you will be the welcome." 
 
 But I pictured how welcome "E" would be to Togo, 
 and what fine ructions there would be if I took *'im" 
 home. 
 
 Poor Httle thing: he sits and looks at me and trembles 
 all over, and wags, and comes forward, and stops, and 
 shivers: he has a ripe experience of being snubbed. 
 
 I promised you I had nothing to say and I have kept 
 my word! 
 
 With best love to Christie and Alice and a lump of 
 sugar to Togo.
 
 122 John Ayscough's "Letters to his Mother 
 
 March 26, 191 5 
 
 I HAVE just got ready for the post (to-morrow morn- 
 ing's) another pate for you, and put in five tiny cream- 
 cheeses. I hope the little packet will reach you safe and 
 soon. After luncheon I again went to Puys, my favourite 
 walk, as I told you, because one gets away from the 
 town quickest that way. 
 
 But this time I went by the shore, which takes much 
 longer: it is horribly rough to the feet, and ruinous to 
 boots; all the way there is a flat floor of sharp rock, 
 and at the base of the cliffs a belt of deep shingles of 
 flint. Near the town there is a regular colony of cave- 
 dwellers, and they all look miserably poor, starved, 
 and pale. 
 
 The rock floor is of a white stone, chalk I suppose,, 
 but hardened by the daily weight of the mass of tide 
 upon it, and it is pitted with innumerable holes, out of 
 which the waves have banged the flints: these holes are 
 sharp and disagreeable to walk on. Nearer the water 
 the flat floor of rock is carpeted with millions of tiny 
 mussels equally unpleasant to walk upon — as they may 
 think, too. 
 
 I found a lonely French soldier surveying the waves, 
 and we sat on a rock and talked. He comes from the 
 far south, and talked very odd French. I consoled him 
 with a franc and a bundle of cigarettes. 
 
 It was a lovely day, though cold, and the sea and coast 
 line looked exquisite. In front, after yesterday's wind 
 and rain, the water was Mississippi-colour, brownish, 
 muddy, but laced with snowy lines; beyond these came 
 bands of meadow green, and slaty-blue, then wonderful 
 primrose patches, and then, under the horizon, great 
 expanses of sapphire-blue. The coast line is really 
 glorious, the cliffs enormous, curving away into the 
 clear haze where only their tops showed like veils of 
 yellow cloud.
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 123 
 
 . . . The huge building is the hotel full of wounded 
 soldiers now. The odd terrace-line at the top of the 
 picture is half a Roman camp, the other half long ago 
 fallen into the sea where all the rest will follow. At 
 that point the clifF must be quite five hundred feet high. 
 
 I walked back by the fields at the top of the cliffs, 
 very glad to change the shingle and shag for the smooth 
 grass: it took about one quarter of the time. 
 
 I always turn in to the little votive chapel to pray for 
 Ver and all my dear comrades out at the front. I an- 
 swered Dora Hardy's letter to-day. . . . 
 
 I must stop: with best love to Christie and Alice — 
 and the Admiral. 
 
 Saturday y March 27, 191 5 
 
 There is now no mail to England from here on Sun- 
 days, so that this cannot start on its way till midday on 
 Monday: but to-morrow evening I shall be out in the 
 country, holding service for a few sheep in the wilderness, 
 so I write now: not that I have anything to say! .... 
 
 I confess my writing becomes worse; I can't approve 
 of my way of crossing my final t's, but I can't break 
 myself of it. 
 
 I shall continue to wear my hair like a "nut" till you 
 see it; then, if you are irreconcilable, I will alter it. It 
 makes me feel as if I had walked out of a wood! 
 
 It is cold to-day, and I'm revelling in a wood-fire, 
 which makes my room have a delightful smell, like the 
 smell Captain Cust's study used to have in winter when 
 I was a child. I always think that smell exactly the 
 proper thing for a room, and now it carries me back 
 much more than forty-six years and gives me a double 
 pleasure. 
 
 I am going to send you, when I've finished it, a book 
 I delight in, called "Rural Rides." It is by that eccen- 
 tric genius called William Cobbett, who wrote a wonder-
 
 124 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 ful, popular, vulgar, but very clever History of the 
 Protestant Reformation in England. He was a Protes- 
 tant himself, but he thought Henry VHI, Elizabeth and 
 James I atrocities, and showed up their dealings with their 
 luckless subjects as to religion in a fiery fashion that no 
 Catholic writer could or ever did approach. 
 
 . . . He was Hampshire born, and the "Rides" are 
 full of the most fascinating descriptions of our part of 
 England — Wiltshire — and the adjoining parts of Hants, 
 Berks, Gloucester, etc. When I send you the book you 
 are not to toss it away and say, ''It's all politics and 
 swedes and mangold-wurzels, " for the bumble-puppy 
 politics don't matter sixpence and the farming is all 
 mixed up with exquisite appreciation of the country, 
 scenery, woods, trees, etc. He was a frantic radical in 
 his day, but it was when half the English poor were 
 wretched, and no social reform had begun. . . . 
 
 I'm so glad Father Cashman came: I like him very 
 much and I think his brogue is part of him, and suits 
 him: I shouldn't like him not to have it. 
 
 Christie says your bonnet is lovely: one of these days 
 I'll get you a new veil here to go with it. . . , 
 
 The bay at Treport is very wide; under the cliffs at 
 one end is Treport; under the cliffs at the other end is 
 another place called Mers. 
 
 The censor looked rather glum when I took him five 
 or six envelopes all addressed to one person: but I didn't 
 care, as they went off all right. 
 
 One day a soldier wrote twenty-eight sheets to his wife, 
 on purpose to give the censor trouble. The censor sent 
 for him and said: "You may, of course, write to your 
 wife; but you may not compose albums.'" 
 
 No letter of mine has been opened since I have been 
 here, except one to a French soldier, and that was my 
 fault, because I forgot to frank it with my name outside. 
 As this censor doesn't know French I expect it bothered 
 him.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 125 
 
 French people's politeness is rather funny: one day 
 a French soldier asked me, after a long talk, if / was 
 French (a delicate way of hinting at my excellent French). 
 **Come," I said, *'do let us be sensible. You ask me if 
 I am French. How long did it take you to know very 
 well that I am English? Tell the truth." 
 
 "y^w premier mot, Monsieur,'' he answered, thus 
 adjured! 
 
 As a matter of fact one gets little practice during the 
 war: I have been in France many months, and I don't 
 suppose that I have talked French, or had any chance 
 of talking it, for anything Hke twenty-four hours, if all 
 the times were added together. 
 
 Still, I had nearly forgotten it when I came out in 
 August, and now I know as much as I ever did know, 
 which wasn't much. 
 
 What a dull letter! I'd better go to dinner. 
 
 Give my best love to Christie and thank her for her 
 letter, also to Alice and the Admiral. You see, I'm get- 
 ting economical and only give you one sheet with the 
 chiffre on it. Notepaper, etc., is very dear here. 
 
 The dentifrice quite cured the afflicted part! 
 
 March 29, 191 5 
 
 Very many thanks indeed for the second stock, 
 which arrived safely, and without any crushing or spoil- 
 ing, with the other things. The parcels reached this 
 place on Saturday night, and were delivered yesterday. 
 
 On Sundays, after their Mass, the Belgian troops 
 training here have a parade on the grass just outside 
 my window, and I watched them with great interest, 
 then went out and watched them march away to their 
 barracks. All very young, from eighteen to twenty- 
 one, but really wonderfully business-like: and a very 
 good, honest set of faces, like fair English faces; only 
 here and there a sly or mean-looking countenance.
 
 126 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Poor things! I do hope the nasty old war will not 
 last long enough to swallow them all up. 
 
 This morning I met on the "plage" that Belgian lady 
 who was staying here when I first came, with her husband 
 and a friend or sister, and we had a long talk. (I do 
 not mean the little officer's wife.) They have taken a 
 villa and are going to stop here till the v/ar ends. 
 
 She is really nice, a lady of good birth and position, 
 and very like an Englishwoman of the best class. She 
 says that at their chateau in Belgium four hundred and 
 fifty Germans are billeted. 
 
 I told her Dieppe bored me, but she said, "Your 
 mother must be glad to know you are so safe and so com- 
 fortable." I know it is so; and when one thinks how 
 many of one's comrades are in such hourly danger, one 
 ought to be truly thankful. I know you are. 
 
 The son of the landlord of this hotel has to go on 
 Friday, a very nice lad of eighteen: quite a gentleman, 
 but very gentle and I think timid; he goes to Belfort, 
 a great frontier-tovv^n that I remember visiting long ago — 
 in 1879, I think. 
 
 Yesterday I met in the street that little soldier whom I 
 found so eagerly gathering mussels on the rocks when 
 I first came here. He came up and said: "Monsieur, 
 I go to-morrow; first home to see my people in the south, 
 then back to the front." He looked a little blue about 
 it. He also is a little, delicate-looking thing, with a 
 face like a very innocent child. I've often seen him 
 playing football out on the grass in front, skipping about 
 like a young gazelle. I asked him one day what his 
 trade was when he was not soldiering and he said "a 
 hatter"; and, as he looks a little cracked, I'm sure it's 
 true. 
 
 Last night I motored out to St. Aubyn to give a very 
 unconventional service to some stray sheep there, and 
 the air was like frozen daggers. However, I came back 
 to a roaring wood-fire.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 127 
 
 Now I'm going to look up some other stray sheep. 
 And I must shorten this letter: which is just as well, as 
 there is nothing to tell you. 
 
 So good-night. 
 
 March 30, 191 5 
 
 I RECEIVED a charming letter from Miss Stewart 
 to-day and three parcels of things, for myself and for 
 the men — chocolate, cigarettes, mittens, etc. She is 
 a good and nice little woman. 
 
 Also I received the rochet, which I must thank you 
 for sewing the lace onto. It came all right, not the 
 least squashed or tumbled. Really our military post 
 is very good and much quicker than the civil post. . . . 
 
 The bitter cold winds continue, and my fire continues! 
 No fear of my putting on thin clothes yet. 
 
 I enclose a nice letter I received from George Parker. 
 I'm sure he is a nice man. But I laughed at his saying, 
 *'You young men." 
 
 Also I enclose a letter from Sir Charles Fergusson, not 
 that it contains anything special, but I want you to see 
 what a nice and good man he is. 
 
 I am not going to try and write a letter myself now, 
 because I feel dull and headachy (not neuralgia, or at 
 all bad) and I must go out and get a puff of air: un- 
 fortunately, the puffs are so strong and cold! 
 
 Wednesday, March 31, 191 5 
 
 I haven't much more to make a letter out of to-night 
 than I had yesterday, but the headache is quite gone, 
 the day is bright and lovely, and I feel very cheerful. 
 
 Last night I had to go to bed, and there my headache 
 left me in peace. (I don't mean that other nights I 
 do not go to bed, but that last night I retreated thither 
 directly after dinner.)
 
 128 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 I'm so glad the gloves were what you wanted. . . . 
 As to the Falaises of Varengeville, they are about three 
 miles from here, to the left — to the west. Aren't they 
 fine? I walked in that direction after luncheon to-day, 
 along the strand, and "E" as Alice called the little French 
 dog, bore me company. . . . 
 
 I found three French soldiers devouring mussels by the 
 sea, and talked to them for ever so long. They had all 
 been wounded, two of them in the thigh. "And where," 
 I asked the third, "were you wounded.?" "Near Ypres," 
 he said. "Yes; but in what part of your body.?" "Well, 
 Monsieur," he replied discreetly, "I'm sitting on it." 
 I gave them chocolate to eat instead of the mussels, and 
 cigarettes and mittens. 
 
 They were very nice fellows and talked so simply 
 and cheerfully about their rough life at the front. 
 
 I'm sorry Ver is in hospital, but I think the rest will 
 be good for him. 
 
 I had a letter from Mr. Gater to-day (and one from 
 you). He tells me of a string of accidents and disasters. 
 
 I will write soon to Mrs. G., but it is really Winifred 
 I owe a letter to. 
 
 The sea outside looks heavenly and the sun is just 
 dipping his extremely red nose in it. About sunset there 
 always comes on a peculiar and lovely pearly light, 
 everything takes on the same colour, the old castle, the 
 cliffs, the air: only the sea is dark and strong in colour: 
 and the Western Sea is noty but shrimpy-co\o\xvt^y with 
 long bars of cinnamon, primrose, and white. 
 
 I like walking along the shore, but it is ruinous to one's 
 boots. 
 
 Thank you, dear, for your prayers for that poor lad 
 who hanged himself. I do not fear God's mercy for him; 
 only I think, as you do, of the long and lonely anguish 
 of that despair that led to his doing it, and it seems so 
 horrible. If only one could have known! One friendly 
 human voice might have made such a difference.
 
 John Ayscough' s Letters to his Mother 129 
 
 One reason why I so often go along the chfFs to Puys 
 is that the first time I overtook a young Gascon — 
 once wounded, cured, and sent back to the front; then 
 ill of typhoid and sent here. I warned him not to walk 
 at all near the edge because of the crumbly soil, and 
 hollow overhanging summits, and he said, "What an 
 easy place pour se suicider.^' And I stuck to him, and 
 only left him when he met comrades going home and 
 went with them. I don't think he meant anything: 
 but I wondered; I've often met him since, but never 
 out of the town, and he always seems very cheery. 
 
 Now I must go off to post. 
 
 With best love to Christie and Alice. 
 
 Thursday y April i, 191 5 
 
 I HAVE just come back from the post, whither, having 
 no orderly, I have to go and fetch my letters in the 
 morning, as well as to post them in the evening. It is 
 1 1. 1 5 A.M., and at 12 I have to go and dine with the 
 "archpriest" of St. Jacques. 
 
 I found at the post your letter telling of the safe arrival 
 of the pate and the tiny cream cheeses. You must under- 
 stand that the pates were not both the same. The tube 
 seems to have lasted wonderfully: was its inside good.? 
 I know the pates in the "tureens" but not the tubes. 
 
 It is quite a heavenly day to-day: mild, creamy air, 
 exquisite sunlight, and a delightful air of hope and resur- 
 rection over the country. 
 
 From the windows there seems to be no sea: but a 
 sky that comes up to the shore, and up in it spirits of 
 good ships glorified, bound on no tedious voyages of 
 profit, but cruising for sheer love and memory. 
 
 But when you go out and stand by it, there the sea is, 
 pulsing, not moving, waveless, not even lapping on the 
 strand, but lying against it as lake-water lies against its 
 banks.
 
 130 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 There were seventeen craft awaiting high-tide to go 
 up behind the town into the hidden harbours, one of 
 them a three-masted schooner. About fifty yards from 
 the beach there was a diver, with snow-white breast 
 and coal-black back, both gleaming in the sun, standing 
 up in the water, splashing, swishing, fooling, just for 
 fun and pleasure. 
 
 There I sat and read your letter. It does cheer me so 
 to see you cheerful. I must say this is a lovely place, 
 and though dull, I enjoy it. 
 
 You are not to imagine that the fields on the way to 
 Puys slope down to the top of the cliffs; at the top of 
 them they are as flat as pancakes. No fear of slipping 
 down. 
 
 5 P.M. 
 
 Now I am finishing my letter up in my ov/n room. 
 
 The midday dinner-party at the archpriest's was much 
 more agreeable than I anticipated. There were six of us, 
 and the dinner not at all stodgy. No meat, but various 
 dishes of eggs, fish, vegetables, etc.: and the company 
 very pleasant. 
 
 The archpriest is just my age, and very glad not to be 
 younger, as he is safe from being snapped up for a soldier. 
 His curate, of whom I told you, a little Redemptorist 
 monk of forty-four years old, was suddenly called off 
 yesterday. I can't picture him in uniform, he looked 
 such a typical little monk. 
 
 The archpriest is a clever old boy, with a sharp and 
 rather stinging wit, but not maUcious. 
 
 They were all complimenting me on the devotion and 
 attention of my soldiers at Mass. One of them laughed, 
 and said, "Perhaps they do not listen so attentively to 
 everybody: they tell me Monsignor is worth listening 
 to." But I assured them, what is true, that it made no 
 difference; English soldiers would always listen with the 
 same simple and devout attention to any priest.
 
 John Ayscoiiglo s Letters to his Mother 131 
 
 By the same post with your letter came another from 
 -, and that one I think need not be answered. She 
 
 loves inditing portentous epistles full of mysteries and 
 shockdoms. 
 
 I came back to the hotel after luncheon, and picked 
 up Lady ^.,the French dog, with whom I went for another 
 walk along the shore towards Varengeville, i.e., the direc- 
 tion opposite to Puys. 
 
 This morning one could not have gone that way, the 
 tide was up to the foot of the cliffs. As I went to the 
 archpriest's house in the town I passed along the basins, 
 or at least the pre-port . . . the water was up to within 
 eighteen inches of the brim, and it looked very nice. 
 There were some little English ships, and I chaffed the 
 sailors, and asked if I might not step on board and be 
 a stowaway. 
 
 . . . The Casino at the other end of the "plage" 
 is now a hospital, as are all the hotels, except this, upon 
 the sea-front. 
 
 I believe Dieppe was a beautiful mediaeval town till 
 1694, when we English with the Dutch (it was under 
 William of Orange) bombarded it and utterly destroyed 
 two thousand houses. The royal architect under 
 Louis XIV laid out a new town, with all the houses much 
 alike — and not one with a staircase! 
 
 I am sending you the "Rural Rides": don't begin at 
 the beginning, but at page 323. You will like the Wilt- 
 shire descriptions. Never mind the roaring poHtics! 
 
 April 2, 191 5 
 
 I HAVE written such a lot of letters, and it is so late 
 that I must make this a short one, which is all the easier 
 that I have nothing to tell you! 
 
 This morning I received your letter promising to read 
 "Rural Rides" which I had just posted to you. I hope
 
 132 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 you won't say, "How can he like this book, with its 
 endless tirades against the clergy, National Debt, etc.!" 
 
 I like it because of its intense feehng for rural England, 
 and also for its sympathy Avith the English peasant, 
 who often in those days had to feed himself, his wife and 
 children on five or six shillings a week, pay rent, buy 
 fuel, clothes, foot-wear, etc. Cobbett's Hne is simply 
 this, "Much wants to be done: nothing can be done 
 except by Parliament: and what hope is there of such 
 a Parliament.^" 
 
 Old Sarum, with no inhabitants, returned two Members 
 to Parliament, and hundreds of members represented other 
 "boroughs," with three, four, or a dozen inhabitants, who 
 perhaps had no votes. The Members were simply sent 
 up by the man who owned the land. 
 
 His politics are often sheer rubbish: but they are 
 generally a sort of sympathy for helpless people, gone 
 mad. I believe the parish clergy he abuses were then 
 mainly an inferior and selfish set: it was long before the 
 Oxford movement had regenerated them. 
 
 His whole argument is this, "Here is a starving people 
 and here is corn enough to feed a nation twenty-five 
 times more numerous: this must be wrong." 
 
 After it I am trying to read again "Tom Brown at 
 Oxford," which I read last forty-five years ago and hked 
 very much: I find it rather tedious now. 
 
 "Lady A." is sitting by my fire, whence she comes 
 on her hind legs begging, not for sugar, but to be taken 
 out for a walk. So I shall take her to the post. 
 
 She is much nicer than her dowager namesake, and 
 far more amusing company. But unlike the dowager 
 she has a tendency to produce puppies, and did so two 
 or three months ago. However, they are all drowned, 
 and she has forgotten the episode. 
 
 I hope it will be fine enough for you to wear the new 
 bonnet on Easter Sunday. I shall wear the new stock. 
 
 I must be off to post.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 133 
 
 Easter Sunday, 191 5 
 
 I HAVE just written to Pierce and to Harold Skyrme, 
 who wrote me a nice letter from Devonport. When I 
 was a small boy I used sometimes, writing from school, 
 to ask for a few stamps: would you send me a few now, 
 not many, say six penny ones and six halfpenny? When 
 one writes to any place beyond England, like New Zea- 
 land or America, one has to put on a penny stamp. 
 
 If any of these cards about dead priests come, be sure 
 to send them on at once, as I am bound to say Mass for 
 the departed soul. 
 
 Yesterday it rained hard all day, and so it did all this 
 morning, but stopped about one, so the men got their 
 football outside on the grass here, this afternoon. I 
 had a good many men at Mass to-day, more than last 
 Sunday and there were a good many then. I said two 
 Masses, both in St. Jacques: a parish Mass at eight, 
 and then the soldiers' Mass at ten. 
 
 The hotel is rather full now, but no one who looks 
 very interesting. The Scarlet Lady and her husband 
 have turned up again: and there is another painted lady, 
 an Anglo-Indian, between fifty and sixty, with a face like 
 an angry bird. Captain Benwell tells me he had a 
 passage of arms with her (I don't mean embraces). He 
 has a caustic tongue, and I fancy he told her this was no 
 time or place for such tourings. However, she launches 
 hungry smiles at him. There is also a terrible, though 
 not bad-looking, young Jew, with a wife: both English. 
 
 I managed yesterday and to-day to take "Lady A." 
 for a brief walk: but she is just as unreasonable as Togo 
 and comes up here at bed-time with violent entreaties 
 to be taken for another walk. Captain Benwell tried 
 to take her out this afternoon, but she would not go, 
 and he was rather offended. 
 
 Into my last letter I stuck two large pages of natural
 
 134 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 history out of the Field. I wonder if you said I was crazy? 
 I thought they might interest you. 
 
 I heard from my late Commanding Officer to-day: he 
 is, as I knew he would be, very sad about dear Httle 
 McCurry's death. The poor boy was crazy to get men- 
 tioned in despatches. 
 
 They have started an English Club here, and as they 
 have not actually asked me to join, I shall not. It would 
 bore me stiff. 
 
 It is not the principal chaplain's fault I have not gone 
 home, or the Cardinal's: the War Office won't let any of 
 us go home for the present. So you must console your- 
 self with the thought that I am in safe and pleasant 
 quarters, and with the thought that if you were really 
 ill I could get hom.e from this place very quickly. Except 
 on Sundays there's a boat from here every midday and 
 it gets to Folkestone in four hours. For that, if need 
 were, which I trust will not be, you could telegraph 
 direct to m^e at Grand Hotel, Dieppe. I only tell you 
 this lest you should fear the A. P. O. address would make 
 a delay. 
 
 I must stop and get ready for dinner. No fish, thank 
 goodness. 
 
 Easter Monday, April 5, 19 15 
 
 Another day of rain — a very dirty day at sea, I 
 expect, to judge from the part one sees from this window. 
 The wet weather spoils a "Kermesse" there was to have 
 been this afternoon at the Casino. A Kermesse is the 
 French form of bazaar, and the proceeds w^ere to go to 
 the Red Cross charities. 
 
 Just opposite me, not many hundred yards out from 
 the shore, is a small transport that brought horses, etc., 
 over yesterday and is waiting for dark to run across to 
 England. I should like to be going, too — but not in 
 this weather. 
 
 I said Mass for you this morning, as I very often do,
 
 John Ayscouglj s Letters to his Mother 135 
 
 and it was a parish Mass, i.e., said for the convenience 
 of a congregation, and I gave Holy Communion to about 
 three hundred people, including a good many men, and 
 some soldiers — French. The soldiers seemed very de- 
 vout and nice. 
 
 Last night I had a talk with the little French Com- 
 mandant d'Armes. He loves to buttonhole you, and 
 I should like it very well if he did not talk so very quickly 
 that I find it hard to follow him. He is a handsome little 
 creature, with very bright blue eyes and a bright, not 
 red, complexion. His name is Comte du Manoir: and 
 he is of a very old family in Calvados. Fie knows the 
 present Comte and Comtesse Clary, but not our old 
 friend. The French Naval Comm^andant, who sits at 
 the same table with him is also very nice, but very 
 English-looking and also very quiet. His name is de 
 Castries (pronounced de Castre), a very famous name, 
 the elder brother Duke de Castries. Comte du Manoir 
 seemed quite impressed at my knowing all about these 
 various people and where their name comes in in history, 
 etc. 
 
 He is not a Republican, and wants a monarchy, but 
 doesn't he wish he may get it! I think Europe is much 
 more inclined to get rid of its kings than to set up new 
 ones. 
 
 He told me an odd instance of presentiment. In 
 the war of 1870 he was twenty years old, and was on 
 service as an officer; the Duke de Castries (elder brother 
 of the Naval Commandant here) was his comrade, and 
 they slept in the same tent, on the ground. One night 
 de Castries woke him up and said, "Listen, I want to 
 tell you something." "And I," said du Manoir, "want 
 to sleep." "You can sleep: but I am going to be killed; 
 and I wanted to tell you. Now I shall go out and walk!" 
 After walking for a while he came back, lay down and 
 slept till morning. When morning came he was killed. 
 He was the eldest of eighteen brothers and sisters.
 
 136 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 There are five torpedo-boats and destroyers cruising 
 round the empty transport — in case of submarines 
 I suppose; they look very business-Hke; I expect they 
 are come to convoy her across the Channel. 
 
 Sir Edward Grey's reply to the German message, 
 transmitted through New York, about our "special 
 treatment" of submarine prisoners was very cold and 
 crushing, wasn't it? 
 
 "They are being treated with humanity and kindness: 
 but our ships have saved the lives of over a thousand 
 German sailors and naval officers, often at great risk to 
 themselves, and not one English sailor has been saved 
 by the German ships." 
 
 Of the priests killed in cold blood by the Germans in 
 Belgium only, over fifty were killed without the least 
 pretence at any trial, even the roughest form of court 
 martial. This is an instance: after a battle three priests 
 went to the German senior officer and asked leave to go 
 out and bring in German wounded. He gave them a 
 pass, and they went. On reaching the place where the 
 wounded were, with three waggons, they showed their 
 pass to the German officer there, and he said, "Fill your 
 waggons then," and they did: as soon as they had told 
 the drivers where to take the waggons the German 
 officer ordered all three priests to be shot, as they were. 
 There was no charge of any sort brought against them. 
 
 I see that when the new Belgian Minister to the Holy 
 See had his official reception by the Pope, to present his 
 credentials, his speech was a very strong indictment of 
 the German army of occupation of Belgium; and of 
 course it had been submitted to the Pope beforehand, 
 so that his listening to it at all, and his making no protest, 
 was very significant, in his position as a strict neutral. 
 
 I think the Germans have the same disease that afflicts 
 mad dogs. 
 
 Nevertheless, I told you several weeks ago that if we 
 accorded any treatment to submarine prisoners meant
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 137 
 
 to mark them as pirates, our officers in Germany would 
 have to pay for it: and you see they declare that it shall 
 be so. 
 
 I'm sorry to see young Mapplebeck is now a prisoner 
 in their hands. Do you remember him.^ A very tall, 
 but very young Flying officer who spent half a Sunday 
 with us when recovering from an aeroplane accident? 
 
 I made Captain Benwell laugh by asking him if the 
 Anglo-Indian lady, like an angry, painted old bird, does 
 not glare at the public as if she were saying, "Why don't 
 you propose to me, cuss you?" 
 
 I must really stop. 
 
 I think you get more talk with me now I'm in France 
 than when I am at home. Don't forget to send that 
 MS. from the Northern Newspaper Syndicate. 
 
 As for book catalogues, send me the outside leaves or 
 the addresses of one of each and I will tell them to send 
 me them here direct. As for seeds — if you have ordered 
 those you have marked, it is about all you will need. 
 Order plenty of Kosmos. 
 
 Easter Tuesday 
 
 Just a line to show you I am not ill or anything — and 
 then to bed. I am very sleepy and it is late. I spent a 
 long time to-day visiting a French hospital and talking 
 to the poor wounded fellows one by one, and giving 
 them things. When I came in I had to write business 
 letters and now it is late and I must go to bed. I'm quite 
 well and had your letter of Good Friday to-day. 
 
 Wednesday, April 7, 191 5 
 
 I NEARLY put off my letter till too late again: I had 
 written nine or ten others, and was just about to begin 
 yours when the senior R. C. chaplain and his A. D. C, 
 another chaplain, arrived in a motor-car, on a sort of 
 tour of inspection. ... I nearly did for myself by
 
 138 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 forgetting, as it was rather late, to oflFer them tea. How- 
 ever, I did remember. ... I told them of my various 
 doings and they seemed to approve. . . . 
 
 The photograph is poor, dear, young McCurry. His 
 father sent it with a most grateful letter. But I can 
 hardly bear to look at it, and you can keep it for me. 
 Doesn't he look a boy! 
 
 There have been three French submarines here to-day 
 and I saw them in the dock: I had never seen any before. 
 Of course I saw them on the surface, and they looked 
 rather like very long torpedo-destroyers. 
 
 I told you that I spent yesterday afternoon visiting 
 the wounded French soldiers in one of the hospitals — 
 it is run by English doctors and nurses: and it is where 
 the two Misses La Primaudaye are nursing. The men 
 were very nice, and I was glad to find that they were all 
 keen to get back to their comrades in the fighting line: 
 the poor lad who hanged himself was no specimen of their 
 general feeling. The Misses La P. were rather inclined 
 to lionise me for the benefit of the men, so I told them to 
 be off, and got on much better without them. No 
 soldiers care to be patronized, and told that their visitor 
 is a prelate, etc., and least of all French soldiers; they 
 are so simple and unsnobby themselves. After all, they 
 are republicans, and titles and grandeurs are more apt to 
 set their backs up than to impress them: but they do 
 understand kindness and frankness. 
 
 The hospital is extremely well managed and the men 
 were uncommonly comfortable. 
 
 Monsignor Keatinge gave me the name and address 
 of a first-rate American dentist at Boulogne, who charges 
 officers nothing, and, as I ought to have two bad old 
 stumps out, I shall go there some day soon. I can't go 
 there and back in one day, so it is possible if I go at a 
 moment's notice you may be without a letter for a post 
 or two posts. Trains, except to Paris, are so slow here. 
 
 I must stop and change for dinner.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 139 
 
 Thursday, April 8, 191 5 
 
 At last the rain has stopped and we have had a fine 
 day, at the cost of a tearing wind that has blown the 
 rain away. After breakfast I went to the post to get 
 my letters, and to post those I wrote last night. I found 
 yours of Easter Monday which I read while waiting for 
 Mr. Hill, who had gone with me: he is the senior Church 
 of England chaplain and a very honest, nice man. We 
 sit at the same table and are excellent friends. But he 
 cannot help talking to every one he sees, and at great 
 length, so it takes a long time to get him down any street, 
 at least any street where there are English people, for he 
 cannot talk French, though he takes regular lessons. 
 His instructress says she longs to shake him, and I bid 
 him beware lest she should marry him, to have the 
 right to do it at her ease. 
 
 After luncheon I walked — west, by the shore, and 
 enjoyed it very much. You mustn't imagine it is here a 
 long, dull straight wall of cliffs: they advance and recede 
 and are of very unequal heights, some like huge round 
 towers: according as they are made of pure hardish 
 chalk, or of chalk with deep "faults" of marl in them, 
 for the rains and frosts rot these marl deposits, they fall 
 and leave the chalk standing up like ramparts and 
 turrets. 
 
 The high spring tides have left a nice deposit of sand 
 and it was easy and pleasant going. 
 
 The sea, very brown in front, but breaking up into 
 cream-white lines of foam, was all sorts of lovely colours 
 besides, Nile-green, meadow green, sapphire blue and 
 pure cobalt: no purples to-day. The sea was very rough 
 and I did not want to be on it. 
 
 A good way along the shore I came upon a cave, like 
 a smugglers' cave in a romance, and perhaps used as one 
 once. It had a sort of sloping entrance-hall and one 
 regular room with fireplace carved out of the rock, but
 
 140 John Ayscoiigh' s Letters to his Mother 
 
 no "troglodytes," no inhabitants. It was, at its lowest 
 point, six or eight feet above the highest shore outside, 
 and ran up to sixteen or twenty feet. 
 
 The only sea-creatures I saw were mussels (millions), 
 shrimps (millions), a few star-fishes, and a very few 
 sea-anemones. 
 
 I came back by the shore, too, and much more quickly 
 with the strong gale blowing me along. On the grass 
 outside were some French children drilling, and they were 
 very funny and very clever. I stood and watched them; 
 so did a young French private soldier, and we began to 
 talk. He is a gentleman, and was working a sort of 
 ranch of his own in Argentina, when the war broke out, 
 so he came home to fight. We went for a turn and then 
 came back and I gave him tea. That sounds odd to 
 English ears, but it is not so here, where you often see 
 officers (French) walking in the streets with soldiers — 
 because of the army containing men of every class, and 
 perhaps because of the fact that this is a Republic. His 
 father is fighting, and his only brother, too. I found he 
 could talk a little English, but not much: and I also 
 found him a strong monarchist. He liked his tea, and 
 he liked the talk with someone of his own class. 
 
 This is St. Albert's Day and the Belgian troops were 
 reviewed on the "plage" at noon; not so interesting as 
 an English review, but also much shorter. 
 
 Before that I had taken Hill to examine a curiosity 
 shop, as he hasn't French enough to do it comfortably 
 by himself. I did not buy anything, but I think he 
 wanted to buy everything. However, I wouldn't hear 
 of it! 
 
 I'm glad you liked the natural history pages out of the 
 Field. I thought them interesting and the illustrations 
 excellent. 
 
 Lord Glenconner tells me that his wife's nephew, 
 George Wyndham, has been killed: it is sad and strange 
 too, for poor young Percy Wyndham made him his heir.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 141 
 
 Thus Clouds has had four masters in less than four 
 years, old Mr. Percy W., his son Mr. George Wyndham, 
 young Percy, and his cousin George. Lord G. says it is 
 a great shock to Lady Glenconner. 
 
 Friday, 5.30 p.m., April 9, 191 5 
 
 All Alice's parcels arrived in good time, and I have 
 just written to thank her: at the same time your letter 
 enclosing the stamps, enough to last a long while, which 
 will be very useful from time to time. Thank you very 
 much. 
 
 Of the things I have sent you to eat which do you like 
 best? So that I can send some more. 
 
 To-day has been a repetition of yesterday — kept fine 
 by a boisterous, westerly gale, with one very fierce but 
 very brief hail-storm. 
 
 After luncheon I repeated my yesterday's walk along 
 
 the shore nearly to P , but soon after I started a 
 
 young French soldier came running up and joined on, 
 and so my walk was not solitary. He is not the one of 
 yesterday — the gentleman — his name is Gerard 
 Brulard: the one of to-day is called Ernest Richer, and 
 he is a chasseur-a-pied. In a few days he goes back to 
 the front. I met him first a week ago helping some 
 peasants to pick flints on the shore. I asked him what 
 they did with them, and he says they are sent to china- 
 factories, broken up small, then melted. I know that 
 flints do enter into the prescription of some sorts of 
 porcelain. They only use the black ones. I showed 
 him some very translucent stones / had picked up and 
 he said, "There are very few like that." On the contrary 
 it seems to me there are millions. I am going to ask if 
 there is any lapidary here and see if any of those I find 
 are worth the cost of polishing. 
 
 These two lads, almost exactly the same age, Richer
 
 142 yohn Ayscoiiglo s Letters to his Mother 
 
 of to-day and Brulard of yesterday, are of quite different 
 types. Richer a peasant and quite uneducated, Brulard 
 a gentleman and both clever and well-educated: but 
 both have the same excellent French naturalness and 
 simplicity. In the things most people go by, as to 
 French good manners, I myself think the English have 
 as good or better; but I couldn't go for a walk with a 
 Wiltshire village lad vv^ithout finding him either very 
 lumpish or rather bumptious: these French soldiers 
 perfectly know the difference of station, etc., but don't 
 think about it. 
 
 (There is a fastened-up door between this room and 
 the next, and the people in it have gone out and left 
 their window open: the result is that through the keyhole 
 there is a noise coming like the pufF of a fog-horn !) 
 
 I certainly shall not make friends — you need not 
 warn me — with the ancient Paint Box; she is truly 
 frightful, Fd much rather talk to a Black Maria. As a 
 matter of fact I don't make friends with any of our lady 
 guests, though most of whom are very quiet, middle-aged 
 French women, with husbands to match. Very few 
 stay more than a few days. 
 
 I laughed at your saying that you want to smack 
 Cobbett when he gets to his political tirades: but he is 
 very fond of us, if you mean by us, Catholics. His little 
 inconsistencies are funny; for instance, he says that 
 running about from place to place is the ruin of people's 
 happiness and character (what would he say in these 
 motoring-days?) and he himself is perpetually gadding 
 about on that marvellous horse of his. 
 
 "Tom Brown at Oxford" is quite deadly. The con- 
 versations are enough to send you into a state of coma. 
 
 The editress of St. Joseph's Lilies tells me that a 
 young but famous American (or Canadian) poet has 
 been converted by reading "Gracechurch;" Fm glad, 
 
 I must stop — as you see I have nothing to say. Con- 
 sidering that I never do anything here, it is miraculous
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 143 
 
 that I can make you a letter six days a week. This goes, 
 of course, by to-morrow's boat, next day there won't 
 be any. 
 
 Monday y April 12, 191 5 
 
 Yesterday was a heavenly day, and I beHeve to-day 
 will be, after the morning mist has lifted. 
 
 I'm sorry I was so stupid about the seeds. I'm afraid 
 I've made them very late: they ought to have been 
 sown a month ago. 
 
 I am leaving Dieppe to go to Versailles, to be in charge 
 of that hospital where Ver was. I have not had the 
 official order yet, but Monsignor Keatinge wrote privately. 
 I am glad for some things, sorry for others. 
 
 This place is very expensive; and there is no one here 
 to know: it is a bit lonely. Whereas I know a few really 
 nice people in Paris, and Versailles is only about half an 
 hour from Paris. 
 
 Everyone tells me the place is charming, the parks, 
 woods, gardens, etc., glorious, and the distance in time 
 from England much the same: for one has to go from 
 Dieppe to Folkestone four or five hours, whereas the 
 express from Paris gets to Boulogne in three hours, and 
 the passage thence to Folkestone is only one and one half 
 hours. 
 
 Anyway, I've got to go. Go on addressing here till I 
 write or v/ire another address. The address, I believe, 
 is "General Hospital, Hotel Trianon, Versailles, Paris." 
 But you must continue to put B. E. F. or Expeditionary 
 Force, otherwise it will be 2|d postage. 
 ' The best way v/ill be for you to go on addressing 
 A. P. O. S. 8, until I either telegraph or write: if I tele- 
 graph I may merely use the word "Leaving" or "De- 
 parting": it will mean, "Now address General Hospital, 
 Hotel Trianon, Versailles, Paris, Expeditionary Force." 
 Comte du Manoir tells me that Versailles is particularly 
 airy and fresh in summer, and he is writing to tell friends
 
 144 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 of his to come and see me. I really look forward to 
 walks in the great park there. I am like a cat and 
 dislike all changes of place, but I think the moment I 
 have left Dieppe I shall be delighted with the change to 
 Versailles. 
 
 I must make a dash for the post. 
 
 Monday, April 12, 191 5 
 
 I WROTE to you this morning, and was just in time for 
 the post. This afternoon I spent serving behind the 
 counter of the big hut the Y. M. C. A. (Young Men's 
 Christian Association) has put up here for the Enghsh 
 soldiers. " I offered to help, as the good folks who are 
 "running" it are short-handed; and it is an excellent 
 thing for the soldiers. They can get tea, coffee, cakes, 
 tobacco, cigarettes, etc., there all day, and can write 
 letters, and read newspapers. It really makes no attempt 
 to interfere with the men's religions, and the best way for 
 me to prevent its doing so, if it wanted, is (I think) to 
 help myself, and so let them feel I know what goes on in 
 it. And it shows the men, too, that one takes an interest 
 in their comfort. 
 
 I hope you won't be too much disappointed at my 
 move from this place to Versailles. Everyone tells me 
 it is charming there, and, as I have told you, it will be 
 much more economical. Somehow I don't yet feel sure 
 that I shall go, though Monsignor Keatinge has told me 
 I should. He did not, when he wrote, know, I think, 
 that Father Constant, the English-speaking French 
 Jesuit, is leaving here, too, in a day or two. . . . The first 
 Sunday there were nine at Mass: then eleven, fourteen, 
 seventeen, and so on: forty-three the Sunday before 
 Easter, eighty on Easter Sunday, and one hundred and 
 thirteen last Sunday. 
 
 At Versailles I shall have no troops, only a large 
 hospital: I mean no well troops, only sick or wounded.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 145 
 
 It's no use talking about it; we can only wait and see — 
 like Mr. Asquith. 
 
 I have no doubt I shall like it if I do go. 
 
 You will continue to get your almost daily letters 
 from me, which is all I can do to cheer you up in my 
 absence. 
 
 Tuesday, 7 p.m., April 13, 191 5 
 
 Last night I had fastened up my letter to you and 
 gone down to dinner, when I got the official order to go 
 to Versailles on Thursday, so I opened the letter and 
 told you so in a post-script. The old archpriest was 
 very funny about it all this morning. "They send you 
 here," he said, "when there are only sixty Catholic 
 soldiers and an English-speaking priest on the spot; 
 now the priest is not available, and there are three 
 hundred Catholic soldiers, they take you away, and say 
 they will send no one in your place.". . . He says he is 
 desolated to lose me, and it is rather a triumph, for I 
 don't think he cottoned to me at first. 
 
 Of course I am not to be pitied going to Versailles, one 
 of the most interesting places in France, and within 
 short reach of a dozen others. The hotel which is our 
 hospital is said to be one of the finest in Europe. 
 
 I know I shall hke it: only I'm rather sorry for these 
 three hundred Catholic soldiers left without an English 
 priest; and I hope they will behave themselves. These 
 Base towns are full of temptations, it is not like the 
 front. . . . 
 
 By the time you get this I shall be at Versailles, as I 
 leave here at midday on Thursday. 
 
 I cannot write to you that night, but will on Friday. 
 I hope you will get that letter on Sunday or Monday. 
 I can't make out why the Good Friday letter took such 
 a time reaching you. 
 
 I have just been shown some pictures of the park at 
 Versailles, just outside the Hotel Trianon (our hospital)
 
 146 John Ayscouglfs Letters to his Mother 
 
 and it must be lovely; I shall love walking in it. You 
 will get dozens of post-cards for your book! To-day I 
 had a long letter from Madame Clary. . . I make out 
 bits at a time. 
 
 It is a horrible day to-day, howling wind and rain, 
 and I have been writing letters all afternoon — this the 
 fourteenth! So my brain feels spongy and I will stop. 
 
 Any newspapers and magazines will be very useful 
 now for the hospital. 
 
 Wednesday y April 14, 191 5 
 
 This will be my last letter from Dieppe, as I leave for 
 Versailles to-morrow morning at 6.30. I find that if I 
 waited till the midday train I should arrive at Versailles 
 too late in the evening. This letter can only be a very 
 short one, as I am in the throes of packing. It is never 
 a charming occupation, and my possessions have swelled 
 since I came here, so much persuasion and some firm.ness 
 is necessary to induce them to go into the receptacles I 
 have for them. 
 
 To-day began as rainy as the last three or four days, 
 but suddenly became fine at midday, and so after luncheon 
 I went for a good-bye walk — along the shore to Pour- 
 ville, and back the same way. 
 
 It was rather hard going, as the sand deposited by the 
 late high tides has all been washed away again. But it 
 looked very pretty, and I enjoyed it. It will be a pleasant 
 change to have the smooth roads and avenues of Ver- 
 sailles, the great park to walk in, and I and my boots 
 are looking forward to it. 
 
 I said my last Mass at St. Jacques at 6.30 this morning, 
 and the old archpriest was veiy cordial in his farewells. 
 
 I really think the MS. I sent to the Northern News- 
 paper Syndicate must be somewhere with you: the one 
 you sent me was the MS. of ''French and Ejiglish" for 
 the Month.
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 147 
 
 The old Commandant d'Armes here, Comte du Manoir, 
 whom you call the General (which he would like to be, 
 I'm sure) has already written to an old friend of his, 
 the Comte de I'Argentine, who lives at Versailles to come 
 and be civil to me. He told me rather a funny story: 
 another friend of his, a Count and also a General, is 
 preternaturally thin, with a face like a death's head. 
 He had to attend a great m»ilitary funeral, on horseback, 
 with all his staff". The little Paris street arabs pointed 
 to him and called out, "Oh, the pigs! they have made 
 the poor corpse ride!" 
 
 There is quite a glorious sunset going on outside, and I 
 must go outside too, to post this, and to leave them my 
 new address, so that anything arriving may be sent on. 
 
 In fierce haste. 
 
 Paris, April 15, 191 5 
 
 It is 12.30, noon, and I have just had my luncheon, 
 for which I was quite ready, as I breakfasted at Dieppe 
 before six and have had a four and a half hours' railway 
 journey since. 
 
 I shall go on to Versailles as soon as I have written 
 you this note. There are trains every hour, and it only 
 takes half an hour: also the trains for Versailles go from 
 this station, so one has not the trouble of cabbing it 
 across Paris. 
 
 There was a thick fog from the sea at Dieppe, but the 
 sun came out at once and it became an exquisite morning. 
 The town of Dieppe (the sea is quite out of sight from 
 the train) looked very picturesque as I left it, its many 
 "basins" reflecting many ships, steep hillsides with 
 houses peering out of the trees, the mist and the smoke 
 of new-lighted fires. The images of the ships, upside 
 down in the water, flashed and gleamed in the sun. 
 
 The journey from Dieppe to Rouen, and from Rouen 
 (where I had three-quarters of an hour to wait) to Paris, 
 was quite lovely this perfect morning.
 
 148 John Ayscouglo s Letters to his Mother 
 
 The train never leaves the Seine, but runs quite close 
 to its brimming edge all the way. It is a very broad 
 stream, wider than the Thames at Richmond, and the 
 valley, wide and flat, is an image of richness; then it 
 curves between high cliff-banks, of very picturesque 
 shapes — there are frequent forests just breaking from 
 purple to canary-green. The river banks are laced with 
 willows already in tender leaf, and the primroses were 
 out everywhere. I can tell you I thoroughly enjoy the 
 change; my little bedroom at Dieppe was charming in 
 its way, but two months was enough of it. 
 
 Be sure and tell me when you get this letter, which I 
 shall have to entrust to the civil post-office. 
 
 Now I must go and get shaved! I will tell you some- 
 thing — I wear uniform now and look rather iofy in it ! 
 
 The Christie catalogue, the Catholic World, and St. 
 Joseph's Lilies all arrived in time for me to bring and 
 read in the train on the way here. 
 
 But hozu you waste your money on stamps by over- 
 stamping! 
 
 The catalogue and the books had each fourpence too 
 much on them. One pound goes for fourpence by 
 letter post: and up to two pounds for eightpence. And 
 they 7iever surcharge, even if you had put too little on. 
 
 Thursday y April 15, 191 5 
 
 I HAVE just arrived and reported myself, and it is 
 about 4.15; at 4.45 the post goes, so I am just in time 
 to send this line to tell you I had a charming journey: 
 but I wrote to you about that from Paris, and posted 
 the letter in the civil post. I wonder which you will 
 get first, this or it. 
 
 Versailles seems q^iite delightfiil, and the hospital is a 
 lovely huge building in a lovely garden immediately 
 adjoining the glorious park.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 149 
 
 I am relieving Father Morgan here, and he has gone 
 to Treport, near Dieppe. 
 
 I will write a proper letter later on. 
 The Commanding Officer begs to say that the address 
 should be: 
 
 No. 4 General Hospital, 
 B. E. F. 
 onlyy without Versailles, or Paris. You know it is Ver- 
 sailles, and that's enough. 
 
 Friday^ April 16, 191 5 
 
 After writing my short note to you yesterday after- 
 noon, to say I had arrived, I sallied forth with the Colonel 
 commanding the hospital, who rejoices in the extraordi- 
 nary name of Smith. He took me to tea at their mess, 
 which is in a house they rent — the hospital is too full 
 of patients: there are about twenty medical officers. 
 Father Morgan lived in a flat, so as he did not belong to 
 the Medical Officers' mess, I began to think I wouldn't. 
 
 The Colonel was very civil; he lent me a motor-car, 
 and a motor ambulance: the former to cart me round 
 about the town in search of hotels, lodgings, etc., and 
 the other to fetch my baggage, which I had left in the 
 station cloak-room. He also lent me a young French 
 interpreter, whom I took, not to interpret, but because 
 I thought he would know places where one might apply 
 for quarters. He is very nice, a gentleman, and of 
 excellent manners. However, he took me to two hotels 
 (the only two open) and I thought both very dear, 
 rather stuffy, and very noisy. So we motored off to a 
 convent, and the Reverend Mother recommended this 
 place, and we came and looked at it. 
 
 It is quite a good house, in the middle of a nursery- 
 garden! I have an excellent bedroom, twice the size, at 
 least, of the one at Dieppe, extremely clean and with 
 very good furniture. I have the sole use of a quite
 
 150 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 grand dining-room: the food is much better than at 
 Dieppe, and the total expense is exactly half what it was 
 there. 
 
 Versailles hotels are noisy, but this house is beautifully 
 quiet: the garden runs up to the wall of the great park. 
 I have such lovely flowers in my room, huge sprays of 
 primula, orchids, and plum blossom! The man is a 
 specialist in orchids. His name is Beranek, and he is a 
 Czech (Bohemian), naturalized in France: a very in- 
 telligent, respectable man. The wife is French, Alsatian, 
 a comfortable, elderly, nice body, most respectful and 
 respectable, and a first-rate cook. There are two girls, 
 one about eleven or twelve, and about twenty, the latter 
 with a serene, holy face, like a north Italian Madonna. 
 
 The nuns know these people well, and recommended 
 them cordially: and I am delighted to have heard of 
 them. The convent-chapel is just across the road and 
 I said Mass there this morning with a French wounded 
 soldier to serve. Very nice nuns, one French Canadian. 
 
 I have only just finished visiting the hospital and 
 also had a little peep into the park: it is delightful — 
 such glorious avenues in every direction, all now breaking 
 into tender leaf. 
 
 . . , Oh my! what curiosity shops! If I were a mil- 
 lionaire I should only be one for about a week, as I should 
 spend all my cash on old clocks, bronzes, tapestry, 
 snuff-boxes, etc. 
 
 The convent used to be a little snug cottage ornee of 
 Madame de Pompadour! What a change of tenancy! 
 
 Tell me when you get this. I picked these celandines 
 in the park. 
 
 Friday evening 
 
 I AM writing to you again already, though I only 
 wrote to you after luncheon to-day, because I foresee a 
 busy day to-morrow, and may not be able to write before 
 post-time.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 151 
 
 I went round the corner to the hospital (it is onl}' 
 eight or nine minutes' walk) after finishing my letter to 
 you, and was there a good while. Among other useful 
 things I achieved was this — I persuaded "Smith 
 (he wishes to call me "Drew," and me to call him 
 "Smith") — well, I induced Smith, much against the 
 grain, to give me the permanent use of a room in the 
 hospital as a little chapel. 
 
 It is a very nice room, on a staircase of its own, entered 
 by a door from the garden, and so quite private, quiet, 
 and exactly what I would have chosen. I have the key, 
 and it is my chapel as long as I'm here: to-morrow 
 morning I am going to fit it up: it will need no cleaning, 
 being as clean as a new pin, not used at all by any one 
 else since the hotel has been a hospital. Out of it opens 
 another room also unused, but filled with furniture put 
 away: Smith allows me to use what I want of it, so I 
 shall have as many chairs as I v/ant and very nice ones, 
 and there is a sort of cabinet with handsome front and 
 long marble top (just the right height) that will make 
 an excellent and really very handsome altar. 
 
 There are also plenty of candlesticks, vases, etc. 
 sn t It a scoop : 
 
 You must understand these two rooms are shut into a 
 sort of private corridor of which I have the key. I 
 imagine the Sunday morning Mass congregation will 
 prove too large for this chapel, and that will have to 
 continue in the tent used by Father Morgan; but for 
 the Sunday evening service, and for Mass and Holy 
 Communion on certain days of the week, and evening 
 prayers on other week days, and for hearing confessions, 
 it v/ill be splendid, and v/ill make all the difference. 
 
 Well, after Smith and I had inspected this room and 
 I had collared the key (he grumbling all the while and 
 saying, "I don't know how you got over me. I don't 
 know why I said you should have it. I suppose you 
 must now"), we went downstairs, and there was Lady
 
 152 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Austin-Lee from the Embassy, and she was most cordial 
 and said how glad she was to know me, and asked me to 
 come to luncheon, which I am going to do. 
 
 She had hardly gone away when a tall young Lancer 
 Officer and his wife came in (all this was in the entrance- 
 hall) and I thought: "That's young Brooke, half-brother 
 of the Wyndham boy who was killed the other day" 
 (you know Mrs. Guy Wyndham was Mrs. Brooke, a 
 widow) "and that's his wife." 
 
 I used to meet them at Amesbury Abbey, and to go 
 to tea with them at Fittleton Manor House; he was in 
 the Cavalry School, at Netheravon. 
 
 Well, the lady came up and said, "Are you not Dr. 
 Brooke?" Of course I said no, and turned away, thinking 
 I had made a mistake; just as she evidently had. Pres- 
 ently I saw the husband staring at me, and he said to 
 her, "Isn't that Monsignor Drew.?" I laughed and said, 
 "Yes; aren't you Mr. and Mrs. Brooke.?" They were. 
 And she had really known me all along and muddled up 
 my name. So we had a talk about the poor Antrobuses, 
 the two dead ones, and Lady A. Wasn't it an odd 
 meeting and recognition? 
 
 Then I went for a long stroll in the park and gardens 
 of the chateau: it is all quite enchanting, and I like and 
 admire it more each time I go. . . . First I walked down 
 beautiful avenues, turned to my left to the Grand Canal, 
 and so came to the Basin of Apollo. It is a really lovely 
 group of bronze, facing up toward the palace. Then I 
 turned still left, always through lovely allies and avenues, 
 and came to part of "the King's Garden." Of course 
 all this, park, gardens, basins, canals, fountains, avenues, 
 alleys, terraces, was laid out by Louis XIV, and, whatever 
 else he lacked, he had a magnificent taste as a creator. 
 The King's Garden is not one of the formal parts of the 
 vast design, but a lovely green garden of banks, sloping 
 and flat groves, and thickets, and shrubberies, with 
 beautiful tall and rare trees growing up out of the shrubs
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 153 
 
 and preventing monotony or stiffness. Of course there 
 are statues everywhere, marble, bronze, and lead. So I 
 came to the bosquet of the colonnade. The colonnade 
 is very wide, of double columns, all of marble, with a 
 cornice and entablature connecting them into a huge 
 oval: in the middle is the marble group of the Carrying 
 off of Proserpine by Zeus. Keeping up hill (the palace 
 stands on a plateau high above the park) I came to 
 avenues, like wheel-spokes, all having open glades mid- 
 way down, with a basin and a lovely bronze group, 
 illustrating the Four Seasons . . . two on the left of the 
 Grand Avenue, two to the right. So I came up onto the 
 Grand Terrace, an enormous open space in front of 
 the palace. A vast marble staircase leads down toward 
 the Canal and the Basin of Apollo: halfway down it is 
 broken by another huge open space with the Fountain 
 of Latona in the middle. The green beasts all round are 
 turtles, with open mouths for water to spout through — 
 during the war all the young gardeners are gone away 
 to fight, and the fountains do not play. . . . To right and 
 left of the Grand Staircase, above the Basin of Latona, 
 is another basin, with very well-done groups on each 
 side, of fighting beasts. . . . Then the left-hand basin: 
 on one side is a huge hound bringing down a stag; on 
 the other two fighting polar bears. Each animal pours 
 water from his mouth 1 
 
 Then I turned toward the palace: two immense 
 basins, surrounded by really glorious bronze groups, 
 flank the approach. Groups of children, river-gods, 
 river-nymphs, etc. 
 
 The views from the terrace are splendid — over the 
 park, and beyond it, over wooded hills. I passed right 
 through the palace to the entrance from the town of 
 Versailles. But I did not attempt to do the palace. . . . 
 
 What I did was to recross the palace, and go down by 
 the other side of the Grand Avenue to the Basin of 
 Apollo and so home.
 
 154 John AyscougJfs Letters to his Mother 
 
 Besides Versailles, there are the two Trianons to visit, 
 the Grand Trianon and the Petit Trianon, Marly, Meudon, 
 St. Germain, etc. 
 
 So I shall have lots to see and to tell you about. Mean- 
 while I have ungratefully forgotten to thank you for the 
 pin book, which is very useful and for which I do thank 
 ycHU, though unpunctually. 
 
 I got Alice's parcel of books just as I was leaving 
 Dieppe. 
 
 Please don't put "Versailles" in the address, only 
 No. 4 General Hospital: the censor here told me about it! 
 
 I must go to bed. 
 
 Saturday Night 
 
 It is really bed-time, and I am sleepy; but I must 
 write you a little letter. 
 
 All this morning I was working at my chapel in the 
 hospital: and it is really charming. One of these days 
 I will try and get someone to photograph it for you: 
 but officers are no longer allowed to have cameras. 
 
 All afternoon I was in the wards, and found it very 
 interesting. There were a few German patients, wounded 
 like our own men, and I gave them rosaries, medals, etc. 
 They were delighted. And they said how comfortable 
 they were, and how kind everyone was to them. Our 
 men are really splendid to them, so cordial, brotherly 
 and friendly. 
 
 The people I lodge with give me exquisite flowers for 
 my chapel, heaps of primulas, and lovely ferns, and rare 
 orchids. They seem quite excellent people, and I am 
 most lucky to have found such a place. Eveiything was 
 so horribly dear in the Dieppe hotel. 
 
 But I must go to bed! 
 
 Sunday Evening, A^ril i8, 191 5 
 
 I RECEIVED your letter of Thursday this morning, 
 and was delighted to feel again in touch with you. That
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 155 
 
 letter was addressed here: no doubt the letter written on 
 Wednesday, addressed to A. P. O. S. 8, will arrive to- 
 morrow. 
 
 I am so sorry that Alice has left you again, and to 
 think she was anxious, but I think without occasion — 
 on the contrary I think she should bless the lumbago 
 that has dragged Ver out of those awful trenches. Of 
 course it is a tiresome, tedious malady, but certainly 
 not dangerous, and the trenches are dangerous. There 
 was no reason to be anxious because they sent him home, 
 for no patients are kept long out here: all diseases or 
 wounds that require time and long treatment are sent 
 home, as soon as the patient can travel. It sounds 
 brutal, but if I were Alice I should be in no great hurry 
 for him to be well enough to go back to the fighting line. 
 All the same I know how you and her mother will miss 
 her cheerful presence. 
 
 To-morrow I am going in to Paris to lunch with Lady 
 Austin-Lee, whose husband is Secretary of our Embassy 
 there. 
 
 I had Mass at nine this morning in my new chapel, 
 and the men appreciated it immensely. A Sergeant 
 Doyle, with a face beside which mine looks pale, played 
 the harmonium. 
 
 Then I came home and had my tea: then I went for 
 a walk till luncheon. It was quite delicious, a most 
 perfect spring morning with all the buds on the trees 
 opening visibly in the sunlight, and an exquisite blue 
 sky behind the brown and primrose lace of the branches. 
 
 Entering the park by the gate next our hospital, I 
 walked straight down a great triple avenue to the gates 
 of the two Trianons — I turned right, and got into the 
 gardens of the Little Trianon. The palace is quite small, 
 what in Italy would be called a casino, but the grounds 
 are very large, and very countrified and delightful. 
 The trees .so old that most of them must be the very 
 ones under which poor Marie Antoinette sauntered in
 
 156 John Ayscougb's Letters to his Mother 
 
 her beaux jours. There are no avenues or allees: the 
 trees are in groves, or dotted here and there on lovely 
 natural-looking lawns; there are innumerable narrow 
 walks, winding in and out, up and down little hillocks, 
 often among thickets of very old yews. Here and there 
 a little pond, not a stone basin, with swans: no bronze 
 groups, or fountains, no statues. The whole thing is 
 eloquent of the poor Queen's desire to escape from royalty 
 and palace-life, and have a little corner of her own, away 
 from the intolerable etiquette of Versailles, where she 
 could feel she was in a country-house garden, instead of 
 in the magnificent gardens of a palace. 
 
 After spending quite an hour in the lawns and thickets 
 of the Petit Trianon, I turned to find the very easy way 
 to the Grand Trianon, which is quite close to it. Passing 
 behind the Queen's dairies, and her kitchen garden, I 
 saw rows of very old standard magnolia-trees lifting 
 their divine heads over the high wall. You never saw 
 such lovely magnolias, all covered with thousands of 
 enormous blossoms — not the greenish-yellow sort, but 
 pure white with crocus-purple outer petals, and this 
 white against the blue sky was indescribably beautiful. 
 
 Then I came to a large stone basin, full of deep water; 
 at first I thought people had been throwing oranges into 
 it, but I found, when I went close to the edge, that they 
 were very stately, aldermanic gold-fish: huge, about 
 two pounds weight each, and nearly old enough to be 
 the very ones the Queen put there. 
 
 Then I came to a slope leading down to an open, 
 formal glade, with another stone basin and a bronze 
 group in the middle of it: all around marble busts of 
 Roman emperors and famous ancients on marble plinths. 
 
 In every direction from the palace (Grand Trianon) 
 avenues ray out, like wheel-spokes: but they all end in a 
 real informal wood, or forest, part of the Versailles park. 
 
 The Grand Trianon is large and really most beautiful, 
 but only one storey: no upstairs at all. The peristyle
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 157 
 
 is very fine and of a beautiful, simple, but grandiose 
 style — still a palace. And it is only a very short mile 
 from the huge palace of Versailles — no wonder the 
 starving people growled to see hundreds and hundreds of 
 thousands spent on building this utterly unnecessary 
 house for a lady who had so vast a house barely out of 
 sight, perhaps twelve hundred yards away. Of course 
 it has given delight to millions of people since, and no 
 doubt the Republic recognises that and so keeps it all 
 
 up- . 
 
 I did not visit the insides of either palace, as I have 
 not visited those of Versailles — I only wanted to get to 
 know the ground, and realise the places. Later on I 
 will go inside. 
 
 I got home just in time for luncheon and then spent 
 the afternoon till 4.30 visiting the wards. 
 
 At 4.30 I went to tea with Rowan, the Church of 
 England chaplain, a nice fellow, youngish, whom I used 
 to know at Bulford long ago. He is just married — in 
 February — and the young lady came out and they 
 were married here. However, wives are forbidden, and 
 she is being sent home to-morrow. She is quite a girl, 
 pretty, at present afflicted with a vehement cold in her 
 head. 
 
 At 5.30 I had my evening service; then came home, 
 dined, and then sat down to give you this account of my 
 day. 
 
 And now to bed. 
 
 Monday y April 19, 191 5 
 
 I HAVE just had my dinner and now I am sitting down 
 to write and tell you my doings. 
 
 I said Mass at the convent at eight — they won't 
 have a 6.30 a.m. Mass! Then came across here to break- 
 fast. Then went down to the hospital where I found 
 your letters of Friday morning and Friday afternoon.
 
 158 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 I can't see why Alice and Christie should be anything 
 but delighted to have Ver home, especially if he is to 
 have a recruiting billet in the Isle of Wight, instead of 
 going back to those fearsome trenches. Lumbago is a 
 thorough nuisance, but it is infinitely preferable to a 
 Black Maria in the pit of one's stomach. What I regret 
 is your losing Alice, and I know what a difference it must 
 make. 
 
 Well, after reading my letters I did various jobs, and 
 at a quarter to eleven made a dash into my beloved park, 
 where I find out new places and new beauties every 
 time. I could only stay a short time, then cut up the 
 Grand Approach to the palace, crossed it, and went 
 down to the Place d'Armes on the other side, whence 
 the tram to Paris starts. 
 
 There are three ways of going to Paris; two ways by 
 train, and one by tram. The tram takes a little longer 
 — about one and a quarter hours, but it is a little more 
 interesting, passing through Sevres, St. Cloud, etc. 
 And it stops close by the Avenue du Trocadero, where 
 Sir Henry and Lady Austin-Lee live. 
 
 The first noticeable thing one passed on reaching Paris 
 was the Eiffel Tower, which I think monstrous, though 
 the Parisians are as proud as Punch of it. . . . Opposite, 
 on the other side of the Seine, is the Trocadero, also 
 monstrous, though less so. 
 
 The Austin-Lees live in a fine flat high up {4^'^^ etage) 
 with a magnificent view from the windows. Sir Henry 
 was just coming in from the Embassy, where, as I told 
 you, he is First Secretary. He is a handsome, oldish 
 man, rather deaf, with a regular diplomatist's face and 
 manner. He has been in Paris over thirty years, and 
 was here with Lord Lyons, whom I knew long ago when 
 I used to stay with the old Duchess of Norfolk, his sister. 
 He met me at the door and we came up in the lift to- 
 gether. The other guest was a Mr. Urquhart, nice and 
 simple, an Oxford Don, a Fellow of Balliol, but not at
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 159 
 
 all Donnish in his ways. Balliol is young Herbert Ward's 
 college, and Mr. Urquhart knows him well. . . . 
 
 It amuses me to hear you speak as if Versailles was 
 Paris; it is a regular country town, though a fair sized 
 one (three times the size of Salisbury, and two hundred 
 times livelier), with its own Bishop, and even in a different 
 "Department" from Paris. 
 
 Well, after luncheon I walked from the Avenue du 
 Trocadero, to the St. Lazare station, about twenty-five 
 minutes' walk: crossing the Champs Elysees and in 
 front of the Arc de Triomphe: passing close by the 
 hotel where you, I, Aunt Lizzie, and our pilgrims stayed 
 on our way from Rome in 1895. 
 
 At 4.20 I got a train out here, and Versailles seemed 
 quite home-Hke and countrified after huge Paris. 
 
 And that's all I have to tell you. . . . 
 
 Now I'm going to my by-bye. So good night. 
 
 Tuesday Mornings 8.30 a.m. 
 
 Postscript to last night's letter. 
 
 I HAVE just received /owr envelopes from you, one with 
 your letter of this day week, Tuesday afternoon, the 
 13th, one with your letter of the following morning and 
 two merely enclosing forwarded letters. 
 
 All these left Dieppe on Saturday, so they have taken 
 three days to come! That is sheer rot, as the railway- 
 journey only takes seven hours. 
 
 The censor here is a young doctor, not really an officer 
 in peace-time, but taken on for the war: not of purely 
 imperial (or even royal) descent, I fancy, rather full of 
 importance. All the same he won't open my letters, 
 you may always be sure of that: nor yours to me — 710 
 letters from England are opened, even to the soldiers. 
 
 I said Mass in my own chapel this morning and loved 
 it; it is so pretty and so quiet and devotional. Eight 
 soldiers came, two Germans.
 
 l6o John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 "We are brothers here in hospital, all of us," I said to 
 one of them; "but everywhere you are my son, for I am 
 a priest." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" he said, "you are my father: but if Peace 
 would be quick and come and end this ugly war we could 
 all be brothers again," 
 
 This is only a Postscript. 
 
 Tuesday Evening, 7 p.m. 
 
 I HAVE not so much to write about this evening, but 
 here I am back at my writing-table which I have moved 
 into the window to write there till it is dark enough to 
 light my lamp. 
 
 All the foreground is nursery garden: to the left are 
 rows of serves, greenhouses and hot-houses, more to the 
 left is a suburb, and beyond it an arm of the park. 
 
 I had two walks in the park to-day, one at the end of 
 the morning, just before luncheon, not a long one. I 
 approached it from the palace, and walked down through 
 various allees to the Basin of Apollo, and back by the 
 allees on the other side: revisiting the fountains of the 
 Four Seasons; from each of them eight avenues ray out, 
 like wheel-spokes. 
 
 All afternoon I was in the hospital, and about 4.30 
 Lady Austin-Lee, who had been also visiting it, met me 
 with an English friend, married to a French Viscount — 
 Madame de la Vauguyon, I think, but I did not quite 
 catch the name. If it is de la Vauguyon her husband is 
 descended from a very charming, but terribly poor 
 courtier of Louis XIV, who shot himself one Sunday 
 morning while everyone was at Mass, in his bed, here 
 at Versailles, because he had not bread to eat. His 
 poverty and misery had turned his head, and he had 
 done some very mad things before. 
 
 Lady Austin-Lee was very gracious. A General 
 de Chalain, had been, and still was, waiting in the hall 
 to see me; sent by Comte du Manoir.
 
 'John AyscougJfs Letters to his Mother i6i 
 
 I showed the ladies my chapel, and they were en- 
 chanted, and thought me a magician to have raised it in 
 a day out of the means I had. The furniture in it is 
 very good and beautiful. 
 
 . . . Then I came home to tea, and afterwards walked 
 off to the two Trianons. Most of the time I spent in 
 the Little Trianon, wandering in the lovely glades and 
 groves; and I saw the little farm, by a small lake, so 
 often read of all my life, where poor Marie Antoinette 
 used to milk her cows. 
 
 It was an exquisite evening, and the sunlight of the 
 falling day among those budding trees was most lovely, 
 tender, and gentle. Poor Queen! she hadn't too much 
 sense, but the price she paid for her silliness was so 
 bitter; and her ghost haunting those glades and gardens 
 is all gentle and pathetic. I picked you these celandines 
 and dog-violets and leaves there. 
 
 Again I went round into the larger, more formal, 
 avenues of the Grand Trianon, and surprised a young 
 officer and his sweetheart, but hurried away, and I don't 
 think they knew I had seen their billing and cooing — 
 the doves up in the trees were noisier about it. 
 
 I saw several rare birds — wild birds. A wonderful 
 little creature (a pair of them, rather) v\^ith a longish fire- 
 coloured tail, and blue-black body, and scarlet and blue 
 head: and some woodpeckers I did not know before, 
 kingfisher shaped, but twice the size, and of electric 
 colouring like a kingfisher, only darker in tint. And so 
 I strolled home. There were very few people in the parks, 
 mostly of the quite upper class, such as one never saw at 
 Dieppe: one very charming-lookmg young French officer 
 strolhng with his mother, a widow, and both of them 
 looking very happy and confidential. 
 
 (Dinner!) 
 
 (After dinner.) 
 
 I could not speak to them, though I should have liked 
 to; but I made a little prayer that all would go well with
 
 1 62 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 them, and that nothing would ever deprive the mother 
 of her son. 
 
 There are 20,000 French troops here; another contrast 
 to Dieppe, where there were only the wounded, and the 
 Belgian troops in the barracks. 
 
 I don't think I have any more to tell 3^ou: except that 
 the nuns at the convent where I go and say Mass on some 
 of the days in each week when I don't say Mass in my 
 chapel, have sixty wounded: and one of them, a young 
 aeroplanist ("aviateur" as they call it). He is quite 
 charming: a gentleman, with a most wonderfully pure 
 and holy face. I have long talks with him, as he goes 
 about on his crutches. Up in the air he was attacked 
 by a German aeroplane, and its bombs smashed him and 
 his machine, he was hit in the head, in the shoulder, in 
 the thigh, in the hip, and in the chest. The machine 
 fell to ground only two hundred yards from the German 
 trenches, and he was shot again and again. And now 
 he is getting quite well. 
 
 It all sounds so ghastly, and he is so cheerful and so 
 simple, and "unbraggy" about it. 
 
 Now I'm going to dry up. 
 
 Friday Night, April 23, 191 5 
 
 I HAD another letter from you to-day, the one in 
 which you tell me of Mrs. Gater's visit, and of Mickie 
 having bitten Mr. Major's leg. . . . No, there is not the 
 least objection to your saying where I am. . . . 
 
 The Salle des Glaces at the Grand Trianon is interesting, 
 because the "glaces," the huge panels of looking-glass, 
 date from Louis XIV's time. They consist of smallish 
 squares pieced together, big mirrors all in one piece not 
 being attainable then. The immense round table is all 
 one bit of wood, Malabar oak, the section of a huge tree- 
 trunk; it served for Council Table to Louis Philippe's 
 ministers. The next card would be more appropriately
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 163 
 
 inscribed Louis Philippe's bedroom if he had ever used 
 it; but it was Louis XIV's, the "Grand Dauphin's" 
 (Louis XIV's son) Madame Mere's, the mother of Na- 
 poleon I, and the bed was her bed. 
 
 No. 3 is of the Salon des Malachites — called from the 
 huge malachite vase in the middle, given by the Emperor 
 of Russia to Napoleon I, after the Peace of Tilsit. 
 
 No. 4 is Napoleon's study, where he worked and wrote. 
 
 No. 5 his bedroom: really that of Marie Louise — the 
 bed is an exquisite bit of furniture, and there is a lovely, 
 enormous Sevres vase on the cabinet at the foot of the 
 bed. 
 
 No. 6 is a little private salon of Napoleon I's, and the 
 table in the middle is all of glorious mosaic, given to him 
 by Pius VII — it cost a million francs, and was made in 
 the Vatican atelier. 
 
 No. 7 is a round hall with a statue-group representing 
 France and Italy kissing each other: France's figure is 
 that of the Empress Eugenie. 
 
 No. 8 is one of the splendid suite of rooms prepared 
 for Queen Victoria by Louis Philippe. 
 
 In June, 1789, after the States General had been at 
 last assembled, the Third Estate, what we should call 
 the Commons, who had not the right to sit w4th the 
 First Estate, the clergy, and the Second Estate, the 
 nobles, and had their own hall of meeting, had invited 
 those other Estates to meet them, and declare themselves 
 a National Assembly. Louis XVI had the folly to shut 
 the doors of their hall in their faces — on June 20, 1789. 
 Whereupon they went off to the huge hall called Jeu de 
 Paume — the Tennis Court, half a mile from the palace. 
 There they all took an oath never to separate till they 
 had given a Constitution to France. That was one of 
 the most memorable days the world has ever seen. 
 
 I went to the place this afternoon, and persuaded the 
 caretaker to let me in. It is quite unchanged, except 
 for the huge picture filling one end, representing the
 
 164 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 meeting, for the statue of Bailly the President, and the 
 other statues (busts, rather) of the other notables who 
 took part in the work of that day. It interested me 
 more than anything I have seen here yet: though of 
 course it has no beauty. 
 
 . . . To-morrow I intend seeing the inside of the 
 palace of Versailles itself. . . . 
 
 The town itself is really charming: a real royal borough, 
 fine, cheerful, clean, and of wonderful extent. 
 
 . . . Does all this description bore you to death.? 
 It has made me sleepy! And to bed I go. 
 
 Saturday, April 24, 191 5 
 
 This morning I had a charming letter from Major 
 Newland, and he said they both thought you looking 
 much better than the last time they saw you. Mind 
 you keep so! 
 
 This afternoon I went through the interior of the 
 palace — Versailles itself. ... A great number of huge 
 rooms are picture galleries — immense canvasses, all of 
 French wars, and not quite first rate for the most part. 
 The tapestries, furniture, ceilings, chimney-pieces are all 
 quite glorious: so are the views over the gardens and 
 parks from the windows. . . . But the great interest to 
 me comes from having read such a lot of French history 
 and memoirs dealing with Versailles, so that seeing the 
 famous rooms explains what one has read, and what one 
 has read explains the rooms. 
 
 For the first time since I arrived I have not been 
 to-day for a walk in the park or gardens. 
 
 I don't feel letterish to-night: partly because I have 
 written ten or twelve other letters. So good night. 
 
 April 25, 191 5 
 
 ... I don't belong to No. 4 British Expeditionary 
 Force, but to No. 4 General Hospital! There! ! !
 
 John Ayscough' s Letters to his Mother 165 
 
 I lunched with the Bishop of Versailles to-day, and 
 he was quite charming, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. 
 The other priests present were the Vicar General, an 
 old Chancellor, and I think the Secretary. All really 
 cordial and friendly — the Versailles priests. This dio- 
 cese is immense and contains many hundreds of thousands 
 of operatives to whom the Bishop is a real apostle. He 
 has no grand airs, or stiffness, but is most genial and wide- 
 minded, and of a very warm, open heart. To me he was 
 dehghtful, most brotherly and kind. I was not shy, but 
 talked like a house afire, and my wise sayings were much 
 approved! Fancy me jawing away in French! 
 
 After leaving the Bishop's I came home and then 
 walked to the Trianons: visiting the little octagonal 
 music-pavilion on the small lake, and the grotto where, 
 as I told you, Marie Antoinette heard that the mob had 
 come out from Paris and invaded Versailles; also I 
 went again to the "Hameau," the little sham village where 
 her dairy was and is, on the larger lake. These sham 
 cottages are not in very good taste — really built of 
 stone to imitate brick! Also I strolled all about in the 
 thickets and glades, full of quiet strollers, to-day being 
 Sunday. Then round by the Grand Trianon and so 
 home, or rather to the hospital for evening church. 
 
 You will presently receive a parcel, not of goodies! 
 I saw to-day a number of tiny chestnut trees, first shoot- 
 ing from the chestnuts, and I am going to steal some and 
 send them home. Bert must plant and water them, 
 and they must not die. I want to keep them as a little 
 souvenir of Marie Antoinette's Trianon. 
 
 If I can find any seedlings of less common trees than 
 horse chestnuts, well and good, but it will not be so easy. 
 
 Indeed I feel ashamed of seeing so much without 
 you that you would love to see. But at least it gives me 
 something to tell you about. 
 
 . . . Now I must stop.
 
 1 66 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Wednesday^ April 28, 191 5 
 
 I GOT your letter of Sunday morning, this morning, 
 and your letter of Saturday, with pansies in it, yesterday. 
 I send Christie a fat packet to-day, so you need not give 
 up any of yours. 
 
 Yesterday I was godfather to young C. at his con- 
 firmation. The Bishop was so nice to him, and seemed 
 wonderfully pleased at my being godfather: in his little 
 address before confirming he alluded to it and to my 
 high dignity, etc. 
 
 Then C. and I went for a drive, his first for four months, 
 in the park and to Trianon. He had never been inside, 
 and a special permission is necessary during the war, 
 so I got him in and went all over it again. The furniture, 
 Sevres china, clocks, carved wood, etc., all seemed more 
 fascinating than ever. Then we went and looked at the 
 museum of carriages — really interesting and some of 
 them very magnificent. 
 
 This morning I said Mass at the hospital chapel — 
 no more news of our moving to Calais — still it is far 
 from improbable. 
 
 Wednesday Evening, April 28, 191 5 
 
 I SHALL not be able to write you at all an interesting 
 letter to-day, for to-morrow's mail, because I have not 
 done any lionising, or even been for a walk in the park. 
 
 It has been quite hot, of course not too hot: whereas 
 up to Sunday was uncommonly cold, though bright. 
 
 ... I am now reading Sir Archibald Alison's History 
 of Europe, and am at present in the period immediately 
 preceding the French Revolution: to read it here makes 
 it doubly interesting. He is verbose and prosy, and 
 treats you to too much disquisition of his own, of no 
 profound force or value: still his facts are interesting. 
 He makes a miracle of Marie Antoinette, a genius and 
 a model of all excellencies. I cannot think of her as
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 167 
 
 a heroine before her fall: then she was indeed one. He 
 evidently thinks Louis XVI's concessions, from the 
 beginning of his reign, to the party of Liberty, were all 
 blunders, but I don't see that the miserable return they 
 met with alters their justice, or proves them anything 
 but inevitable. If they had not been made, Louis XVI 
 would have been beheaded just the same, only he would 
 have deserved it. 
 
 It is astonishing to me to find that there is really an 
 immensely widespread ogling at monarchy here, and that 
 all over France there are associations to bring it back. 
 But I am convinced that it is all a dream: that the time 
 for making new kings in Europe is gone by, and that there 
 is far more probability of existing monarchies collapsing. 
 Who could be the monarch here.^ He would have to be a 
 man of great power and force, a genius; and the Duke 
 of Orleans is of no consequence, and the Napoleonic 
 claimant of much less: both have passed their lives out 
 of France and are out of touch with it. The great 
 mistake of the Repubhc seems to have been its perse- 
 cution of Religion: and of course the Monarchists 
 make religion their "ticket": but I wonder how much 
 the millions care? 
 
 This letter is rather like one of 's, and you will 
 
 yawn your head off over it. 
 
 But as I have seen nothing to-day to tell you about, 
 I am teUing you the things I think about. 
 
 Now I'm off to bed. 
 
 Friday, April 30, 191 5 
 
 I SENT you just now a pot of "rillettes" — a sort of 
 pate; but I don't think you will care for it as much as 
 the French do. 
 
 I cannot write a proper letter to-day because a thou- 
 sand and seven wounded have just turned up and I am 
 very busy.
 
 1 68 John Jyscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 That does not look like moving our hospital at once. 
 I fancy, if we move at all, it cannot be for another month 
 or so. 
 
 My friend C. left the convent hospital the day before 
 yesterday. Moved to another hospital at Montreuil 
 near here: yesterday at lunch time I received an eager 
 request to go and see him there: he was feeling lonely 
 and desolate: and of course in very rough, barracky 
 quarters. 
 
 Friday Night, April 30, 191 5 
 
 I AM writing this for to-morrow's post as I so often 
 do, though the date makes the letter seem a day longer 
 on its way to you than it really is — for it will not leave 
 Versailles till to-morrow evening about five. But when 
 I have put off writing till the day itself I have often been 
 prevented from writing at all before post-time. 
 
 I got up at 5.30 this morning and went to the hospital, 
 as the thousand wounded were to have arrived at 6. 
 However, fresh telegrams had arrived and they were not 
 expected till 8.30 or 9, so I said Mass in my chapel there, 
 came home to breakfast, and went back about 9. 
 
 One thousand and seven fresh patients arrived from 
 the front, but a very few really very bad cases. 
 
 I spent the day in the hospital going round and finding 
 out the Catholics, and so took no walk. 
 
 After I came in about five I did not go out again, but 
 sat in my window reading Alison. 
 
 The trees are getting lovelier every day, and there 
 is a wonderful border of tulips in this garden, a blaze 
 of many colours, and some very wonderful ones. 
 
 But the horticulteury my landlord, has only one man 
 and a woman to work for him instead of the sixteen he 
 usually employs: all the rest gone to the war. 
 
 I cannot tell you what nice and really good people 
 he, his wife, and their two girls are. They only think 
 of pleasing me and not at all of making money out of me.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 169 
 
 The woman is one of the best I ever met, and I am indeed 
 lucky that the good nuns recommended me to her kind 
 care. Goodness, simple and honest goodness, is written 
 in every line of the poor woman's face. Why "poor 
 woman" .^ 
 
 I will tell you. 
 
 You must know that she speaks French with a strong 
 provincial accent, and I thought it was Alsatian. Yes- 
 terday I said to her "Madame, you are not of Versailles.?" 
 "Oh, Monseigneur," she cried, clasping her hands, and 
 bursting into tears, "I am a German. And the Germans 
 have been so wicked: and it is terrible for me." 
 
 She and her husband are only French by naturalization, 
 but have had their home here twenty-two years. Of 
 course I comforted her, and said that there were many 
 good Germans, and that it would be monstrous to blame 
 her for what some of her countrymen had done. 
 
 But she is very unhappy, and perhaps frightened. 
 
 dear! This war, what misery it brings upon the 
 innocent. . . . 
 
 Yesterday, and to-day, have been very sultry, and it 
 tried to thunder last night and to-night, but made no 
 great hand of it. 
 
 All the Canadian wounded I have met here are Eng- 
 lish, or American! 
 
 Now I must stop; take good care of yourself, and with 
 best love to Christie. 
 
 Sunday Mornifig, 6.30, May 2, 191 5 
 
 1 AM writing this, as you see, rather early, before 
 beginning to dress: because after Mass I come home here 
 to breakfast, and am then starting for Paris to see my 
 wounded friend C, who has been moved from Montreuil 
 to the Salpetriere Hospital, in Paris, but on the side of 
 Paris farthest from Versailles. It will take an hour and 
 a quarter if not more to get there, and I must be back 
 for my evening service at 5.30.
 
 170 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 
 
 Yesterday morning I got a note from the Colonel ask- 
 ing if I would like to motor in to Paris to attend a concert 
 given for wounded soldiers, and I said yes. We started 
 at quarter to one and instead of taking either of the 
 great roads (on the left bank of Seine, or right) we went 
 through the forest of St. Cloud, and then the Bois de 
 Boulogne: a most enchanting drive. The trees just in 
 their tenderest leaf, most exquisite. 
 
 The concert was at the Trocadero, and we had splendid 
 places, so had our wounded men, of whom we took 
 three large motor-ambulances full. I never in my life 
 was present at any entertainment so interesting. The 
 performers were the stars of all the theatres in Paris: 
 the programme v^^as very long, three and a half hours, 
 but not a tedious item on it. The five thousand wounded 
 French soldiers in so many different uniforms made a 
 most wonderful "house," and the enthusiasm for some 
 of the items of the programme, everyone standing up, 
 was pathetic, touching, moving, exciting. I send you 
 the programme, and a song we all sang together, also 
 an "image," a little picture of which everyone got a copy; 
 everyone (five thousand!) also got a bouquet of Hly-of- 
 the-valley, a pipe, cigarettes, etc. 
 
 Quite punctually at two o'clock the President of the 
 Republic, attended by his staffs, entered the presidential 
 box; the Marseillaise was played, and everyone stood. 
 After an overture, by the Band of the Garde Republicaine 
 (the finest miHtary band in Paris), the President of the 
 Chamber of Deputies made a speech, of which I both 
 heard and understood every word. Then came the songs, 
 recitations, dances — quite exquisite, and most simple, 
 graceful and charming: also divertissemefits, little pieces, 
 half acting, half singing, but very short. 
 
 The whole thing was an act of respectful gratitude, 
 a testimony of admiration and veneration, often expressed, 
 to the heroes whose broken bodies had stood between 
 the homes of those who ofi^ered the fete, and invasion.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 171 
 
 The final item was quite magnificent: first came bodies 
 of soldiers in old-time dress, starting for a war, and being 
 bidden God-speed by the villagers, the chateau-folk, etc. 
 Then many more of different periods. Finally a detach- 
 ment of present day chasseurs (each of these groups 
 played its own music) and in front was a magnificent 
 silk and gold tricolour: as they deployed, "France," 
 dressed simply in unnumerable folds of white, with a 
 huge blue and huge red sleeve, passed to the front, and 
 the Marseillaise was sung as well as played: each of the 
 principal performers took a verse, then she took hands 
 with the rest: the whole house standing, saluting the 
 Tricolour, and singing the final words of each strophe. 
 
 The enthusiasm, the passio7i of these people's love for 
 France, was quite terribly pathetic and moving. Re- 
 member the soldiers listening had all suffered for France: 
 many I saw were blind, blind forever: many armless; 
 not one there that had not faced the invader and done 
 his bit to push him back. In my life I never took part 
 in any scene so thrilling, or so memorable. 
 
 Now I must dress. . . . 
 
 I want the programmes, etc., all kept, please. 
 
 Monday, May 3, 191 5 
 
 This morning I received your letter of Friday, the 
 first for two or three days. I was beginning to fear 
 you might be seedy. I have a cold myself and am 
 rather hoarse; the weather was so sultry last week I 
 was always peeling off my tunic and sitting in shirt and 
 trousers: then yesterday morning I sat writing to you 
 in my pyjamas before dressing to go to Mass, and that 
 finished it! The cold makes me feel very stupid, so 
 don't expect much of a letter. We have heard no more 
 news of our removal to Calais, but so far as we know we 
 shall move, though perhaps not quite at once. In any
 
 172 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 case the address will be just the same. I don't think 
 the journey would cost me much, as I should travel 
 on a pass. 
 
 Now I must go to the hospital. 
 
 You said the sultry weather had made you feel blue: 
 cheer up, my dear, cheer up, and we shall all be happy 
 together again soon. 
 
 Tuesday Evenings May 4, 191 5 
 
 My cold was rotten last night and this morning, and 
 I did not write; but now it has passed its worst and is 
 beginning to make preparations for departure. 
 
 Meanwhile it is wonderfully hot weather — like a 
 sunny sirocco, not the grey sort. It poured all last 
 night, and the extreme heat of the ground sent it all up 
 again in steam. That's what makes the heat oppressive. 
 
 To-day I see the swallows have arrived. I heard the 
 cuckoo long ago, even at Dieppe; but here the great 
 feature is the nightingales: I never heard them so regular 
 in their permanence! In spite, however, of all the poets' 
 flattery, I don't think their melody lovelier than that of 
 the thrush or blackbird, certainly not than that of the 
 thrush. 
 
 This afternoon after luncheon I had a long stroll in the 
 glades and groves of the Little Trianon: it is much love- 
 lier than when I arrived, so many more trees are in leaf 
 or blossom. 
 
 I went early and there were very few people; here and 
 there a quiet-looking lady reading or working under 
 a tree. 
 
 The MS. of the ''Sacristans" arrived some time ago: 
 the one I wanted was "Poor Eleanor," which no doubt 
 will turn up. 
 
 You say "what Bishop.^" in reference to my mention- 
 ing the Bishop. The Bishop of Versailles. This is a 
 Cathedral town, and the diocese quite enormous. Only 
 the Seine divides it from the Paris diocese.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 173 
 
 Thursday y May 6, 191 5 
 
 My laryngitis is really better, but not gone: this 
 moist heat — (really great heat) doesn't suit me a bit. 
 However, to-day I can talk intelligibly; before I could 
 only whisper, or whistle or squeak like a corn-crake. 
 
 The night before last the people here were quite excited 
 by a big airship floating about over our heads, pursued 
 everywhere it went by search-lights (it looked very 
 pretty). But I guessed at once it was a French one, 
 come to practise a surprise air-visit by night, and so it 
 was. 
 
 I sent off the box containing clothing, etc., yesterday; 
 it will take some time, as it had to go by ordinary rail. 
 
 The only thing for you in it is a pair of new scissors! 
 Don't let Mary throw away the stones; the smaller ones 
 are pebbles I picked up at Dieppe: the large one is a 
 stone from the drawbridge at the Castle of Arques, over 
 which Drogo walked forth on his way to England, never 
 to return. I value it and want to keep it. Our trees 
 out here must be far more advanced than yours: they 
 are now at their loveliest. 
 
 I have at last got you the new post-card book and send 
 it to-day: it will hold a good many. 
 
 I hope to visit St. Germain, Marly, and Malmaison, 
 but they are not very easy to reach from here unless one 
 has a motor, and besides one can't be always running 
 off. 
 
 Now I must stop — a very dull letter, you will very 
 truthfully say. 
 
 Thursday Evening, May 6, 191 5 
 
 Besides all the letters that came early this morning, 
 another arrived later in the day from you. It has no 
 date. 
 
 This afternoon after some work at the hospital, and 
 before some more, I trotted off to the Petit Trianon to
 
 174 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 see the interior. It did not take long; the palace is 
 very small. Quite near is the grotto where, as I told you, 
 Marie Antoinette was sitting when a page came (on 
 October 5, 1789) to tell her that the horrible Paris mob 
 was attacking the palace at Versailles. The King was 
 out hunting. She at once rose and returned to the 
 palace at Versailles and never again saw Trianon. At 
 Versailles the mob were murdering her guards and her 
 servants; and that evening she and the King, with their 
 children and Madame Elizabeth, were compelled to 
 accompany the mob to Paris — the heads of their slaugh- 
 tered guards carried on pikes beside them. The journey 
 took seven hours and ended at the Tuileries, where they 
 were, in fact, imprisoned. 
 
 I have finished the two volumes of Alison which end 
 in the King's death; what a man he was! Certainly 
 the purest and most unselfish of kings; and what a 
 miracle of heroism she was. 
 
 Indeed nothing in your letter interests me more than 
 the reminiscences called up by my mention of Alison. 
 I always love to hear you speak of your childhood, and 
 its memories; and I am never tired of them. Certainly 
 I will find time to write, as Pierce asks, to Mr. Cameron. 
 How can I, who find time to write daily to three or four 
 Frenchmen, pretend that I can't make time to write 
 to him? During the war I have given up all attempts 
 to "write," i.e. for the press: but this long rest was really 
 needed. My brain was getting over-written, and I shall 
 write ten times better for the long rest, and have a vast 
 new fund of interest and observation to draw on. So 
 everything works out for the best. 
 
 Now good-bye. My cold is far better; the voice 
 nearly come back and no cough or very little. 
 
 I don't care much for the tottery old representatives 
 of the old regime one meets! I am a fervent monarchist, 
 but why didn't they keep their monarchy? It's no use
 
 John Ayscoiigh's Letters to his Mother 175 
 
 now crying over spilt milk, and the Republic isn't going 
 to go. 
 
 May 7, 191 5 
 
 I WROTE you a meagre "Good night" in place of a 
 letter last night and this morning — Wednesday morn- 
 ing — an equally hurried "Good morning" to enclose 
 a small cheque. 
 
 To-night I have not much more material for a letter, 
 as all I have done since was to go to Paris at midday, 
 and spend the afternoon till five with my godson. It 
 was not one of his days of "permission," i.e., he could 
 not come out, so all the time was spent in his big hospital. 
 We divided it between his ward and the garden; some- 
 times sitting on a bench under the fresh green trees of 
 the latter, sometimes walking. He walks better, and 
 without crutches, but soon tires; he lost so much blood 
 and his wounds were so many. 
 
 The ward is not at all like one of ours m No. 4 General 
 Hospital: it dates, I should say, from the end of the 
 seventeenth century, and is very low, with frowning old 
 beams, very gloomy, and vv^ith a grizzly brick floor — 
 a sort of attic. Our own hospital, installed in a magni- 
 ficent, quite new hotel, is all light, freshness, and comfort, 
 beautifully airy, and splendidly fitted up. The Sal- 
 petriere is, however, a fine old place, with immense 
 blocks of building covering a vast space, and very pretty 
 old gardens. 
 
 Besides the thousands of wounded soldiers, the Sal- 
 petriere contains many lunatics whom one does not see, 
 as they are in quite a different part of it; and a number 
 of old broken-down folk, whom one does see sunning 
 themselves in the garden. F. has mad countless friends 
 among these poor old creatures, and they turn adoring 
 eyes on him as he passes. He has very grave eyes, 
 but is a cheery and amusing person, and he compliments 
 me by saying that in spite of having to use a language
 
 176 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 
 
 that I do not speak correctly, though fluently, I am 
 very witty in French! So there! No doubt you think 
 I talk French perfectly; but that I never shall. I doubt 
 if anyone who has not spoken it as a child ever does learn 
 to speak French really well, i.e., true French. The whole 
 form of the language is different from ours, and its way 
 of arranging ideas. Italian is much more like English 
 in that way. Certainly I have made progress lately: but 
 until I went to Dieppe I was almost entirely with Eng- 
 lish people and had few opportunities of practice: and 
 even here I pass most of my time among the English, 
 in the hospital, and so get less practice than you would 
 think. 
 
 I am now quite well. But I intend giving my mouth 
 a rest before having the other two teeth out. They do 
 not ache at all, but one is badly broken and should come 
 out. It has been really cold to-day, which I have not 
 disliked at all. There is a very beautiful tree in flower 
 now, lots of them in the gardens of the Salpetriere, and 
 lots by the Seine in Paris: a big tree, not a shrub, cov- 
 ered with masses of purple flowers — the soft lavender- 
 purple of parma violets. You cannot think what a 
 charming little journey it is in to Paris: the suburbs 
 of Paris toward Versailles are enchanting. A long valley 
 between wooded hills and all the houses dotted among 
 the trees in delightful gardens. Lilac, white and purple; 
 may, white and crimson; and numbers of others flower- 
 ing trees everywhere. In this garden there are very 
 pretty double white-hlac trees, and the blossoms look 
 rather like huge spikes of white stocks. 
 
 Now I'm off" to bed. God bless your sleep, my dearest 
 darling, and send you only happy dreams. I say many 
 Masses for you. 
 
 Saturday Evening, May 8, 191 5 
 
 Your dear letter of Wednesday morning arrived 
 this morning, and at the same time one from Christie
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 177 
 
 that had been wandering all over the place: she also 
 had put No. 4 British Expeditionary Force. 
 
 The idea of a fire in a bedroom made me compassion- 
 ate you, for here we have had the most sultry, siroccy 
 weather I ever knew out of Malta; a sort of weather 
 I hate, as it always makes me feel weak, and if I catch 
 cold (as I generally do) I feel much more uncomfortable 
 than with a cold in good, honest cold weather. 
 
 My present cold and laryngitis is nearly gone, and 
 to-day I feel more myself. I only wrote a line yesterday 
 as I was feeling horrid after the extraction of a tooth in 
 four goes! I shall take a few days' rest before having 
 another hauled out. 
 
 To-day we are all talking and thinking of the "Lusi- 
 tania." I hope (we don't know here yet) it will turn 
 out that no lives were lost, 
 
 George Parker has sent me a large portrait group of 
 his clan, and I will send it home. About half of them 
 are cousins of mine, nephews and nieces, or grand-nieces 
 and nephews of my father: and they all look monuments 
 of British respectability. 
 
 The azaleas in this garden are coming out and are very 
 pretty, especially a common sort that I always loved, 
 with rather small, flame-coloured flowers. The Custs 
 and the Jebbs of the Lythe used to have these in their 
 gardens. 
 
 My landlord has got hold of a lot of French soldiers 
 to dig up and tidy up his garden for him; and they work 
 very well and quickly. I reward them with "English" 
 cigarettes and with chocolates. 
 
 During these last nights, dull, heavy, hot, and moist, 
 the nightingales have been less vociferous, and I have 
 not minded: they were really rather noisy early last 
 week. 
 
 I send the portrait-cards I mentioned. Louis XV is 
 handsome, isn't he? But he was a heartless scamp. 
 Do you remember how one wet afternoon he stood at
 
 lyS John Ayscouglo s Letters to his Mother 
 
 2i window of the palace here, and watched the last depar- 
 ture of his dead friend, Mme. de Pompadour, and said, 
 coolly, "Madame has horrid weather for her promenade." 
 
 Louis XVI is not handsome at all, but "handsome is 
 as handsome does." The portrait of Marie Antoinette 
 is after Madame Vigee Lebrun's very famous one. I 
 think the poor little Dauphin, ("Louis XVII") very 
 charming, and a clever-looking little lad — they made 
 an idiot of him by drink, etc., before he died. Madame 
 de Lamballe was Marie Antoinette's dearest friend: and 
 it was her lovely head that the mob hoisted on a pole 
 under the Queen's prison-windows — and awful bits of 
 her poor modest body. 
 
 I am glad you enjoyed my account of the Trocadero 
 Concert; it certainly was wonderful, and unforgettable. 
 
 I am very glad you sent something to Sister Theresa 
 Plater. She has a Jesuit brother to whom I am devoted. 
 
 Now I must shut up. 
 
 Wednesday^ May 12, 191 5 
 
 My cold is nearly gone, though not quite: the throat 
 still hurts a little, but the pastilles I got from the French 
 chemist never fail to relieve it; and his "syrop" has 
 practically banished the cough. The same splendidly 
 fine but fresh weather continues: last week, when it was 
 so terribly hot, there was constant rain. 
 
 Yesterday afternoon, while I was working in the 
 hospital, I came across Lady Austin-Lee, who had come 
 out from Paris to visit our wounded. I had just written 
 to her saying I could not lunch with her to-day: so she 
 made me fix Saturday instead. . . . She had the Duch- 
 ess de Bassano with her, a really delightful elderly lady, 
 Canadian by birth, widow of a very famous Frenchman. 
 
 . . . After tea I went for quite a long walk in the parks 
 both of Versailles and Trianon: they were looking in- 
 describably lovely, and at the Little Trianon the quiet- 
 ness and peace was marvellous. There was hardly a
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 179 
 
 soul there, and no sound but the "roo-coob" of the doves. 
 You must understand that at Trianon there is no attempt 
 at a show of flowers or shrubs, it is all natural looking: 
 but the azaleas were something indescribable: in one 
 thicket of them I counted nine different colours — 
 whitey-cream; canary; sulphur; cinnamon; flame- 
 colour; scarlet; rose; lilac; salmon; and such masses 
 of bloom, as big as a giant's feather-bed. The smell of 
 them, of the Hlac and of the wistaria, filled the whole air. 
 Now I must go to the hospital, then to Paris to see 
 C. in hospital. 
 
 Thursday Evening, Ascension Day 
 
 This morning I only had time to write you a mere 
 word to say I could not write! A great many wounded 
 have been coming in lately, and the proportion of badly 
 wounded very high. Almost all from Ypres — it is quite 
 frightful the losses that beastly spot has cost us. And 
 of course this has made me very busy. 
 
 I came in to get my luncheon and found Vicomte de 
 
 firmly seated in my dining-room, and he, having 
 
 had his lunch, was determined to sit and jaw. He stayed 
 ages, and at last I really had to get up and pack him 
 off. A most w^orthy old gentleman, with the sad disease 
 of nothing to do and a vehement desire to tell me all 
 the clever things he ever said or wrote. 
 
 I am very busy in the hospital: two afternoons each 
 week I go to cheer up F., and on Saturday I am lunching 
 with Lady Austin-Lee. 
 
 I'm off to bed. 
 
 Friday Evening, May 14, 191 5 
 
 Another very uneventful day gives me again very 
 little to write about. I have been nowhere except to the 
 hospital, where I have passed most of the day; and 
 seen no one except the wounded, and Lady Austin-Lee, 
 whom I met for a few minutes.
 
 i8o 'John Ayscouglo s Letters to his Mother 
 
 We expect many more wounded to-night, and are send- 
 ing home many who only came in a couple of days ago. 
 These large relays of wounded are a result of the defi- 
 nite forward movement always foretold for May, and I 
 believe we really are making ground at the front, and 
 the French, too. The cost in life is terribly sad, but 
 cannot be surprising. 
 
 I am not quite so uncomfortable in my mouth to-day, 
 and the laryngitis has really gone now. 
 
 That Vicomte de who harried me yesterday 
 
 is a Norman, and Norman-mad like grandpapa — he 
 can only talk and think of the Normans; and, oddly 
 enough, I always become worse than indifferent to them 
 when I have to do with someone like that. 
 
 Your letter of Tuesday, a particularly nice one, came 
 to-day; I am so glad you like the post-card book, and 
 I'm glad you agree with me about that much overrated 
 fowl, the nightingale: I'd give twenty of them for one 
 thrush. 
 
 From what you say about Marie Antoinette I fancy 
 the "Life" of her you have been reading was my Madame 
 Campan's Memoirs — the famous schoolmistress after- 
 wards employed under Napoleon I to teach the wives of 
 his Dukes and Marshals how to behave like court ladies. 
 It is interesting, but not a patch on the later works like 
 Le Notre's. I suppose the other book you are reading 
 is some Memoir of the Duchesse d'Angouleme, daughter 
 of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, and wife of the son 
 of Charles X, Louis XVI's brother. Napoleon said she 
 was the only man among the Bourbons of that time; 
 but the sufferings and the horrors of her childhood, if 
 they did not embitter her, made her permanently sad 
 and morose, and she was not popular after the Restoration 
 — she could not forget; and no wonder! 
 
 I know what a dull letter this is — but when one has 
 not even been for a stroll in the park, what can one find 
 to say.?
 
 John Ayscouglos Letters to his Mother i8i 
 
 It has turned very cold again which I do not mind at 
 all; what I loathe is the sticky, muggy, hot weather. 
 
 Good night. I duly received your little spray of ** For- 
 get-me-not" — did you think it necessary! ! 
 
 Saturday Nighty May 15, 191 5 
 
 Your letter of Thursday reached me early this morn- 
 ing — in less than two whole days: so we are getting on! 
 I was working hard in the hospital, after Mass at the 
 convent, till noon; then I caught a train to Paris and 
 lunched with the Austin-Lees. Then I trained back and 
 went straight to the hospital and worked there till dinner- 
 time. Lady Austin-Lee informed me that the matron 
 had been sounding my praises to her because I am so 
 nice to the men. 
 
 That is all my day: except writing letters. 
 
 To-morrow after church at the hospital, and a little 
 work there, I am off to Paris again to spend a long time 
 with F. 
 
 I am not idle; but my doings don't give much to write 
 about, do they? 
 
 Now I'm off to bed, so good night. 
 
 Monday, May 17, 191 5 
 
 Saturday was quite cold, yesterday very hot, and 
 to-day a deluge of cold rain: so England is not the only 
 country with an inconsistent climate. It is not muggy 
 rain this time, so I rather like than dislike it. 
 
 I got up early yesterday to put in a good bit of work, 
 before nine o'clock Mass, at the hospital: after Mass 
 came home, had my tea and dashed off to Paris, where 
 I found F. awaiting me at the station. During a stroll 
 on the Boulevards I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder, 
 and a delighted voice said, "Bickerstaffe-Drew!" It 
 was Bourgade: do you remember him and Palluau in 
 1899? It amazed me, his recognizing me; for it is sixteen
 
 1 82 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 years since he saw me, he never saw me in uniform, and 
 it was only my back he saw this time. He walked along 
 with us for quarter of an hour, and was simply overjoyed 
 to see me again. He looks very middle-aged, and also 
 very prosperous and amiable. 
 
 He was full of enquiries for you, too. 
 
 And that's all there is to tell you! I always feel a pig 
 when I put you off with one of these scrappy letters — 
 but though I enjoyed yesterday very much it was not 
 the sort of day to provide much to talk about. 
 
 Monday Night, May 17, 191 5 
 
 Though I wrote to you this morning, and have done 
 nothing since but work in the hospital, I am getting my 
 letter for to-morrow ready, because I expect to be again 
 busy in the wards all day to-morrow till after post-time. 
 Our English mail came in to-day later than usual, and 
 after I had written to you. It brought your letter of 
 Friday. I am so sorry this wretched paper worries you 
 so, and I will be sure to number the pages in future. 
 Please forgive me for not having done so already. Most 
 modern note-paper is folded and stamped with whatever 
 device it bears, Hke this paper: but I have always told 
 them not to do it with mine, only this time I forgot. 
 
 I am glad you liked the little cutting about the musk- 
 rat. I hoped you would. But I did not know he was 
 an old friend of yours. You need not worry yourself 
 thinking the censor keeps back some of your letters to 
 me. The censors have nothing to do with letters to 
 members of the Expeditionary Force, only with letters 
 from them. No incoming letters from England are 
 submitted to the censors: the moment they reach the 
 post office, they are given out, and no censor even sees the 
 outsides of them. But letters to chaplains if incorrectly 
 addressed, all go sooner or later to the principal chaplain's 
 office, to be re-addressed.
 
 John Ayscouglos Letters to his Mother 183 
 
 But your letters are all correctly addressed now; and 
 they come in very reasonably quick time. 
 
 I had a talk with our Colonel to-day, which I very 
 rarely have. We discussed the prospects of the war. 
 He is sanguine and thinks Germany is done for. Cer- 
 tainly both we and the French are pushing her as she 
 has not been pushed for many months. I have always 
 said the same thing — there might at any moment 
 come a sudden collapse of Germany, and of course Italy's 
 adhesion (which is now certain) might induce that 
 collapse. 
 
 On the other hand, if we want to "fight to a finish,^' 
 i.e., till Germany is "wiped out" — then the war might 
 last for years! For every German would fight to death 
 rather than submit to that. I do not, however, believe 
 that we shall really fight to a finish. We shall be content 
 to go on till Germany asks for peace. She will have to 
 get out of Belgium and France, and have to give up 
 Alsace and Lorraine. Austria will lose most. 
 
 I heard a most astonishing thing yesterday — that 
 many of the French monarchists want to offer the throne 
 of this country to King Albert of Belgium! It only 
 shows how little they think of the Bonapartist and 
 Orleanist pretenders. To me it seems the wildest dream. 
 
 In Alison I have just been reading the marvellous and 
 horribly tragic story of the Peasant War in La Vendee 
 against the Revolution: of absorbing, though very 
 melancholy interest. If England had kept her word and 
 sent help to the Vendeans the Revolution would have 
 been smashed and the monarchy restored, whereas we 
 let a million heroic peasants be butchered. 
 
 Tuesday Night, May 18, 191 5 
 
 I HAVE been hard at work the whole day in the hospital, 
 and am so tired and so sleepy that I am only going to 
 wish you good night.
 
 184 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 In the afternoon I met Lady Austin-Lee and the 
 Duchess of Bassano in the hospitah I didn't leave the 
 hospital till seven, and then went for a short stroll in 
 the town for air and exercise. Then I came in, dined, 
 and wrote a sheaf of letters to mothers of badly wounded 
 men. It is a work of great necessity and charity, but 
 takes much time. I cannot write the poor things short 
 and dry letters, but must try to cheer and comfort them. 
 Many are the sons of widows, or grandsons of old widowed 
 women who have brought them up, and one knows how 
 — at best — a letter telling of severe wounds must be 
 grievous. 
 
 I am much better: the inflammation of the alveolus 
 almost entirely gone, and the laryngitis quite gone. 
 
 The rhododendrons here are getting more splendid 
 every day. I'm half asleep! So good night. 
 
 Friday Night, 9 p.m.. May 21, 191 5 
 
 This morning, after Mass at the hospital at seven, I 
 came back here, breakfasted, and worked hard at letters 
 all morning. All afternoon I worked in the hospital, 
 and then came home to tea. After which I felt I must 
 have a walk, and went ofi^ to the park where I had not 
 been for ages. I found the trees much more leafy and 
 the chestnuts, of which there are very many, all banks 
 of white and pink, or red blossom. 
 
 Instead of taking the Trianon side of the park, I went 
 in by the Basin of Neptune, and down by the Basin 
 of Ceres, to the Tapis Vert (the long strip of lawn leading 
 down, between avenues, from the great facade of the 
 palace toward the large Basin of Apollo, beyond which 
 is the Grand Canal). Numbers of soldiers (French), 
 in canoes, were disporting themselves upon the water, 
 and seemed very cheerful, taking great delight in splash- 
 ing one another's boats unmercifully with their oars. . . . 
 But the mosquitoes were ozvdacious. (It is a heavy,
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 185 
 
 hot day.) I walked as far as the star I have marked on 
 the card and there sat down on a bench and talked to a 
 French artilleryman, who has been in England and seems 
 very proud of it. The Menagerie, opposite the Grand 
 Trianon, was really a Menagerie in Louis XIV's time, 
 but is now some sort of barracks. 
 
 St. Cyr was where Madame de Maintenon established 
 her Institution for daughters of poor nobles, where she 
 spent all the time she could spare from her royal husband. 
 Toward the end of her thirty-two years of being his 
 wife without being his Queen, she seems to have grown 
 very weary of her palace life, and glad to get away from 
 it. After the Revolution St. Cyr became a military 
 school, like Woolwich (and it is so still), and there Napo- 
 leon I received his later training as a soldier, I think. 
 
 Yesterday afternoon I had to attend the funeral of an 
 English officer, an aviator killed by a fall of the machine. 
 Not a Catholic, so I did not officiate. It was a longish 
 march to the cemetery, through the whole length of the 
 town, much over two miles. The Mayor of Versailles, 
 and a number of French officers, and perhaps one hundred 
 French soldiers attended, and it was a fine, though simple 
 sight. The French along the streets showed all possible 
 sympathy and respect. The cemetery on the fringe of 
 the town, on a hillside, running up into a long wood, is 
 very peaceful and beautiful. 
 
 There were over a hundred new English graves, all 
 of soldiers, and we noticed that every one was carefully 
 tended by the French, with flowers growing and in 
 wreaths, and also pretty little shrubs put to grow on them. 
 I thought this very kindly and tender toward strangers, 
 none of whose friends could ever be expected to thank 
 those who showed this kindness to the poor foreigners. 
 The French have much more heart and sweetness than 
 English people give them credit for. 
 
 Besides my French soldier friends I have troops of 
 little French friends among the children, who waylay
 
 1 86 John Ayscough's Letters to bis Mother 
 
 me to demand medals and tiny crucifixes to send to their 
 fathers at the front. They are dear httle creatures, 
 and it always touches me to hear their prattling talk 
 about the fathers they are so likely never to see again 
 till they meet in heaven. And it touches me close to see 
 the trust and confidence in their innocent grave eyes. 
 They always speak of a little crucifix as a "little Christ." 
 "Oh, please," they beg, "give me a little Christ to send 
 to my father at the war. He is in the trenches," or, 
 "he comes from being wounded." The dear French 
 soldiers, as they pass by, watch us with gentle smiles. 
 If I should live to be very old I should never forget these 
 wonderful months in France, and all the great love it 
 has taught me for our vaHant and sweet-hearted neigh- 
 bours. It is only these things that salve at all for me 
 the pain of this long absence from you. 
 
 I am glad you are reading "The New comes;" I love 
 Colonel Newcome till he turns against Ethel; then I 
 long to box his foolish old ears. Thackeray admired 
 Master Clive much better than I do, which is natural, 
 as he thought he was drawing his own portrait as a 
 youth, and I do not blindly admire Thackeray. His 
 great genius was half cruel and he loved to smell out 
 human meannesses and falsenesses. As you say, the 
 book is terribly long-drawn, and it shows signs of a great 
 genius tired and jaded. Still the genius is there, and 
 there are exquisitely beautiful and tender things in it. 
 
 To-night at my dinner, just for a rest, I read a few 
 pages of David Copperfield: and it was a rest. Always 
 talking or reading a foreign language is a sort of strain 
 on the attention, and the only English I have been 
 reading is Alison, whose theme is intensely interesting 
 but who is not himself very light. 
 
 Now I 'm off to bed.
 
 "John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 187 
 
 Saturday Nighty May 22, 191 5 
 
 It is ten o'clock — bedtime — and I am not going 
 to attempt a long letter: perhaps I shall finish this 
 early to-morrow morning, before going to the hospital 
 for Mass. 
 
 Your letter of Wednesday arrived this morning about 
 midday, just as I was starting for Paris to see C; and 
 I read it in the train, 
 
 I do not quite twig what is happening on your side of 
 the water about the Cabinet. I read a French evening 
 paper coming back from Paris in the train, and it spoke 
 of all sorts of changes in the Ministry, as if Mr. Asquith 
 and Lord Kitchener were both going. I am much 
 flattered by your estimate of my opinion concerning the 
 war: but I know nothing. Italy is now certain: and 
 her adhesion may make an enormous difference. Unless 
 Russia takes a bad knock on the eastern front, Austria 
 and Germany cannot afford the vast depletion of forces 
 necessary to turn a strong face against Italy: if Germany 
 sends many men south from the western front, France or 
 we, or both of us, are likely to break through. If a 
 large force were sent south from the eastern front Russia 
 would break through. You will see that the ultra- 
 bitterness of Germany against us will now be turned 
 against Italy, and much more reasonably, for we were 
 not Germany's ally and Italy was. 
 
 Germany is now treating America so carelessly that 
 I believe she wants the United States to declare war; 
 then, with Italy also against her, she may perhaps say, 
 "We can't fight against the whole world," and begin 
 to hold out peace overtures. If, however, the Allies 
 ask too much, she will go on fighting. I don't believe 
 for a moment that the Emperor Wilham is unpopular 
 in Germany, or even less popular than he was before 
 the war. 
 
 I heard to-day an extraordinary (and quite authentic)
 
 1 88 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 instance of the way in which Germany has prepared 
 everything for this war even in foreign countries: 
 
 A French general, long ago in the early part of the 
 war, pursued by a German force too strong to engage, 
 came to a river (in France, mind, this was) and crossed 
 it by the bridge, which he then immediately blew up 
 and continued his march. Close to the other side of the 
 destroyed bridge was a factory: and, arrived at the river- 
 bank, the Germans simply went to the factory and 
 brought out of it a metal bridge, all ready, made in 
 compartments, and threw it across: it was exactly the 
 width, etc., of the destroyed stone bridge, and had been 
 duly prepared by the Germans for such a need, and 
 kept ready under lock and key! 
 
 Now I'm for bed. So God bless you, dearest, and 
 keep you safe and well. I shall give you no more bulle- 
 tins of my health, as I am all right again. 
 
 Wednesday, May 26, 191 5 
 
 Your letter written on Sunday has just come and 
 I am going to write a short answer. 
 
 I do hate hot weather and it always does knock all 
 the life out of me. 
 
 I feel very pleasant sitting still reading in my room 
 (it is beautifully cool) but when I have to go out and bustle 
 round it is very different. Unfortunately, they assure 
 me that the warm weather will go on now till autumn! 
 
 Yesterday I worked in the hospital all morning and 
 afternoon, then came in and had tea: then went for an 
 evening stroll in the park, where I met again a young 
 Artillery-man whom I had met before, and we sat under 
 the trees by the Grand Canal and chatted. He is very 
 well-educated (a clerk, I should say, in some business 
 house) and quite a gentleman — fearfully anti-Republican 
 — and, poor lad, just off to the front. Another Artillery- 
 man — also a gentleman — joined us, whom I knew
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 189 
 
 before, a young sculptor, and as they were both Parisians 
 and talk lovely French, it was good practice for me. 
 
 Then I came home and dined; and read and (dog-tired) 
 slunk into bed. 
 
 O dear! I wish it was always winter! I am worth 
 triple in cold or cool weather. All my energies melt 
 away in hot weather, and everyone else seems so delighted 
 and says, "Is it not a dehcious weather.^" and I long to 
 smack them! 
 
 I'm glad their Reverences from Salisbury came to 
 look you up: and that Father Cashman was to bring you 
 Holy Communion. 
 
 My mouth is quite all right now, but I can't face the 
 dentist again just yet: though two teeth seriously demand 
 removal. 
 
 How I laughed when I read your saying, "The new 
 scissors are so good and sharp, I shall lock them up." 
 I am sure that one of these days you will start locking 
 up your food directly they bring it you, and you will then 
 die of starvation. 
 
 Now good-bye. 
 
 Thursday, May 27, 191 5 
 
 Your long and interesting letter, with the romance of 
 your Aunt Sally, arrived this morning: I think some day 
 / might try my hand on the story. Of course I've often 
 heard you and Christie talk of Aunt Sally, but you never 
 told me this romance of her poor life before. 
 
 The nights have been so hot that I have had very 
 little sleep, but to-day began cooler, and even now is 
 less hot than we have been having it. The worst of it is, 
 I can't induce the French people to say that it is only 
 a temporary wave of heat, and that we shall have cool 
 weather presently. On the contrary, when I ask when 
 it will be cooler, they say "At the end of August — a 
 little." But I think that is blague: they imagine we get 
 no hot weather in England, and so they want to brag
 
 190 John Ayscougb's Letters to his Mother 
 
 of their own; they all think rain and cool weather is 
 a thing to be ashamed of, and pretend to know nothing 
 about it. And the Versaillais are just as touchy about 
 their climate as Mr. Wodehouse used to be about that of 
 Plymouth: any complaints about the weather they 
 consider a personal reflection and resent fiercely. Yester- 
 day I told the Director of the Bank of France, where 
 I get my cheques cashed, that I found Versailles relaxing, 
 and I thought he would have assaulted me! "Versailles 
 relaxing! It is well known that Versailles is the health- 
 iest town in France. A cHmate without parallel. Re- 
 laxing! Why, Monseigneur, are you not aware that at 
 this moment you are standing on a higher level than the 
 pinnacles of Notre Dame in Paris! Relaxing! Why, 
 it is for coolness that the Parisiens come here. . . . 
 Pray, Monseigneur, do not say that Versailles is relaxing: 
 for you are not the one to state an impossibility. . . ." 
 I really was afraid he would cash no more cheques for me, 
 and hurriedly ate my words, averring that no doubt 
 when I understood it better I should know that Versailles 
 was as bracing as the North Pole. 
 
 Yesterday I went to Paris at midday and stayed at the 
 Salpetriere with F. till five, and really I thought Paris, 
 though very hot, was drier and airier: but that it would 
 be high treason to say here. The whole mischief is that 
 the air of Versailles is very moist from the immense 
 number of trees: and moist heat is more trying to me 
 than dry. I have always preached the unhealthiness of 
 trees. 
 
 If I don't shut up, this letter can't catch the post. 
 
 May 28, 191 5 
 
 I PUT off writing till this morning, and then a convoy 
 of wounded arrived — the first for ever so long, and I 
 had to go and attend to my duties instead of writing 
 letters. It is not a very big batch, but over three hun-
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 191 
 
 dred, and they are all from that eternal Ypres: as a 
 matter of fact, very few Catholics among them; but still 
 in order to find out whether they are Catholics or not, 
 one has to see them all. 
 
 As I told you, I am out of sorts, and it makes me 
 uncommonly slack and lazy. All the rain we have does 
 not cool the au"; it only surcharges it with moisture 
 and makes it heavy and oppressive. I'm not a bit hot 
 sitting in my room, but when I try to do anything I 
 feel that "the grass-hopper is a burden." Fortunately, 
 there has been uncommon little to do, and I have been 
 able to take it just as easily as. I chose. 
 
 My soldier-servant confesses that he pocketed letters 
 to you twice and forgot them: I "washed his head for 
 him," as they say here, and he won't do it again. He is 
 really good, as good a man as I ever met: but he has a 
 rotten memory (like my own) and being in love makes 
 his worse. He is quite truthful and would never pre- 
 tend he hadnt forgotten when he had: that's one good 
 thing. He eats like a lion (four lions) and is as thin as 
 a ruler — the flat sort. 
 
 Your letter of Tuesday came this morning. Poor 
 old Pierce! I'm sure he needn't be apologising to him- 
 self or anyone else for not coming to Europe to fight. 
 All the wrong people have scruples about it: there are 
 two or three millions in Great Britain who could and 
 should come, but they stick at home, and let married 
 men and only sons and widows' sons come. Lots of 
 the wounded we get here are quite old fellows. 
 
 The handkerchief case has arrived, and if I had been 
 all right I should have gone to Paris with it this afternoon; 
 but I'm too washed out. It is most beautifully made 
 and I'm sure Lady Austin-Lee will be delighted with it. 
 Thank you ever io much for making it. 
 
 I have got hold of Trollope's "Is he a Popinjay .'*" and 
 it is quite a treat after reading nothing but history and 
 French for a long time, though it is not one of his first-
 
 192 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 rank books — about on a par with " He Knew he was 
 Right," though less depressing. 
 
 You need not bother to send those magazines at present. 
 
 I suffer rather from French priests who write books 
 and will want me to read them: this sort of thing, " Bombs 
 and the Catholic Church" "Asphyxiating Gases and the 
 Revival of Religion in France." They always assure 
 me that they give me full leave to translate their master- 
 pieces into EngUsh. "God forbid," I say inwardly: 
 but it isn't so easy to know what to say outwardly. 
 
 There is Mme. Beranek to bid me go down to dinner. 
 This has been a ramshackle letter, but I feel ramshackle, 
 like a very badly made rag doll recently rescued from 
 drowning in a bucket of tepid slops. 
 
 So I will say good-night and God bless you. 
 
 Sunday Night, garter to bedtime 
 
 I AM beginning a letter feeling very sleepy, and most 
 likely shall leave it to finish in the morning. 
 
 Monday, May 31, 1915 
 
 I ONLY got SO far and caved in, and went to bed ! Not 
 that I was feeling tired, only sleepy. Since the cool 
 weather came back the feeling of tiredness is gradually 
 going off. To-day it is even cooler than yesterday, 
 making four cool days in a row. 
 
 Yesterday I did not go to Paris to see F., who is, I 
 believe, coming here instead to-day. But after my 
 letter to you I went for a walk in the Little Trianon 
 {i.e., just about the time all France is at luncheon) and 
 there was only one other person there — a young French 
 soldier sketching. The azaleas are still in bloom, though 
 going off: and I stole some good slips which my landlord 
 says he can make grow for me. It was all very lovely 
 and peaceful. As I was leaving to come home to my
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 193 
 
 own luncheon thousands were pouring in. After luncheon 
 I went to a Kermesse right at the other end of the town, 
 organised by a Comtesse Missiessy for the poor Belgians. 
 She had asked me to come, and was evidently extremely 
 pleased and grateful that I did. She is quite charming, 
 of Mrs. Drummond's type, about the same age, with the 
 same brilliant complexion, abundant white and grey hair, 
 intensely blue eyes, and gracious, friendly manners. 
 Only she is not nearly so tall as Mrs. Drummond. She 
 has a charming son, also, whom I took a great fancy to. 
 I bought a lot of things to send to my French soldiers at 
 the front. 
 
 Then I hurried back to the hospital for an evening 
 service where I had a crowded congregation of two. 
 
 In my letter to-morrow I shall send a whole batch of 
 portrait-cards: these really are very interesting, and 
 especially to anyone who reads much French history, as 
 I do. It is only quite recently one could get reproduc- 
 tions of these famous portraits, which are nearly all of 
 them in the palace here. 
 
 Fifty times I have meant to ask you about clothes — 
 summer is on us and you must be needing some replenish- 
 ments: do please tell me frankly what. 
 
 I propose a light silk dress — you have only the very 
 pretty but now old, lavender one — something of that 
 type: I should say two, a tus sor e-co\o\\r&di one, and a 
 lavender, grey-blue, or lilac. But tell me about etceteraSy 
 millinery, veils, etc., that you want. 
 
 Another batch of wounded has, my servant tells me, 
 just arrived at the hospital, and I must go round there. 
 
 With best love to Christie. 
 
 Monday Night, May 31, 191 5 
 
 Your cheery letter of Friday arrived this morning 
 enclosing one from Alice, to whom I duly sent by this 
 post the portrait of Colonel Drew. The same post
 
 194 John AyscougWs Letters to his Mother 
 
 brought me Tit-Bits (which you so much objected to 
 forward to me!) from which I see they have awarded me 
 a prize of fifty pounds! What for, do you think? For 
 the following: One had to choose any word out of the 
 current number of Tit-Bits, and then give three other 
 words bearing on it, the first and last of which three 
 words must begin with a letter found in the word chosen: 
 I chose "dollars" and made "Don't preclude dolours." 
 Doesn't it seem ridiculous to earn fifty pounds for such 
 appalling rubbish? All the same, fifty pounds is uncom- 
 monly useful. You see I can very well afford you some 
 new duds! 
 
 I always felt sure I should gain one of these prizes. 
 Ver will be very jealous: I think he never won more than 
 2/6! 
 
 I will show your flower to M. Beranek, and ask him 
 if he knows what it is. 
 
 I had a very gushing letter to-day from Mrs. W., but 
 written just like a housemaid's letter: no pronouns, this 
 sort of thing — "Thought I'd write. So glad get your 
 photo. Very good, too. Hadn't time say good-bye to 
 Mrs. Brent 'fore leaving," etc. 
 
 Do you remember hearing me talk of my young brother 
 officer. Captain H. ? He has gone home with measles 
 and I think he is delighted! 
 
 When I was in Paris on Friday with F. we were driving 
 in the Bois de Boulogne and there was a German "taube" 
 miles up in the air, hotly pursued by two French aero- 
 planes that drove it away very promptly. The French 
 don't get in the least excited by such trifles, only all the 
 smart people were getting cricks in their necks from 
 staring up at the chase. 
 
 F. and I are lunching with Lady Austin-Lee on Thurs- 
 day. 
 
 I suppose the little "tapis" (mats) are arrived by 
 now. I am always jeering at my French friends for the 
 poverty of their language (their great boast is its richness).
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 195 
 
 "You call a carpet, 'tapis,' and a table-cloth, 'tapis,' 
 and a mat, 'tapis.'" 
 
 Of course I don't believe London is going to be blown 
 
 up, or the Tube railway. But lives for sensations, 
 
 and nothing else will stimulate his "brain." 
 
 I am not at all likely to be offered leave, and do not 
 think it would be wise to ask for it. Besides it could 
 only be for six days or so, and they would have to put 
 someone else here. So large a hospital could not be left 
 without a chaplain: and whoever got in would be sure 
 to want to stop in. Versailles suits me down to the 
 ground, and I could never get into such good and economi- 
 cal quarters elsewhere. "Z,<2 vie coute chere" in France 
 everywhere at present. 
 
 I took you to Paris in miniature yesterday and everyone 
 was enchanted with the portrait; only they were rude 
 enough to you to say that I am the image of you. 
 
 Last night, coming home in the train, I read a small 
 but very important paragraph in the Liberie: it said 
 that rumours were being spread that the Pope is moving 
 the European Powers to convene a conference, with 
 himself as president, arbiter or umpire, for the purpose 
 of trying to re-establish Peace. 
 
 The importance is this — the report is said to be spread 
 by Germany and Austria: if so, it means that they are 
 looking about to find a way out of the war, and to "save 
 their face" at the same time. I believe this to be fully 
 possible. Italy has come in against them: America 
 will break off diplomatic relations very soon now: Rou- 
 mania is on the point of coming in. Well, Austria and 
 Germany may very probably not want to wait for that: 
 Austria, at least, knows that for every State that comes 
 in agamst her she will lose a big slice of her empire; and 
 both Germany and Austria would much rather that the 
 plea for Peace came from the Pope than from them. 
 So I do not think this rumour an obvious canard. 
 
 Certainly our entering on the war with the tiny army
 
 196 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 we then had was a marvel of pluck. No wonder the 
 Emperor WilHam thought us foolhardy. He knew our 
 numbers very well, and he probably knew also that the 
 French army was unready. He has learned a lot since. 
 That England can make an army, and that France can 
 mend her faults, and get her army into trim. 
 
 About Sir J. F. and Sir H. Smith-Dorrien I will not 
 talk, because I never do talk about things of which I 
 know nothing. Those sorts of rumours do great harm 
 and the vulgar love to gobble them. 
 
 Of course, though I see no good at all in going home 
 for a few days, I want to be at home: I am not tired of 
 France, but I miss my home every day and all day long. 
 
 Honestly, I think the complete change and rest of a 
 sort (rest from literary production) will have added 
 years to my life, and given me, when I can work at 
 writing again, a new lease of literary power. I know I 
 was getting stale, and my memory and fancy have been 
 re-stored with an immense treasure-house of new ideas, 
 new characters, and new scenery. 
 
 Now I will bring this long letter to a close. 
 
 It is still pouring, but the storm rumbles in the far 
 distance. 
 
 I am truly delighted to think you are going to have 
 Alice again, even if only for a bit. 
 
 Best love to Christie. 
 
 Wednesday Night, June 2, 191 5 
 
 I HAVE just finished my solitary dinner, and now I am 
 going to chat with you — all about nothing in particular, 
 because there is nothing in particular to tell you. 
 
 Apart from the fact that my going to see F. is a great 
 kindness to him — he is very young for his twenty-three 
 years, and finds himself very lonely in the huge Paris 
 hospital — it makes a great change and relief for myself. 
 The work at the hospital here, though interesting and
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 197 
 
 important and useful, is monotonous, and often very 
 sad, to one whose heart has always been too soft; and I 
 have no friend here at all. I am truly attached to the 
 poor wounded soldiers, but even they are forever on the 
 move; the men who came last week are gone this, and 
 it is a ceaseless beginning again with strangers. . . . Well, 
 all this being so, I find it an immense rest and relief to 
 my mind and spirits to go and pass some hours with my 
 dear godson: and of course it makes it much nicer to 
 feel that my going sets a little island of happiness in his 
 big sea of loneliness. I said to him yesterday, "Why 
 did you choose me, an old man and a foreigner, for your 
 friend?" "I did not choose you," he answered quietly. 
 "God sent you to me very kindly in my great solitude. 
 But you are not old : nor will you ever be. Nor are you 
 a foreigner: your land is mine now, and mine yours.". . . 
 
 I regret to say it is getting hot again: but after six 
 cool days one is fresher for it: and, besides, the six cool 
 days cheered me up by showing that one need not really 
 expect months of unbroken heat, but that there will be 
 little refreshing gaps. Also I am very well, and the cool 
 days have taken away the tired feeling. 
 
 I hope you will have liked the little series of brown 
 portraits I sent you a day or two ago. They are in- 
 teresting and not common. The portraits of the Comte 
 de Provence (afterwards Louis XVIII) and of the Comte 
 d'Artois (Charles X) are charming, and so different 
 from the well-known portraits of them as elderly, heavy- 
 faced kings. They were both of them younger brothers 
 of poor Louis XVI — uncles of the little Dauphin called 
 Louis XVII. But the most charming is the portrait of 
 the Due d'Enghien as a boy: whom later on Napo- 
 leon I caused to be shot — the great crime, as it was the 
 great blunder, of his reign: which his mother and Jose- 
 phine begged him in tears not to commit. 
 
 Your letters seem to show that instead of growing 
 older you are growing younger, both in the handwriting
 
 198 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 and in the stuff! . . . Now I'm going to bed. So God 
 bless you and send you only happy dreams. 
 
 Friday Evenings June 4, 191 5 
 
 I DID not write this morning, because, for some reason, 
 I was told there would be no mail to England. But I 
 am writing now to have a letter ready for to-morrow's 
 post. 
 
 Your letters of Monday and Tuesday came yesterday 
 and to-day. 
 
 If Mr. Bonaparte Stubbs was a grandson of Jerome 
 Bonaparte he must have been so through Jerome's first 
 wife, an American called Patterson, whom Napoleon I 
 made him divorce, after which he married a daughter of 
 the King of Wurtemberg, and became himself King of 
 Westphalia. He was extremely handsome, and very 
 popular, though the most dissipated of all the Bonapartes 
 — in fact Lucien and Joseph were not dissipated at all. 
 He was by far the youngest of the Imperial family and 
 only died in i860, and I cannot quite understand his 
 grandson being old enough to marry in those far-away 
 days of which you speak. Have you King Jerome's 
 portrait ? 
 
 I send another sheaf of Napoleon portraits, some quite 
 new to me and very interesting. The three marked 
 with an O are, I think, glorious: the beauty of the face 
 so refined and noble. 
 
 Portraits of Eugene Beauharnais are not common. 
 He was much nicer than any of Napoleon's own family 
 and much more loyally devoted to him. He married 
 the King of Bavaria's daughter and they were very 
 happy, though she had hated being forced to accept him. 
 
 After a very hot day it is a lovely evening with salmon- 
 coloured mountains, that no Alpinist will ever climb, 
 hanging in a turquoise, green-blue sky. After coming in 
 from the hospital for tea I resolved to forego a walk in
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 199 
 
 the park and tackle neglected correspondence — which 
 I have been doing, seated in one of my open windows 
 whither I have dragged my table. Some French soldiers 
 are working in the garden. They never seem to make 
 their geranium-coloured trousers dirty! 
 
 Yesterday I went to see C. in Paris, and we again 
 went on the lake in the Bois, and landed on a pretty 
 island where we had tea. There was an "artist" paint- 
 ing, near a brake of rhododendrons. F. insisted on our 
 going to peep . . . you never saw such an appalling 
 mass of garish, absurd colours, and no likeness to any- 
 thing in heaven above, or the earth beneath. I fancy 
 he would consider himself an "impressionist," and he 
 certainly conveyed a strong impression of knowing 
 worse than nothing about painting. 
 
 They say my dinner is ready, and after it I shall go to 
 bed early — it is 8.30 now; for last night I wrote letters 
 till two in the morning, and have been very sleepy all 
 day. 
 
 Good-night, my dearest darling, and know that many 
 times every hour I think of you, and beg Our Lord to 
 fill my place at 3^our side while I am away, and of His 
 Mother to have you ever in her sweet and tender prayers. 
 
 At Mass I pray above all for you; and at every grace 
 before and after meals. 
 
 Monday y 10 a.m., June 7, 191 5 
 
 The letter you ask about duly arrived, and also the 
 miniature, which travelled in perfect safety and without 
 undue fatigue. You look quite at home on my wall here. 
 
 I send another batch of portrait-cards, including a 
 couple of bad hats. . . . 
 
 I had a funeral this morning at seven o'clock, so had 
 to be up early; I was glad they fixed it for that early 
 hour . . . for the heat is blazing. Saturday, yesterday, 
 and to-day have all been hot, but each much hotter than 
 the day before. All the same I have not suffered from
 
 200 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 it, which shows that I am all right in health: I suflFered 
 so much before because I was run down and weak. 
 
 The procession at the convent yesterday afternoon 
 was very pretty and touching: the park lovely. There 
 were crowds of wounded French soldiers, and some of 
 ours. Everyone, on coming away, received one of these 
 little prayers and medals, so I send you mine. 
 
 This is a mere scrap of a letter, but I want to get round 
 to the hospital and put in a good day's work. 
 
 Tuesday y 7 a.m., June 8, 191 5 
 
 I WONDER if chez vous the heat is as amazing as it is 
 here: if so I trust that you have at least a breeze to 
 freshen it. It is regular volcanic heat, and I am sure 
 there has been a huge volcanic dislocation somewhere: 
 all Saturday, Sunday, and Monday the air was filled 
 with a sort of haze that might be volcanic dust. All the 
 same I do not feel this burst of heat (which is much 
 worse) as I felt the last. 
 
 Yesterday was a quiet day and I was at work all the 
 time in the hospital, where it was really cooler than 
 outside; so virtue was its own reward. A lot of the men 
 were going off to England late at night and I had good- 
 byes to say; the men are always going and coming here. 
 
 I often praise French things to you, but one thing they 
 dont understand, and that is ink! I have never got 
 hold of a decent ink here. It is always dirty a few days 
 after you begin using it, clogging the pen, and besides 
 its colour is very poor, seldom really black, but a poor 
 brown. Nor is their stationery as good as ours; in fact 
 all the best comes from England. 
 
 This is a miserable apology for a letter: but yesterday 
 I saw no one (except the patients) and my brain is re- 
 duced to melted butter by the heat. I sleep with two 
 windows and two doors wide open, but still it is too hot 
 with one thin cotton blanket and a sheet.
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 201 
 
 I'm glad the anecdote about the Editor and Editress 
 made you cackle. Here is another (different) anecdote, 
 which made F. laugh. 
 
 A dear little boy of ten or so was bothering me a few 
 days ago to give him a medal. 
 
 **No," I said, "don't be greedy. I have given you 
 one." 
 
 "Then a little cross." 
 
 "No. I gave you one three weeks ago." 
 
 "Oh, but this time it is for my father, he is at home. 
 He has come home badly wounded ... a little cross 
 for him." 
 
 "No. But I am glad he is badly wounded. . . ." 
 
 "Glad, Monseigneur!!" 
 
 "Yes, very. He is very lucky to be badly wounded! 
 Last time you mentioned him he had been killed at the 
 battle of the Marne nine months ago. . . ." 
 
 Tableau: but boy quite undefeated. 
 
 Tuesday Evening, June 8, 191 5 
 
 No mail to-day, so I got no letter from you. Almost 
 every day I do get one: you are quite splendid about 
 writing. 
 
 To-day has had three climates! It began intolerably 
 hot: about eleven turned cloudy, windy, and compara- 
 tively cool; about two got hotter than ever; and about 
 seven turned completely cool again! And the French 
 have the "neck," as soldiers call it, to talk of the incon- 
 sistency of our climate. 
 
 To-morrow F. and I lunch with Lady Austin-Lee, and 
 go on to tea with the Duchess of Bassano, with whom 
 also we lunch on Saturday. 
 
 I forgot to thank you for sending the slip about old 
 Lady C. I can't honestly say that I think the world 
 will lose anything by her leaving it: nor do I think that
 
 202 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 
 
 she was at all good-natured, if you mean amiable; on 
 the contrary, she was full of spite. 
 
 Our old friend Miss Charlton (who only knew her by 
 hearsay) once said a very true thing about her: "If she 
 had only been of shaky morality she would have been 
 forgiven: but she was bad form as well." And so she 
 was — appalling. She would say things so indecent 
 that a footman would have been ashamed to utter them 
 to another footman. I certainly never did, or could, 
 repeat them to you: and indeed I have always been 
 rather ashamed of my visit to . 
 
 Our hospital is three-quarters empty for the moment, 
 we sent so many to England to-day; but no doubt it 
 will fill up again all too soon. 
 
 I wonder if you are having this stewing weather? I 
 hope not, for it is enough to knock the strongest person 
 up. Personally, I feel like a stewed rabbit. 
 
 Even since I began this letter (I have dined since) the 
 weather has changed again, and it is stifling. One hour 
 I have to wear my thick Norfolk jacket with a waistcoat, 
 the next a thin alpaca coat and — Monsignor under it. 
 The alpaca coat was in rags, but the French are splendid 
 menders and it is as good as new. I send my socks 
 (with holes as big as five-shilling bits in them) and they 
 come back quite new! 
 
 Though I grumble so about the heat (which is really 
 as bad as Malta) I don't feel it hadly this time. That is, 
 it does not knock me over or make me feel weary — only 
 healthily cross. F., who doesn't know what "cross" 
 means, is extremely puzzled; when I am in a bad humour, 
 he looks at me with gentle, troubled eyes, like a dog whom 
 one has told to "get out." I am really so ashamed that 
 it is teaching me to be less cross. It is a wonderful 
 gift, that gentle sweetness of disposition. 
 
 I am all of your opinion as to Pendennis — an in- 
 tolerable prig. (The rain is coming down in buckets, 
 Dieu merci.) Laura was much too good for him — indeed
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 203 
 
 the best of Thackeray's heroines, most of whom are 
 nincompoops. Still Thackeray is always worth reading 
 and I'm glad you are doing it. . . . 
 
 There is one very nice officer (doctor) here called 
 Chavasse, whom I knew up at the front, and I am so 
 troubled about him: he cut his finger deeply the other 
 day while operating on a gangrene case, and he went 
 straight and had the flesh of the finger cut out, but it 
 is not in a good way. Say a prayer for him. 
 
 Now I'm going to my bed, and so good-night, and may 
 "sweet dreams attend you" as young Agnes Meredith 
 used to say to me. . . . 
 
 Well, once more, good-night. 
 
 Thursday Afternooriy 4.30, June 10, 191 5 
 
 Your letter of Monday only arrived to-day, on the 
 third day; one or two recent ones have arrived on the 
 second day, but perhaps they caught the midday post, 
 and this last letter only caught the evening post. 
 
 It is only 4.30, but I have no intention of going out 
 again: there is a thunder-storm going on, very black 
 sky, with tall grey clouds standing slowly across it, tons 
 of rain falling; the lightning mostly rather distant. 
 
 So I shall stop here in my room, and write letters at 
 my window, while the garden outside gulps down the 
 rain. 
 
 To go back to yesterday: at twelve I caught the 
 electric railway to Paris and, lo, there was another big 
 thunder-storm going on. (I should think the Eifi^el 
 Tower is Lightning Conductor enough for all Paris.) 
 
 The rain had stopped when I reached the station called 
 Pont de I'Alma, where F. was waiting for me. It is on 
 the left bank of the Seine, and Lady Austin-Lee's house is 
 in the Avenue du Trocadero, just on the side; so we 
 crossed the bridge, and as soon as we got to the other side 
 it came down again in torrents, and we had to get into
 
 204 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 a taxi — to go about a hundred yards! It was a very 
 pleasant luncheon-party, though Sir Henry, whom I 
 like immensely, was over in London. We were six; 
 our hostess; a very nice American friend of hers, Comtesse 
 d'Osmoy, about thirty or thirty-two; a young English- 
 man called Gunnis; a very nice Captain O'Conor, who 
 talks French absolutely like a Frenchman; and F. and 
 F.! 
 
 Let us hope this thunder-storm, the longest and best 
 we have had, will really cool us down again. Do you 
 remember how I used to be upset by thunder-storms? 
 They made me quite ill and utterly miserable. I'm 
 glad to say that has quite gone, and I am no longer 
 upset by them. 
 
 That MS., "The Sacristans," that you sent to me, I 
 administered to the Catholic World of New York. . . . 
 
 I assure you I am quite delighted that you like these 
 portraits, and a few years ago one could not have got 
 them. If you have not already got your portrait album 
 let me find you one here or in Paris, they are cheap and 
 nice here. . . . 
 
 Yes, Josephine was sacrificed to Napoleon's ambition: 
 but it is fair to remember that she had never cared much 
 about him, and she was the only human being he ever 
 loved. During his earlier wars he was writing to her 
 almost incessantly, and always thinking of her, while 
 she was thinking of nothing but dress, gaieties, and 
 gallantries. He forgave her: but ever afterwards he 
 had a sort of cynical tolerance for her. Also, it is fair to 
 remember that their marriage was no marriage at all in 
 the religious sense — a mere civil contract during the 
 "Convention," when religious marriage was not the 
 fashion. And I do not think it was at all the loss of him 
 that Josephine minded, but the loss of her seat on his 
 throne. She did not do badly: he secured to her her 
 title of Empress and £100,000 a year pin-money, with a 
 splendid palace.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 205 
 
 The French (all except the Imperial family, who had 
 always detested her) disliked the divorce, because they 
 have always hated Austria, and the new Empress, Marie 
 Louise, was niece of Marie Antoinette: also because 
 they all thought Josephine was the Emperor's porte- 
 bonheur or mascot, as we call it — a word never used 
 by the French. And certainly Marie Louise was as 
 void of ''charm" as Josephine was full of it. 
 
 This afternoon I went for a stroll in the Little Trianon 
 where it was cool and shady; I have had much less time 
 lately for these walks, but going less often makes them 
 all the fresher, as each time one sees changes in trees, 
 flowers, and shrubs. There were hardly any people 
 there, and it was very quiet and peaceful. The lilacs, 
 azaleas, rhododendrons all out in blossom; the swans on 
 the lakes have all got a couple of little swanlets, white as 
 yet, to grow into ugly grey cygnets later on. 
 
 The birds, which used to be all singing when I came, 
 keep quiet now, busied about household matters; like 
 other matrons, they lay aside their youthful accomplish- 
 ments when they have a nursery to think of. 
 
 I saw some very small fly-catchers tackling very large 
 butterflies. 
 
 With best love to Christie and Alice. 
 
 Thursday Evening, June 17, 191 5 
 
 I AM only beginning this letter now, because F. is in 
 the room, at present very quiet (arranging medals I have 
 given him to give away again), but how long he will remain 
 quiet I do not know! If I told him to stay quiet he 
 would be as obedient as a little dog. But I do not want 
 to try his patience too far. 
 
 I must explain that we have very jew patients, and so 
 I am enjoying a sort of short holiday. 
 
 F, came to luncheon, and afterwards we drove — a 
 most charming drive — to Marly, St. Germain, Main-
 
 2o6 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 tenon, etc. I cannot say how much I enjoyed it, or how 
 much good it did me. It "changed my mind," and it is 
 always a dehght to me to find myself in the real country. 
 Versailles is charming, and the parks glorious, but it is 
 far from being country. 
 
 We drove first through a part of the Versailles park, 
 then got at once into real but very richly cultivated 
 country, with a few charming, old-fashioned villages. 
 Then by the very pretty, rustic, and richly-wooded 
 estate of Maintenon, bought by the "Widow Scarron," 
 which (being an old feudal property) gave her the title 
 of Marquise — the only one she ever held. For, being 
 the King's wife, she would accept no title but that of 
 Queen from him, and that one he swore to the Arch- 
 bishop of Paris, on the night of his marriage, never to 
 accord to her. 
 
 Maintenon is very calm and sweet, and I wonder if 
 the poor lady, during her thirty-two years of unqueened 
 wifehood to the most selfish old man on earth, ever wished 
 she were simply Marquise de Maintenon and nothing 
 more. 
 
 Then we got into the Marly forest, and soon reached 
 Marly village. The chateau and wonderful gardens 
 built and laid out by Louis XIV are all gone. But it is 
 still a fascinating place, with quaint, but lively old 
 streets winding down very steep hills, with marvellous 
 views of the wide champagne-country, like a wide sea. 
 
 Then we came to St. Germain, a sort of ancient 
 Windsor, all clustered round the splendid chateau, much 
 older of course than the chateau here, dating in fact 
 from Francois I: one side right on the town, the other 
 on the park with immense views. ... In the church 
 (of the town, just opposite the castle, not the castle 
 chapel) I visited the original tomb of James II, who died 
 in the chateau. Afterwards his body was removed to 
 the chapel of the Irish College in Paris. 
 
 Then we drove home by another road, by the Seine,
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 207 
 
 very pretty, but less country and empty than the way 
 we went by. So home here to tea. 
 
 I should never have been happy without seeing St. 
 Germain, and it is hard to get at from here by train. 
 So I saw it very pleasantly, in a comfortable motor, and 
 on a lovely day of sun and breeze. 
 
 You know that Louis XIII and Louis XIV had always 
 made St. Germain their country-house, till the latter 
 built Versailles; he never went back there, and gave it 
 to the English royal family with a very noble pension 
 sufficient to enable them to maintain their court there. 
 Louis XIV never neglected them, but treated them 
 always with affectionate attention and respect, never 
 during all those years omitting to go and visit them 
 twice each week. I am no fervent admirer of the Roi 
 Soleil, but he was really a gentleman in his treatment of 
 his brother king in adversity. 
 
 Well, my dear, there is no more to tell you. 
 
 It has been a pleasant, happy day; but very simple 
 and quiet. 
 
 I wished that I had a camera, there were so many 
 picturesque groups of French soldiers along the road, 
 such as no one ever dreams of photographing. 
 
 Ah, dear! You ask me when I shall come home.'' 
 Perhaps you think, sometimes, that I am so comfortable 
 here that I do not m^uch mind how long I may have to 
 stop. But the truth is, I dare scarcely think of the day 
 of release, and the real going home, for the home-sickness 
 it gives me. . . . Yes, it is funny your having to receive 
 your news of Winterbourne village from France. . . . 
 
 7 P.M., June 18, 191 5 
 
 I CAME in a couple of hours ago and found a letter 
 from Madame Gorsse, the poor mother of the young 
 soldier I told you of. I only met him once, but spent 
 long hours with him, and persuaded him to go to con-
 
 2o8 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 fession. Neither she nor I had any news of him since 
 May 8th, and I felt sure he was killed: she hoped he 
 might only be wounded, or a prisoner. Now she sends 
 me his last letter, written as he was dying, and entrusted 
 to a comrade. It is terribly pathetic: but the lad had 
 his senses to the end, and wrote in full consciousness of 
 his approaching death: quite a long letter, full of tender- 
 ness and love, and thought for her. Is it not touching 
 and wonderful that I, a stranger and foreigner who never 
 saw her, should be brought thus to share in her grief, 
 and be made by her a partner in it? Her own letter is 
 quite heart-broken, and to answer it has been a terrible 
 trial: I had to answer at once or I could not have done it 
 at all. Poor woman, she has one consolation that comes 
 of her own charity, which never fails to bring us help 
 . . . poor widow as she was, she adopted a little orphan 
 girl, and now she says the tenderness and love of this 
 girl is beyond all price. Now, dear, I will talk of things 
 not sad, but I had to tell you; I know your prayers will 
 go up to Our Lord for this desolate widow. 
 
 When I came in it was from visiting old' General de 
 Chalain, who lives far away at the other end of Versailles. 
 I had owed him a visit a long while. He was in, and kept 
 me waiting while he tidied up. So I studied the drawing- 
 room. There are plenty of good old pictures, some 
 good miniatures, a few bits of fine and beautiful old 
 furniture, but the whole room a howhng wilderness! 
 Very few French people understand how to make a room 
 look human; they have hardly any taste that way, 
 and often they do not inhabit their best rooms. 
 
 He is a good old fellow, very pious and courteous, 
 and I like him. The ladies never show . . . his sons 
 are at the front, and seem to have as many legs as centi- 
 pedes to judge by the number he reports them as having 
 recently lost each time I see him. Also he has tons of 
 nephews who get killed repeatedly — again to judge by 
 the way he represents half a dozen as having been killed
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 209 
 
 since my last visit. But he seems quite as much upset, 
 and more, by the bursting of a water-pipe in the hall 
 ''yesterday"; it had burst "the day before yesterday" 
 when last I was there. 
 
 The aviator Warneforde, who destroyed the German 
 Zeppelin the other day, and got the V. C. direct from the 
 King, was killed here last night while giving a display of 
 aviation. They say he was very careless, 
 
 I got your letter of Tuesday this morning, and it is 
 always a delight to me to get any of them. 
 
 I hope the cooler weather we are having has visited 
 you, too. I am quite warmly clad this evening, and do 
 not find it a bit too hot. 
 
 My room is full of roses, and so is the garden; the 
 soldiers' red "pantalons" show up among the bushes, as 
 they work, like gigantic masses of bloom! They are 
 very good workers, and seem to enjoy it: I wonder what 
 they think of all the while? Sometimes I ask, and they 
 say, ^' A la mort de Louis Seize," which is the French 
 phrase for "I'm not thinking of anything much." 
 
 As to my coming on leave I doubt if I could get it, and 
 should (if I did) have to regularly give up this post first 
 and wait till my "relief" arrived. At the end of leave 
 I should probably be sent back to the front, which I 
 should like and you wouldn't! 
 
 I am glad I gave you some new lights on the Empress 
 Josephine: no one who has read his letters can doubt 
 that her husband adored her — till he found out. He 
 never loved anyone else, though he was always a most 
 devoted, respectful son: and old Madame Mere, ex- 
 cellent as she was, was as hard as a tenpenny nail, a 
 mine of sense, and a good woman, but not of the sort 
 who care to be loved. Napoleon to the end stood be- 
 tween Josephine and his family, who all detested her — 
 I mean, especially, the women. She had gracious and 
 dignified manners, whith they could never learn: and 
 they were always indignant at having to carry her train,
 
 2IO John Aysco'Uglfs Letters to his Mother 
 
 on state occasions, etc. At her coronation, Pauline 
 tried, in carrying it, to trip her up, and nearly succeeded! 
 
 I have some natural history notes to send, from another 
 Country Life, but this letter is too fat for them. / am 
 not fat at all, as thin as an eel: which enables me to 
 skip about quicker. Lady Austin-Lee calls me the Boy 
 Scout. 
 
 The French have a passion now for adopting parts of 
 our uniform, and I live in terror of F. discarding his 
 lovely pale, soft grey-blue uniform, for bilious, mustardy 
 khaki, which will make him quite ghastly, with his 
 colourless face. 
 
 I bought some brilliantine to soften my dry and 
 rather stiff hair, but it made it canary colour, so I have 
 had to present it to my servant: it took furious washings 
 to get my hair white again. The other brilhantine they 
 offered me was a Chartreuse-green, which I thought 
 would be worse, though patriotic. 
 
 The man who cuts my hair adores the English, and 
 will try to talk it: all he can say is '"Ow you do? Good- 
 night."' 
 
 The Editor who used to lodge here calls repeatedly 
 to ask Madame Beranek to give him three pieces of 
 sugar: it must be a good deal of trouble, as he lives two 
 miles away; but he has a sweet tooth and his wife allows 
 him no pocket-money. 
 
 One of F.'s stories is as follows: long after his mother's 
 death he demanded of his widower father a little brother 
 to play with. "I don't keep them: it is Maman Rose" 
 (the village sage-femme). "Where does she get them.^" 
 "Out of pumpkins." 
 
 So Master F. trots off down the village, but Maman 
 Rose was out — conveying a pumpkin to some matron, no 
 doubt. However her cottage was open, and sure enough, 
 in her garden were lots of pumpkins, and F. brought 
 a knife from the cottage and cut them all open. When 
 he got home, deeply disappointed, he asked Baron C:
 
 John AyscougJjs Letters to his Mother 211 
 
 "Must they be ripe?" 
 
 "Must what be ripe?" 
 
 "The pumpkins. I cut them all open, but there was 
 no little brother in any of them." 
 
 It is ever so late and I must go to bed. So good-night 
 and God bless you. 
 
 Saturday Night, June 19, 191 5 
 
 Your letter of Thursday morning was in my hands at 
 breakfast this morning, Saturday, only forty-eight hours 
 after you were writing it. Excellent, eh ? My letters 
 are mostly written at night, and do not leave Versailles 
 till the following night, so they must always seem longer 
 on the way. 
 
 I knew you would be grieved to hear of my little 
 French soldier's death, now, alas, placed beyond all 
 doubt. He also is Fran9ois, like myself. ... I myself 
 have no misgivings as to the lot of either of those martyr- 
 lads for duty and for country. They are with the 
 Martyrs' King and tender Master. 
 
 F, came in this afternoon and stayed to dinner (so I 
 ate about three times what I do alone). He was very 
 interesting; there is a harmonium in this room, and he 
 played upon it old country songs of his far-away province 
 — Franche-Comte — and crooned the old words of 
 them: they are wonderfully tender, sweet and pathetic, 
 with a perfect, simple pathos. I beg him to make a 
 collection of them, music, words and all. The love 
 songs of these peasants are as pure and white as the 
 songs of little children: and the loveliest of all was a 
 love-song of two old folks, grandparents, crooned to each 
 other by the winter fire of the home whence children and 
 grand-children have gone forth to the battle-field, to the 
 altar, or to the church-yard rest. The highest heights 
 of pathos are touched in words the simplest and most 
 homely: no sentiment, only the everlasting realities of 
 human life.
 
 212 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 
 
 Do not think I have any melancholy fears or fore- 
 bodings. I have none. I am sure that Our Lord will 
 give us back to each other, and that we shall have long 
 happy days together soon. ... I am so glad that my 
 little account of the Duchess of Bassano's many interest- 
 ing possessions interested you, too. You will never 
 grow old, for you will never lose your interest in the 
 thousand things that make life so varied: whether they 
 be the fringes on the lovely robe of spring and summer, 
 winter and autumn, or the little links that make up the 
 inner chain of history. 
 
 Is it not sickening to see the hypocrisy of the German 
 Emperor, pretending to be hurt in his crooked soul at 
 the deaths of the innocent women and children at Karls- 
 ruhe! God knows I pity them: but he! He, who has 
 showered honours and decorations on men for doing 
 nothing else but send to their death innocent women, 
 and babies, and harmless village-folk, and helpless 
 travellers! I knew he was a cad and a butcher, but I 
 did not think he was a smug and barefaced hypo- 
 crite. . . . 
 
 Little Italy is doing finely, and I am delighted: her 
 spirit is as good as anyone's and brings new and eager 
 blood into our side. 
 
 I am oflF to bed: after the immense budget I sent you 
 to-day, you can do with a shorter letter to-night. 
 
 Best love to Christie and Alice. 
 
 Sunday Evening, 8 p.m., June 20, 191 5 
 
 Here I am writing at my open window (there are two); 
 it has been a delightful day, fresh, cool and vigorous 
 though sunny and clear. 
 
 After luncheon F, and I went for another little excur- 
 sion, and this time we took his godmother with us. It 
 was not a very distant one, and did not take long in 
 the motor, to Malmaison, the Empress Josephine's villa;
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 213 
 
 it really is not a palace in any sense, merely a good-sized 
 country house. . . . The rooms are not by any means 
 large, but look comfortable, and the furniture is excellent: 
 In the hall is the miserable little camp-bed that Napo- 
 leon I used at St. Helena, rather a sad relic: and a large 
 picture of his death there, over it: on the other side of 
 the hall is one of his thrones — a sharp contrast. I 
 need not remind you that it was at Malmaison that 
 Josephine received, from the mouth of her son Eugene, 
 the news that the divorce was really decided upon. 
 One of the cards I send shows a facsimile of her letter 
 "accepting" the divorce — there was a terrible scene 
 first, before she wrote it. 
 
 I was lucky enough to find at Malmaison cards illustrat- 
 ing two of the Duchess of Bassano's pictures, i.e., the 
 portrait of the King of Rome, by Sir Thomas Lawrence, 
 and the portrait of his father (as First Consul) begun by 
 David. 
 
 The little boy is utterly charming. Some other 
 Bonaparte portraits pretty well complete the family! 
 The one of Napoleon III is better than the only one I 
 could find for you here at Versailles. Also I found there 
 a card of Delaroche's superb portrait of Napoleon I, 
 
 There are many portraits at Malmaison of Josephine 
 and of the Emperor, and busts, too. The odd thing is 
 that some of the busts of the Empress are like Queen 
 Mary. . . . 
 
 There are some beautiful bits of tapestry, not large: 
 and plenty of Aubusson tapestry covering furniture — 
 it is priceless, and very delicate and lovely, but not 
 tapestry at all in the strict sense, because it is needle- 
 work, and true tapestry is woven on the loom, e.g. that 
 of Arras, Gobelins, etc. Josephine's harp is still there, 
 a very beautiful one: her work-table, her card-table, 
 her broidery-frame (very splendid and exquisite work- 
 manship). Napoleon's study, writing-table, etc. 
 
 It was at Malmaison that the Bonapartes used to be
 
 214 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 
 
 all together '' en famille" even after the Empire had been 
 proclaimed. (Josephine bought the little estate and 
 built the house in 1798; it had been a small Cluniac 
 Abbey.) 
 
 Of course it was much too small for the Bonaparte 
 crowd to sleep there: but even when the Imperial Court 
 was at the Tuileries (after he had changed the Con- 
 sulate into the Empire), he encouraged Josephine to dine 
 there almost every day in the week — every day when 
 there was not a state dinner or a state reception at the 
 Tuileries) and he came himself and expected all the 
 brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law, and sisters-in-law to 
 dine there, too. There v/ere plenty of bickerings, and 
 some of the sisters only went because they durst not 
 stay away. It was there that they all fell to squabbling 
 about the kingdoms they wanted, and Napoleon said, 
 "To hear you, one would suppose it was a question of 
 dividing the inheritance of the late King our father." 
 
 It is odd to stand in those rooms and picture it all: 
 to remember how often they echoed the shrill squabbles 
 of Elise and Pauline and Caroline, the stern voice of the 
 Emperor reducing them all to reason and obedience. 
 After Waterloo he came back for one last look at the 
 place: Josephine was dead — had died there on May 
 29th in the year before Waterloo — Marie Louise had 
 deserted his fallen fortunes, his son was taken from him, 
 and St. Helena was waiting for him. Everything was 
 gone: only the memories remained. We stood to-day 
 in the shadowed alleys where he stood, looking his last 
 good-byes. 
 
 It has none of the tragic interest, as it has none of the 
 royal grandeur of Versailles and the Trianons: but it is 
 more homely, and one can see still how it was built, not 
 by an Empress but by Citizen Bonaparte's wife, to be 
 cheerful and comfortable in — "out of her own money." 
 
 After the divorce the Empress lived there very quietly.
 
 John ^y SCO ugh' s Letters to his Mother 215 
 
 and pleased everyone by her simple acceptance of her 
 fallen state. She adored flowers and rare plants and 
 spent her hours in gardening. She was there when the 
 Allies entered Paris the first time, to stuff old Louis 
 XVIII's fat figure back on the throne of the Bourbons, 
 and it was there that the Russian Emperor Alexander 
 insisted on paying his respects to her, to the annoyance 
 of some of his meaner brother-sovereigns. When the 
 Allies came again, after Waterloo, she was dead. 
 
 It is veiy odd, the contrast between the Little Trianon 
 and Malmaison: the former so lovely and so haunted 
 by the terrible pathos of Marie Antoinette's story: the 
 latter very charming and full of singular interest, but 
 somehow quite missing all pathos. Of course Josephine 
 was only divorced, and never had her selfish head cut 
 off, she never had any martyr-days, and she had never 
 had half an ounce of religion. Still, I would not have 
 missed seeing Malmaison for anything — if only to make 
 me admire and love the Trianons more. I wonder if my 
 Versailles days are drawing to an end? The rumours of 
 our all moving to Calais are revived, and perhaps that is 
 the explanation of the emptying of our hospital. I 
 should like Calais, as being so near England. However, 
 we know nothing. 
 
 Well, it is bed-time again (dinner has come in between 
 the beginning and the ending of this letter). 
 
 There was no letter from you to-day, only one from 
 
 in which he says you gave him an "albumen.". . . 
 
 I hope it doesn't mean you have taken to shying rotten 
 eggs at him, as if he were an old-fashioned Election. He 
 has "halso 'ad some anxusty on accounce of his mother 
 who 'as not been well." You, however, are, he says, 
 "quiet well and Boney and the garden all wright thoghu 
 sufFreign from droughts. " I really must stop or I shall 
 be too sleepy to undress and my spelling will go the 
 way of 's. So good night :
 
 2i6 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 June 21, 191 5 
 
 For some reason best known to itself our post only 
 arrived late this evening, instead of at 7 a.m. Tuesday. 
 
 That is all I wrote last night! Then I was called to 
 dinner. Afterwards I tried to go on, but simply could 
 not, I was so sleepy. So I gave it up as a bad job. 
 
 All day yesterday I was sleepy, and tired too. The 
 weather, so fresh and delightful on Sunday, had turned 
 electric, burning, close, heavy and stifling: and so it is 
 going to be to-day. To-day the insupportable feeling 
 of fatigue has come back, but as it comes with the weather 
 so it will go with it, and we are plainly brewing up for a 
 thunder-storm. 
 
 F. spent all yesterday with me: very sweet, very quiet, 
 and quite cheerful, though grave; but alas, alas, I fear 
 his young life will be asked of him. The wounds even 
 externally are not all healed yet; but heart, lungs, and 
 other organs are injured internally y and I think the 
 doctors do not believe they can be cured. He is in no 
 present danger, but I fear his life will be very, very 
 short; we barely talk of it, but we must both of us be 
 thinking of it. To-day he has gone back to hospital: 
 not to Paris, but to the French Garrison Hospital here, 
 and only for ten days or so, when he hopes to get a "con- 
 valescence" of a month, in which case Mme. M. would 
 take him away to the seaside. 
 
 I got two letters from you this morning, Friday's and 
 Saturday's, both short, but both quite cheery and satis- 
 factory. ... I wonder if we are going to shift to near 
 Calais! No one knows, though we all rather suspect it. 
 I should like the old Dieppe feeling that it was only a 
 step across the water to you: and of course Calais is the 
 nearest point in France to England, really in sight. 
 
 You needn't be afraid of my going up in an aeroplane; 
 it is strictly forbidden to French pilots to take up a
 
 John Ayscough' s Letters to his Mother 217 
 
 passenger, and we have no English machines in these 
 regions. 
 
 I have not been to Paris since F. left it, and except to 
 go and pay digestive visits to the Duchess of Bassano and 
 Lady A.-L.: I don't see what's to take me there. So I 
 am not likely to be in at the Zeppelin visit from Germany. 
 
 I must sally forth to the hospital. 
 
 "June 22, 191 5 
 
 Your letter arrived this morning, begun when Alice 
 had just arrived. I am so glad she is back with you, 
 and I am sure her being there for a bit will cheer you 
 both up, and do you good, like a little change of air. 
 
 Strawberries have been going on here a long time, 
 but I did not tell you (i) because you like them and I 
 did not want to make you envious; (2) because I don't, 
 and I have hardly touched any. 
 
 Yesterday F, met me at the Pont de I'Alma station 
 and we went on directly to the Duchess of Bassano's. 
 In the train I gave him your gift, with which he was 
 delighted, and your letter, which I had to translate . . . 
 the passages about myself were a trial to my modesty, 
 but I did not mince them, as I hate mince. 
 
 By the way I had nothing on earth to do with his 
 conversion, and he was a Catholic before he knew of my 
 existence. The Duchess and her unmarried daughter, 
 Mademoiselle de Bassano — the one who is lady-in- 
 waiting to Princess Napoleon — made up our party of 
 four. I like them both. . . . 
 
 The house is very nice, and full of interesting things: 
 especially of splendid miniatures — a wonderfully in- 
 teresting and precious group of them, mounted together, 
 given to the first Duke of Bassano, all the potentates of 
 that time and all the Bonapartes, male and female: 
 two of Jerome, very fine, and also very handsome. 
 
 Besides there is an extremely interesting portrait, 
 merely begun (not a miniature, a large portrait in oils),
 
 21 8 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 of Napoleon I by David, when Napoleon was First 
 Consul, young and beautiful, for which he only sat ten 
 minutes! all the figure left unpainted. Besides, a most 
 beautiful original portrait in oils of the little King of 
 Rome, as a child of five or six; this by Sir Thomas 
 Lawrence. 
 
 Then splendid full lengths in oils of the first Duke and 
 Duchess of Bassano; she very beautiful, but with a 
 queer suggestion of Josephine, who never was beautiful. 
 Then splendid full-lengths of the Duke and Duchess 
 who were Maitre du Palais and Grande Maitresse du 
 Palais, to Napoleon III and the Empress Eugenie . . . 
 and tons of other interesting things: exquisite china — 
 a glorious dinner service of Sevres made for the first 
 Duke to Napoleon's order, and his gift to him. It was 
 a very pleasant as well as a very interesting visit. To-day 
 has been much cooler, because there is a fussy wind that 
 blows all my papers about the room. . . . Again this 
 afternoon I went for a stroll in the Little Trianon: but 
 crowds of Sunday folk, and I did not stay long. 
 
 Poor dear McCurry's mother has shown her gratitude 
 for my affection toward her poor lad by making and 
 sending me two large cakes! I could not help smiling 
 as I undid the parcel, but it was a very wistful smile: 
 poor, poor lady . . . oddly enough the queer gift brought 
 him specially to my m.emory, for I remember so well 
 how he used to receive her cakes, up at the front, and 
 would always bring the first piece to me. ... I must 
 write to her, which I will do as soon as I have dined, 
 which I am just going to do. 
 
 Ah dear! I have another poor mother to console — 
 one day, the first day I went to Paris, two months ago 
 nearly, I made friends with a young chasseur, who told 
 me he was leaving next day for the front. He told me 
 he had been wild, and I asked him if he would not go to 
 confession before starting. He said "No," but he wrote 
 from the front and said, "You, dear friend of a spring
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 219 
 
 afternoon, will be glad to know I have done what you 
 asked. I have been to confession and Holy Communion, 
 and persuaded others to do so. . . ." He had told me 
 all about his home life: he lived alone at home with his 
 widowed mother, who has no other boy or girl, and in 
 spite of his wildness was tender and loving to her. 
 
 He begged me to send him crucifixes and medals, 
 which I did — but alas, they never reached him. They 
 arrived after he was killed. Oh, my dear, you cannot 
 think how it hurt me, though we only met that once. 
 And his poor mother writes to me so pathetically of the 
 great love the lad had for his English friend seen that 
 once. I had sent him little things, a few shirts, socks, 
 chocolates, cigarettes, tinned potted meats, etc., as I do 
 to many others. 
 
 It is a perfect anguish to me to write to these mothers, 
 but it would be a selfishness beyond my depth not to. 
 
 Pray for her. 
 
 Wednesday y June 23, 191 5 
 
 Your letter written on Sunday arrived to-day, also 
 
 one from enquiring about a man who was in our 
 
 hospital for twenty-four hours five weeks ago. For- 
 tunately I could trace him, and found out he had un- 
 common little the matter with him. However, he 
 seems to have frightened his wife by tragic ideas of gas 
 poisoning. His real disorder was a swelling on a region 
 that I would, if Alice were a Frenchwoman, plainly 
 explain, and neither she nor I would be a penny the 
 worse; but as she is English, or, rather, Irish, I know 
 she would drop dead if I were to mention a part of the 
 human frame that the Almighty had the indiscretion to 
 
 create: and I have prudently mentioned that the sw^eUing 
 
 <' 1 1 " 
 was local. 
 
 We have just had the most helter-skelter rain-storm 
 
 I ever saw; tons of rain in a few minutes: and last even-
 
 220 John AyscougKs Letters to his Mother 
 
 ing it began to rain at six and went on all night — still, 
 it is as stuffy and muggy as ever. 
 
 I bought a tonic to-day, and it is so good I should like 
 to be lapping it up all the while. 
 
 You and I will never agree about the longest day! 
 I hate summer and am always glad to think that even 
 the first step towards winter has been taken. I suppose 
 it is a question of health, and I am worth ten times 
 my summer value in winter. 
 
 I am quite curious to see the pocket handkerchief- 
 case you have made for Lady Austin-Lee: I will go in to 
 Paris on purpose to administer it to her. . . . 
 
 This is a frightful letter, but the truth is I can scarcely 
 write; I am so heavy and sleepy. 
 
 Saturday Night, June 26, 191 5 
 
 I AM almost quite well again! The day has been 
 thoroughly fresh and cool (a hot sun, of course), and 
 perhaps that has helped a good deal. Anyway I am 
 practically as well as ever, and the weakness almost 
 gone: that is perhaps partly due to my excellent tonic. 
 I have been out a good deal to-day, which also did me 
 good. 
 
 F. turned up about eleven and we went off to the Park; 
 walked up to the chateau, where I showed F. the chapel, 
 the Queen's apartments (with all their glorious tapestries), 
 the Galerie de Glaces, and the immense Gaieties de 
 Batailles. He really enjoyed it immensely, though he 
 is not in the least a sight-seer (like me) by nature. It is 
 always rather a joke with the French that the English 
 are such furious sight-seers. 
 
 We have heard no more of our move, and having 
 received new convoys of wounded makes it less likely. 
 
 Excuse a brief, and very dull letter. My head feels 
 woolly I
 
 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 221 
 
 Thursday Eve7i{ng, 7 p.m., July i, 191 5 
 
 I SEND you a whole bundle of cards. When I was at 
 the front I remember describing to you the great Castle 
 of Pierrefonds, which we passed on a blazing day of 
 late August or early September: and I have, ever since, 
 been trying to get cards of it. It belongs to the Empress 
 Eugenie, and was bought for her by Napoleon III, who 
 restored it, for it was quite ruinous. It is perhaps the 
 most magnificent of all the ancient feudal castles of 
 France. The Empress, when she travels, always calls 
 herself Comtesse de Pierrefonds, just as old Queen Vic- 
 toria's incognito title was Countess of Balmoral. I 
 hope you will admire the cards: they really give a good 
 idea of the vast and imposing character of the castle, 
 as of its beauty; they only fail to give (on account of 
 their smallness) the idea of the magnificent situation, 
 towering up above the town and above a billowy forest- 
 country. 
 
 I went in to Paris and lunched with Lady Austin-Lee 
 and Sir Henry: there was no one else, and Lady A.-L. 
 was very nice. She is thoroughly pleased with your 
 gift, and praised its beauty and its wonderful workman- 
 ship. 
 
 Tell Christie that Sir H.'s brother, who died suddenly 
 last year, was for many years Rector of Guernsey, and 
 I am sure she knew him. Sir Henry owns a little island, 
 called Jethou, that I remember very well, just opposite 
 St. Peter Port at Guernsey. And he remembers well 
 the Maisonette where Christie lived: his own sisters 
 lived in a house close to it. 
 
 We keep getting new batches of wounded in, so the 
 talk of our all moving oft' to Calais has died out again. 
 Among the wounded I was chatting with to-day was a 
 young Jew! One very rarely comes across Jews in the 
 army, and as there is no Hebrew chaplain here I thought 
 the lad might Hke to be talked to, and so he did. He
 
 222 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 is very well educated, of the upper middle-class, his 
 mother, a widow, living in Hampstead: his name Ett- 
 linger. I asked him if he was a good Jew, and he said 
 "No, I'm afraid not: but my mother is." He has only 
 been out here nine weeks, and has a bullet through his 
 thigh. I asked him what he dishked most in the trenches, 
 and he said, "The flies.". . . Can't you imagine them.^ 
 
 In the next bed was a Canadian, one of my own chick- 
 ens (rather past the spring-chicken stage, being forty- 
 four years old). After giving him prayer-books, rosaries, 
 etc., he asked my name and I told him. "Oh, I know 
 it well," he said, "and often read your books. You're 
 John Ayscough." 
 
 While I was out to-day, someone called, and Madame 
 Beranek said it was a Mrs. Ong-ding-dong. I fancied 
 some Chinese lady must have called, but when I found 
 the cards they were those of a Mr. and Mrs. Huntington: 
 some relations, I suppose, of Constant Huntington, 
 the American publisher. A very old lady, Mme. Ber- 
 anek says. I asked if the lady was English and she 
 said, "Quite the contrary. Entirely American." 
 
 I showed the Duchess of Bassano your miniature, and 
 she said we are exactly alike. 
 
 I think I must go to bed. This is an uncommonly 
 drivelhng letter, and I should advise you to read it if 
 you feel unable to sleep; it ought to act like magic. Every- 
 one else is in bed, and the blameless snores of M. Beranek 
 through the house protest against the use of lamp-oil 
 at this late hour. 
 
 So good night, and God bless you all. 
 
 Saturday Evening, "July 3, 191 5 
 
 I WAS talking to one of my men in hospital, and the 
 man in the next bed, when I got up to go on to someone 
 else, said, "Good afternoon. Father." 
 
 "I didn't know you were a Catholic."
 
 John Ayscoiigh's Letters to his Mother 223 
 
 "Well, I'm not, but I ought to be. My father and 
 mother were: but they died and I was brought up b}^ 
 my granny in Wales, and there was no Catholic church, 
 and I went to a Protestant church and school." 
 
 "The first recollections I have," said I, "are of Wales. 
 I went there at about two years old and left it when I 
 was five or six. Llangollen was the name of the little 
 place where we lived." 
 
 "And that was where I Hved." 
 
 Wasn't it odd? And we had great talks; about the 
 Dee, and the Barber's Hill, Dhinas Bran (sic.^) the 
 Eghosygs (sic.^?), Valle Crucis Abbey, the Chain Bridge, 
 etc. But what seemed to me most odd, was he knew 
 quite well the house where the Stewarts lived, and says 
 that two Misses Stewart live there still: our old friends 
 Grace and Jessie, I suppose. He called the house by its 
 name (long forgotten by me) and I recognised it at once, 
 but it has again slipped away out of my head : I will ask 
 him again to-morrow and write it down. 
 
 I had another chat with my young Jew, and asked him 
 what they gave him for breakfast — the usual thing is 
 a very large hunk of bread and butter with excellent 
 bacon. 
 
 "Oh," he said, laughing, "I have got uncommonly 
 fond of bacon: and if Moses saw our clean-fed English 
 bacon he w^ouldn't mind." 
 
 I'm afraid he's not a very correct Jev/, for he says 
 synagogue bores him frightfully, as it is all in Hebrew, 
 of which he doesn't understand a syllable. 
 
 I'm so glad you got out in the bath-chair and enjoyed 
 it: I tried to picture the plain and almost failed: I've 
 seen so much France lately, and it is so different. But 
 I don't care for France a bit, much as I love the French. 
 I love England, and our plain, quite apart from any 
 affection I have for people there. Versailles is a charming 
 place, but I've no more affection for it than the first 
 day I saw it.
 
 224 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Of course "Orley Farm," which you are reading, 
 belongs only to Trollope's second or third group, but as 
 a novel I think it ranks fairly high in that lower grade. 
 
 It is bed-time and when I go early to bed I sleep; 
 if I sit up late I lie awake for hours. 
 
 Give my best love to Christie and Alice, and tell them 
 how I should like to be where they are. 
 
 Monday, July 5, 191 5 
 
 Yesterday I had to attend a Kermesse for the hos- 
 pitals: it was at Chaville, a few miles out of Versailles, 
 in a pretty place. The heat was amazing — one felt like a 
 hot-water melon in a cucumber-frame, and the crowd 
 didn't make it any cooler. The prices were all exorbi- 
 tant, just as in an English bazaar, whereas at Countess 
 Missiessy's Kermesse they were most moderate. My 
 soldier servant observed grimly, " You can't open your 
 mouth here under three francs!" He is rather a char- 
 acter: if I scold him for anything he always has some 
 disease or pain which / have recently had; the argument 
 being, of course, "Come! I pitied you when you had it 
 . . ," On Saturday he walked off with the key of the 
 chapel in the hospital, and gave me a lot of trouble 
 sending all over the place for him. I began to " wash 
 his head," and he said, "Oh! I have such frightful dys- 
 entery, just like you had last week." 
 
 Yesterday he left all the electric Hght burning in the 
 chapel, in broad daylight: when I expostulated he said, 
 "Oh! I have such dreadful toothache — just like you 
 had two months ago." 
 
 To return to the Kermesse; Madame JofFre, wife of 
 the Commander-in-chief of the Allied Armies, was there, 
 treated with great pomp: she was sitting close to me. 
 
 There was a concert, alfresco, and some very good things 
 at it. Two famous actors sang and recited; and another 
 less famous professional actor sang some very touching
 
 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 225 
 
 little war things — one made me weep! It was all a sort 
 of patter song, but represented a letter written by a 
 child to his father whom he supposes to be still alive 
 in the trenches, begging him to come home quick, every- 
 thing so changed at home. "Maman wears ugly black 
 clothes, and only cries," and "the other children in the 
 street who play with me give me a new nickname, though 
 they won't say what it means — 'orphan.'" A lady, 
 Madame Thirard, sang seven or eight Old French songs, 
 quite exquisitely, her voice and training simply magnifi- 
 cent: though she was not professional. My servant 
 is clumping about, trying to make me give him my 
 letters, and nearly driving me mad. His boots weigh 
 hundred-weights and the noise they make on this parquet 
 is appalling. I must stop or I shall assassinate Rifleman 
 Wilcox with a nail-scissors. 
 
 July 5, 1915 
 
 I AM going to fire off my letter to you, but without 
 much knowing what to put in it. 
 
 It is almost cold sitting at my window; there has been 
 a hot enough sun all day, and when one was walking 
 about one did not fail to feel hot: but the wind is so strong 
 and fresh that after sitting still for a while it is almost 
 more than cool: so I am freshened up: though, as I have 
 already remarked several times, the recent goes of heat 
 have never tired me like the first; because my health 
 is quite all right again. 
 
 This afternoon I had a long talk with a young wounded 
 Scotch officer. Not a Catholic; but a Presbyterian, a 
 son of Lord Balfour of Burleigh. He was shot straight 
 through the head, just under the eyes, from one side of 
 the cheek bone to the other: he seems doing well, but 
 cannot use his eyes much. He seemed glad to have me 
 to talk to, and I stayed over an hour with him. He was 
 at Balliol and is a man of books and literature. It 
 was rather funny, I had just before been talking down in
 
 226 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 the wards to another young Scotsman, a charming lad 
 of eighteen, also Presbyterian, and I told Mr. Balfour 
 about him. "Do you know where he is from, and his 
 regiment?" he asked. "Yes, from P'alkirk in Stirling- 
 shire, and he is in the Argylls." "Good gracious, Mon- 
 signor!" Mr. Balfour exclaimed, "what an ear you 
 must have! You answered me exactly in the Stirling- 
 shire accent." 
 
 I told him that I found it much easier to talk in Scots 
 dialect than in Irish brogue, though I am half Irish, 
 and have never set foot in Scotland. 
 
 He is really nice, and clever, too, and he won my 
 heart by praising my Royal Irish Rifles whom he had 
 come across at the front. He said they were quite charm- 
 ing; and, as a rule, Scotsmen don't appreciate the Irish. 
 
 (Here's a young French soldier come to see me, so I 
 must finish after dinner). 
 
 9.30 P.M. 
 
 He stayed till 8.45, then I dined and read, and now 
 back to my letter. I happened to read during my little 
 lonely meal the part of David Copperfield where his 
 aunt bids him be patient with "Little Blossom" and not 
 try to worry her into being something she could never 
 be: oddly enough this pricked my own conscience about 
 F.; I am always trying to make people have my own 
 tastes, when after all they only are tastes, and others 
 have just as much right to theirs. I am energetic, 
 hating to be a moment without definite occupation, 
 eager to be reading, or writing, or learning something: 
 and I think I have been tormenting him to be the same, 
 when it is not his nature, and when he, poor child, is 
 broken down in health and hope. Perhaps I have half 
 reproached him with causing me to be idle, when really 
 there is no idleness in helping and comforting one who is 
 lonely and needs help and comfort. 
 
 I feel sure that this lesson God has sent me, bidding
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 227 
 
 me be more patient, and learn from /?m, for the boy has 
 a gentle sweetness of heart that is far beyond me. He is 
 never sharp, or sarcastic, never says a cutting thing to 
 wound. 
 
 Well, to go on. 
 
 I have not thanked you for the dear little silk bag of 
 lavender, which I keep close to me: smelling of home and 
 our little quiet garden, and made by you for me. But 
 you may be sure I shall keep it, lovingly, till we meet. 
 
 Talking of my sharp tongue: it's a pity it does not grow 
 out of my heart instead of my mouth! My heart is 
 neither cold nor hard, nor bitter; but my tongue is, 
 and it often "pique" as they say here — "pique comme 
 les moustiques." It happens sometimes that I speak 
 sharply because I am so sad. I have suffered so many 
 hurts during this agony of war — if I were a coward, 
 which I know I'm not, I should long ago have said, 
 "Never make a new friend: the war will hurt you in 
 him, kill him for you." But that meanness I do refuse, 
 and God sends me almost daily a new friend — and, 
 then, some day, comes the news that one of these friends 
 has been killed; and it makes me so sore that all my 
 heart is sore, and, to hide tears, I speak with a quick 
 sharpness. O dear! And all the time I can be gentle, 
 only it is more trouble; as for poor F. I know I could 
 easily so wound him that he would just give it all up 
 and despair of pleasing me. He does not know how to 
 "let fly back" or reproach. He is very shy and sen- 
 sitive. 
 
 When he was a tiny child his father was angry with 
 him and said, "You had better go to your uncle. I 
 don't want you here." And he took it silently, seriously, 
 and walked off, not to his uncle's, because he was ashamed, 
 but away in the night into the mountains. It seemed 
 to him impossible to stay where he was not wanted. 
 And at twenty-three he would do much the same now. 
 
 Also when he was tiny a cousin of his stole some money
 
 228 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 from Baron C, and the Baron accused his son of it. 
 "I do not steal," was all he would say; and his father 
 beat him, and he was broken-hearted to be thought 
 capable of stealing. But he would not explain, though 
 he guessed. At last, after days of disgrace and bread and 
 water for him, his aunt, the cousin's mother, herself 
 found out who had stolen, and went to his father and 
 told him. 
 
 "I," said I, "should never have forgiven him; not for 
 the beating, but for thinking me, his son, a thief." 
 
 "But," said F., "my father cried; and it seemed fear- 
 ful to me that he should cry about me. Of course I 
 forgave him in a minute. Only I was ashamed, because 
 he begged my forgiveness, and sons are not to pardon but 
 to be pardoned." 
 
 Well, it is bed-time, and I want to try and get to sleep 
 early: I always get up rather early, and when I sit up 
 late I do not soon get to sleep: when I go early to bed 
 I sleep almost at once. 
 
 Give my best love to Alice and Christie: I have none 
 to give you, because you have had it all these fifty-seven 
 years. 
 
 Monday Evening 
 
 It was only this morning that I wrote to you, but I am 
 beginning again instead of waiting for to-morrow morn- 
 ing, for the reason I have so often given you — that when 
 I do put it off till the morning I am constantly called 
 away, or interrupted. 
 
 This morning I had barely finished writing to you 
 when F. walked in, whom I had not expected to see 
 to-day at all. The doctor in charge of his hospital had 
 invited us both to luncheon and he had come to march 
 me off. The doctor's name is de Grande Maison, whose 
 son, Richard de Grande Maison, I have known for some 
 weeks.
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 229 
 
 We lunched with Dr. de Grande Maison at a restaurant 
 and got on very well: but I left most of the talking to 
 them. Sometimes I get fierce attacks of laziness and 
 don't feel inclined to expose my queer French, or expose 
 myself to queerer English; then I fall into brilliant flashes 
 of silence. However, when we parted the doctor said 
 I must come and lunch with him ''in the chest of his 
 family." 
 
 Then F. went home to his hospital and I went to mine 
 to do a little work among the wounded and sick. The 
 Llangollen man has gone away and I could not ask him 
 to tell me again the name of the Stewarts' house — 
 was it Aber-dy-coed .? It was something hke that, I'm 
 sure. 
 
 A soldier who works in the garden here (one of the 
 sixty who sleep in the barn) has only one eye; and I 
 asked him if it was the Germans who had deprived him 
 of the other. He said. No, he had lost it long ago; 
 when he was a baby, a wasp had stung it out! I think 
 that sounds almost worse than a bullet. 
 
 Next Sunday there are going to be Grandes Eaux in the 
 park and gardens, that is to say, all the thousands of 
 fountains are going to play — for the first, and perhaps 
 the only time during the war. It is a great sight, and 
 if it isn't too hot I shall certainly go and see it. You 
 remember my telling you about a young Scotsman whose 
 accent I reproduced so well to young Balfour of Burleigh 
 that he was rather impressed by the excellence of my ear? 
 Well, he wasn't a Catholic — on the contrary an excel- 
 lent Presbyterian! But he wrote me such a dear little 
 letter from Scotland to thank me for my kindness, and 
 to-day comes another — I sent him one of those post- 
 card portraits in uniform. "It was kind of you to send 
 it," he says, "and my, it could be no hker you. I let 
 two of the chaps that were in Versailles see it, and we all 
 love it, because you were so kind and true. ..." I 
 think that "true" such a nice expression.
 
 230 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Friday y 2 p.m., July 9, 191 5 
 
 I HAD again put off my letter to you till this morning, 
 and just as I began, before going round to the hospital, 
 a young PVench officer came to find me, sent by that 
 Colonel Comte du Manoir who was Commandant d'Armes 
 at Dieppe. My visitor is called Lieutenant Tabourier, 
 a very nice young fellow, extremely well-bred, but oh, 
 so ill! He has been invalided down from the trenches, 
 suffering from gastro-enteritis, and it is a chronic sort that 
 will keep him ill for ever so long. He looks like a skele- 
 ton chicken^ and is evidently so weak he can hardly move 
 about. It seems he can eat nothing, digest nothing, 
 not even milk. 
 
 However, he can talk, and did so. He is devoted to 
 England and the English, and has been a good deal in 
 England. He is a little thing, as short as I am (only 
 much less of him) and he rather touched me, he looked 
 so wistful as he spoke of his ruined health. He lives 
 here with his mother, who has taken a house to be near 
 another soldier son in garrison here. 
 
 Yesterday afternoon I returned the call of the Ong- 
 ding-dongs, but saw no one; the maid said Madame 
 was in but invisible. Their staircase smelt vehemently 
 of cats. 
 
 Why do you spell Ayscough without the "y"? As- 
 cough.^ I notice you always do, and it makes me laugh 
 that you shouldn't know your own son's name. 
 
 Monday Mornings July 12, 191 5 
 
 A NEW lot of wounded and sick came in yesterday, 
 but not a very big lot — two hundred and eighty. There 
 were very few Catholics among them, the largest pro- 
 portion being Presbyterians. 
 
 In the afternoon I went to the Park to see the Grandes 
 Eaux, but I thought the vast crowd more interesting than
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 231 
 
 the fountains. Of course there was no crowd, for no 
 conceivable number of people could crowd those vast 
 gardens and terraces. I should say there were at least 
 thirty thousand soldiers only — apart from the civilians 
 — and of these many were wounded. A French crowd 
 is not a bit like an English one; there is no jostling, 
 or hustling, no horse-play or noise: and not a hint of 
 anyone the worse for drink. 
 
 The gardens looked charming; with immense numbers 
 of flowers blown out since my last visit to them. 
 
 After all, I did not stay very long: it seems to me you 
 can't go on staring at fountains playing, and as for walk- 
 ing about the park and gardens I prefer doing that when 
 they are nearly empty. So I trotted home, had my tea, 
 and went back to do a little work in the hospital. Then 
 home, where I began reading again George Meredith's 
 "Ordeal of Richard Feverel" which I had not read for 
 twelve years. 
 
 Of course it is brilliant; but it is restlessly so, uneasy, 
 and one feels as if the author, while telling his story, was 
 letting off fireworks round your head all the time. I 
 will send it on for you to read. 
 
 I think "Can you Forgive Her.?" very good. What 
 excellent characters old Lady Macleod, the old Squire, 
 Kate Vavasor, and Planty Pall are — so, too, is Lady 
 Glencora, though (like you) I want to box her ears. 
 And the minor characters are excellent also — The 
 Marchioness, Lady Auld Reekie, the Misses Palliser, 
 Alice's father, Geoffrey Palliser — all as good as pos- 
 sible: and Aunt Greenow perfect. The great failure is 
 Mr. Grey: he is terribly good and I don't wonder Alice 
 didn't want to marry him, and be bottled up with him 
 and his housekeeper in Cambridgeshire. She ought 
 to have married Geoffrey Palliser. George Vavasor is 
 appalling, but all the same he is splendidly drav/n — 
 too well for one's comfort: he gives me the "creeps" 
 even to read of.
 
 232 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 Your letter of Friday came this morning: I am so 
 glad you are getting the high comb: it shows you are 
 interested in your mantilla! . . . 
 
 F. being away makes me realize fully how awfully 
 tired I am of Versailles, and of being in France at all. 
 I like the French immensely, and love the French soldier, 
 but oh! I am homesick! You see I am odd. I only 
 care to have friends, and acquaintances bore me to ex- 
 tinction. And very often French bores me. I long to 
 talk in a language in which I can talk: and I want my 
 own things around me, our own fields to look out on, my 
 own roof over my head. Though I must confess I like 
 the French people much better than the Wiltshire villager. 
 
 Now I must go to the hospital and so good-bye. 
 
 Monday Night, July 12, 191 5 
 
 To-day it has been fresh, almost cool, i.e. the air 
 has really been cool, only the sun has been hot, and when 
 one had been moving about quickly one got hot enough 
 — because in addition to the warm sun the air here is 
 always moist. I should not care to live at Versailles at 
 all, because I am sure I should never feel energetic here, 
 at least in summer. I really don't know what I am 
 going to make a letter out of — I have done nothing, 
 outside the routine of the hospital, and seen nobody 
 except the hospital staff and patients. I asked the 
 matron, who is a very nice woman, what she thought 
 of the Grandes Eaux yesterday, and she was, like myself, 
 a little disappointed: I told her of a remark I overheard 
 a French soldier make, and she said it was extremely 
 descriptive, though not very refined! I must tell you 
 that I was standing near the Fountain of Latona, the 
 design of which resembles an enormous wedding-cake. 
 At the top, in the centre, is Latona; around the top tier 
 are bronze frogs gilt, and around the next tier bronze- 
 gilt tortoises, around the next bronze-gilt alligators. We
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 233 
 
 were all waiting for the water to come gushing and 
 spouting out of all their open mouths. But instead of 
 beginning with a fierce gush it began with a slobbering 
 dribble. "Poor frogs," said the soldier, "they are 
 weak: they can hardly be sick." This morning I went 
 for a little turn in the gardens and thought how much 
 nicer they were with not a soul in them. The flowers 
 looked charming, and the beds and borders are arranged 
 with such taste and simplicity. 
 
 On Thursday night young Vicomte de Missiessy is 
 coming to dinner, and I am dining with his people another 
 night. He is now a soldier, having become eighteen 
 a month ago, and is in a dragoon regiment here. He is 
 a very nice lad, extremely well-bred as well as being nice- 
 looking. Comtesse de Missiessy is charming, of Mrs. 
 Lawrence Drummond's type, as I remember telling you. 
 She is Belgian, but her husband French. I shall ask 
 Chavasse (of our hospital), F., and young Lieutenant 
 Tabourier to meet him. Chavasse doesn't talk much 
 French, and de Missiessy and Tabourier both talk 
 English. Chavasse is the officer who blood-poisoned 
 his finger some weeks ago. He is better, but not well 
 yet; it is funny his talking no French, for I suppose he 
 is French — at all events, Chavasse is a purely French 
 name. 
 
 I see the Emperor William has announced that there 
 will be no winter campaign, i.e.., that the war will be over 
 before the winter. I hope he will prove right, but it 
 doesn't depend on him, as he wants Germany to think. 
 
 . . . The nun who sends the St. Joseph's Lilies asked me 
 to note what the American poet, Joyce Kilmer, who was 
 converted by "Gracechurch," says of me in it. What 
 does he say? 
 
 Saturday Nighty July 17, 191 5 
 
 I HAVE just come in from another longish walk, and 
 again feel much better for it; even when one comes in
 
 234 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 tired from walking — unless it should be a walk alto- 
 gether too long — it is a good sort of tiredness, and does 
 one no harm. One rests and it is gone. What I hate is 
 the feeling of tiredness when one has done nothing; and 
 as to that I am ever so much better. 
 
 F. and I went in to Paris this morning, and lunched with 
 Lady Austin-Lee. . . . She asked me to give her 
 luncheon here on Tuesday, and I have asked Com- 
 tesse de Missiessy to come and meet her. After lun- 
 cheon she had to go out with Princess de Moskowa, 
 grand-niece of Napoleon I, and I went and did a little 
 shopping. 
 
 I am very glad that Ver's tiny holiday did him good, 
 and you must ask him again. I think the Manor House 
 is a peaceful spot, and I think an antidote to the war- 
 microbe whereby we are all devastated. What a bore 
 for Christie and Alice that the old church is being closed 
 (like a club) for alteration and repairs: it is so near and 
 so homely. 
 
 Yes, I was amused at M. G. finding you "deffer," as 
 he seems to have tried very Httle to grapple with your 
 dephness. There are none so dumb as those who have 
 nothing on earth to say. I think next time he comes 
 you and he had better correspond across the table, as 
 you and Mr. Gater used to do. 
 
 There was once an old Lord William Compton who was 
 absolutely ^' def and would use no sort of trumpet, 
 but he kept a slate on his table and his friends had to 
 write on it: he was very impatient, and watched what 
 they were writing, to guess from the beginning of the 
 sentence what the whole of it would be; and he would 
 not let them put in all the little words, articles, prepo- 
 sitions, etc. One day Lady Northampton wanted to 
 tell him that the Queen (Victoria) was perhaps going 
 to take a cruise to Madeira. She only got as far as 
 "Queen perhaps going Mad," when he snatched the 
 slate out of her hand and shouted:
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 235 
 
 *' Don't tell me! She's as sane as you are, though 
 George III was her grandfather!" 
 
 You'd be just like that if you had a slate, so I hope 
 you won't start one. 
 
 My soldier-servant has been boxing every night this 
 week in a tournament, and last night was the final; 
 he came off best of all, and won the "purse" — also he 
 obtained two black eyes, not very black. Oddly enough, 
 before he was my servant, he was poor Richard Eden's — 
 Lady Auckland's elder son, whom you remember as a 
 small boy at Plymouth. He was killed some months 
 ago at the front. He was about twenty or twenty-one. 
 So the younger brother, whom his mother brought to 
 see us, will be the next Auckland. 
 
 Madame Beranek announced three-quarters of an 
 hour ago that my dinner was ready: so I'd better go 
 and eat it. Good night. 
 
 Sunday Evenings July 18, 191 5 
 
 It has been an excellent day, fine, but fresh, and now 
 it is heavenly; still cool, but with a clear, cloudless sky, 
 pale forget-me-not blue at the zenith fading down from 
 lavender to faded rose-leaf tint at the horizon; the 
 swallows flying miles high — almost among the aero- 
 planes! 
 
 I know you hate the black sort of day you describe in 
 the letter that came from you to-day, wet, cold, dark: 
 but honestly I don't. I can't pretend that it is the 
 weather I should choose for a long march in khaki, 
 without umbrella or mackintosh: but for an indoors 
 day I like it — it makes me feel pleasant, homey, and 
 sheltered! They laughed at me here the other day 
 because the weather was just like that, and everyone 
 was saying "How miserable!" but I could not pretend 
 to agree, and confessed I liked it. "It's like England," 
 I declared.
 
 236 John Ayscouglfs Letters to his Mother 
 
 From 12.45 fo 3-15 — <^wo hours and a half — I walked 
 to-day, and it did me tons of good. I walked nearly 
 all over the park, through woody places I had not visited, 
 and all round the Grand Canal to the Big and Little 
 Trianons, through them both, and so out by the gate 
 near our hospital, where I went in and did some visiting, 
 my young Jew among others. 
 
 Then home to tea: and that's all my doings. How 
 can I make you a letter of such monotonies .f* I am ever 
 so much better, and feel stronger every day: it has never 
 been very hot quite lately: and that has given me a 
 chance of recovering my strength. 
 
 . . . Lord Glenconner's son at the Dardanelles sends 
 good news, and is so far safe and sound: they are very 
 happy about the marriage — engagement, I mean: 
 the marriage is to be in August. The bridegroom, who 
 is in the 2d Life Guards is a son of a Yorkshire squire. 
 
 . . . Mme. Beranek says I 'm to go and eat. 
 
 Monday Morning., 9.30 
 
 Your letter of Friday has just come, and I am delighted 
 to hear that the gowns have come and are a success: 
 I hope to see you in them one of these days. I am sure 
 that cafe-au-lait coloured gown ought to suit you. 
 
 Wilcox tells me that a large convoy of over seven 
 hundred wounded is expected at the hospital and I 
 must go round there. 
 
 Monday Night, July 19, 191 5 
 
 It is half-past ten and I ought to go to bed instead 
 of beginning a letter to you! I have just got in from 
 dining with Comtesse de Missiessy (as you find the 
 name difficult, I will spell it in capitals, MISSIESSY), 
 where I had a delightful evening. She is quite charming, 
 and so are her children: the eldest, the young Count,
 
 John Ayscougif} s Letters to his Mother 237 
 
 is at the front; but my friend Michel was there, and 
 the daughter, a very pretty, distinguee girl — very 
 English-looking, and extremely proud of looking so! 
 They all talk English well, Madame de Missiessy, per- 
 fectly. There was also a dear little soldier, Henri Manon, 
 who talked it nicely, though with less care. 
 
 Besides there were four ladies — not babies — who 
 talked only French, but all very nice. ... It was 
 Madame de Missiessy's fete, and I fortunately knew it, 
 and took her a box of beautiful flowers, which everybody 
 raved over. 
 
 Just after I had arrived, all the others (including the 
 fiance of Mademoiselle) trooped in, all bearing flowers, 
 and some bonbons and presents, and administered them 
 to Madame with infinite embracing. It was all very 
 intimate and cordial, and pretty, and I was glad to see 
 it all. 
 
 The house (it is an ''apartment" or, as we say, a flat) 
 is charming, and all arranged with excellent taste like 
 an Enghsh house of the best class. . . . And the people 
 were to match: there was a general air of real distinction, 
 with perfect simplicity and cheerful cordiality. The din- 
 ner was quite excellent, too, and the conversation easy, 
 interesting, and pleasant, no gossip. 
 
 The Comtesse is just forty, and has been a widow 
 eighteen years, since six months before Michel's birth. 
 She is so pretty, with heaps of white hair, very dark 
 eyebrows, big, dark-blue eyes, and a brilhant, youthful 
 complexion. The future son-in-law is very intelligent, 
 and talks admirably, but not in English. It was a 
 great contrast to my luncheon party here, which bored 
 me flat. 
 
 My guests arrived at eleven-thirty and stayed till 
 nearly four! And the doctor! He is, I am sure, clever 
 in his way, but his way is not my way. Luncheon was 
 over by quarter-past one: I hoped that after a cigarette 
 the doctor would go to look after his patients, but No!
 
 238 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 he sat on at the table till twenty to four, and I nearly 
 died of sleepiness! Two and a half hours! O dear! 
 How I wished all his patients would get worse and send 
 round for him. To look at him he is very like Captain 
 Cust, but without a bit of Captain Cust's social charm 
 and talent. The son would, I think, have been better 
 company had his papa not been there. As it was he 
 only ate and smiled: his smile is enormous, as big as a 
 tea-plate. 
 
 Now I 've told you my day's dissipations, I will go to 
 bed! 
 
 Wednesday, July 21, 191 5 
 
 I OUGHT to have written to you last night, but stayed 
 out walking till 8.20, and it was 8.45 before I had changed 
 and washed for dinner; 9.30 before I had finished dinner, 
 as I smoked and read papers after it; and when I came 
 up I went to bed. Some weeks ago I was sleeping ex- 
 tremely badly, but now I am sleeping excellently again, 
 as it is my custom to do. 
 
 Wednesday Night. 
 
 I HAD only got so far this morning when I had to go 
 off to the hospital and have only now got back too 
 late for to-day's post! I hope you will forgive me: I 
 do not very often miss a day, but somehow to-day I 
 seemed running after things without overtaking them. 
 
 To go back, first, to yesterday, my luncheon party 
 was a great success, a marked contrast to that of the 
 day before. Lady Austin-Lee and Comtesse de Missiessy 
 got on like a house afire, and there was plenty of inter- 
 esting and nice talk. Afterwards M. Milicent, the 
 future son-in-law, came in to pay his respects to me, 
 and soon after Mile, de Missiessy called for her mother, 
 and they all went oflF. I enjoyed it as much as I had 
 ^zVenjoyed the tedious though excellent doctor and his 
 son.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 239 
 
 This morning at the hospital I was talking to my young 
 Jew: I must tell you that he is very nice and not at all 
 Israelitish-looking. He said, "Yesterday afternoon a 
 smart lady (Lady Somebody) from Paris was visiting 
 the patients, and she talked to me a long time. At 
 last in speaking of this hospital she said it was a Francis- 
 can monastery — at least the property was, but the 
 Government turned the poor Fathers out, and confiscated 
 the property, and a syndicate of nasty Jews bought it 
 and built this hotel: 'Why are you laughing?' 'Be- 
 cause I am a nasty Jew myself.' 'You! Aren't you 
 English?' 'Oh yes, but I am a Jew.' She was much 
 taken aback and went off. Then the man in the next 
 bed said, 'Why did you pull her leg? She's offended.' 
 'Pull her leg? How?' 'Pretending to be a Jew.' 'It's 
 no pretence, I am a Jew.' 'O Lord! I thought you were 
 Church of England at least.'" 
 
 He always begs me to stay on and talk, and says he 
 looks forward so to my coming. He is not a very strict 
 Jew, but he has an honest young face, and I am sure 
 leads a good, clean life. He is in Lord Denbigh's regi- 
 ment, the Honourable Artillery Company. I remember 
 once their coming to Bulford, and Lord Denbigh came 
 and chatted after Mass: when he was gone the orderly 
 said, "Ah, in that regiment even the 'orses are baronets!" 
 
 I had another long letter to-day from Lady O'Conor. 
 She was very much pleased by your inviting her. They 
 are going at the beginning of next month to a house 
 she has taken near Dorking, where the Wilfrid Wards 
 live: and she will not move at all till she returns to Lon- 
 don in the autumn. 
 
 I also had your long letter of Sunday. I owe Winifred 
 a letter since the Year i, and ought to' answer her, and 
 will do so. But I am terribly lazy about letters. There 
 is so little to say. 
 
 To-day's papers give rather depressing accounts of the 
 Russians, and I am afraid they will lose Warsaw, though
 
 240 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 I still hope not. Lloyd George seems to have settled 
 the strike. 
 
 ... I had better bring this letter of scraps to a close, 
 and go to bed. 
 
 These few picture post-cards come from a young French 
 friend who is at Clermont-Ferrard in the Puy de Dome. 
 He says their hospitals are full of poor French soldiers 
 with their eyes burned out by the horrible liquid flame 
 the Germans squirt at them. I wonder what next the 
 brutes will invent. 
 
 There is a good article this week by the M.P., Joynson- 
 Hicks, insisting on the need for a Minister of Aviation. 
 Really, but for the Daily Mail's incessant agitation on 
 the subject, our forces would have had no aircraft when 
 this war came on us. 
 
 Yes, I quite know Solanums: they are very easy to 
 class: and I never thought for a moment that Beranek 
 was right as to the flower and leaf you sent by me. 
 
 Friday Morning, July 23, 191 5 
 
 This is going to be a measly short letter: yesterday 
 I was doing dull odds and ends of things all day, and 
 from tea-time to bed-time (except during dinner) was 
 writing duty letters, so mine to you never came off. 
 I walked for a good bit in the afternoon, but only in 
 Versailles, not in the parks: and in the course of my 
 perambulation bought the enclosed few post-cards, three 
 of our hospital ("Trianon Palace") and the rest mis- 
 cellaneous views in town and park: I do not remember 
 having bought them before, but may have done so. 
 
 It began raining about midnight, and went on till 
 five or six this morning, but now it is very fine and very 
 fresh. 
 
 Your story of the General and his execution in the 
 Tower is indeed *' ghastly " : but I feel sure that if it be true 
 his name could not be hard to find out, for Generals do
 
 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 241 
 
 not disappear without its being known, and before they 
 disappear their names are not unknown. Bert does 
 accumulate most tragic stories: don't you remember 
 about five minutes after war was declared his informing 
 us that eleven German Dreadnoughts had been sent to the 
 bottom of the North Sea ? — and unfortunately it isn't 
 true yet. 
 
 Saturday Evening, July 24, 191 5 
 
 Your last two letters from me were measly little 
 things: this evening I will try and write you at all events 
 a longer one: I can't undertake to make it a more inter- 
 esting one, as my day has produced nothing to make a 
 letter of. 
 
 When I was writing this morning I had a headache, 
 but it is quite gone. 
 
 I am writing at my window, but the only colour in 
 the garden is that of the red trousers of the soldiers 
 working in it; for the moment the flowers are all over, 
 and it is largely Beranek's fault; for there were tons of 
 geraniums of all colours, but he would not pick any and 
 they have all gone to seed. 
 
 In the street I met the little Lieutenant Tabourier, 
 of whom I told you a couple of weeks ago; the young 
 friend of my friend, Comte du Manoir, Commandant 
 d'Armes at Dieppe. He looked all clothes, with hardly 
 enough body inside to hang them on. The two young 
 men compared notes about their illness (which is partly 
 the same) and it seemed to me rather sad and tragic to 
 hear them: so young both, and so wistfully engaged 
 both in the hard struggle to regain life and health. 
 
 This morning the swallows were flying along the 
 ground; to-night they are almost out of sight up in the sky. 
 
 It is a pity Mr. Gater can't be here; there are tons of 
 butterflies, and plenty of good ones; some big ones that 
 I have never seen since Llangollen days, and some that 
 I never saw before.
 
 242 John Ayscouglfs Letters to his Mother 
 
 To-day's Paris Daily Mail seemed full of goodish 
 news — Russian, Serbian, French, and English: I mean 
 war news. 
 
 I got your letter this morning, enclosing Lady 
 O'Conor's, and one from her to myself by the same post: 
 but I spoke of the address to my letters in mine to you 
 this A.M. You needn't imagine that because I gave her 
 A. P. O., S. 6., B. E. Force for address, that I have been 
 shipped off to the front or somewhere: that Post office 
 is 2W No. 4 General Hospital — a regular Post office, for 
 telegrams, registered letters, and so on. 
 
 I received "The Book of Snobs," and had my nose in 
 it while I drank my tea this afternoon. My tea also 
 comes regularly (I don't mean in the tea-pot) from Eng- 
 land, and is excellent. French people's tea is despicable. 
 
 A Madame D came to worry me yesterday, sent 
 
 by the nuns. She, it seems, has always had English 
 governesses, and wants to economise during the war, 
 but does 7iot want her boys and girls to forget their Eng- 
 lish, so she had conceived the brilliant idea that a nursing 
 sister from the hospital might come and chat English 
 with her family daily for two hours — for a cup of tea! 
 I should like to see them do it! They are worked ter- 
 ribly hard, and it is sad work enough, and trying to 
 health; when they get off duty they hke to be out in 
 the fresh air, in the park, or rowing on the Grand Canal, 
 not jammed up in a drawing-room smelling of cats. 
 
 Perhaps Madame D thought / might offer my 
 
 services as unpaid nursery-governess: but I didn't. 
 
 I gather from you that Roger's engagement is hung 
 up like Mahomet's coffin: I don't fancy he will break 
 his heart, but I still think such a marriage would have 
 added to the comfort of his decline of life. I rather 
 admire old maids (it isn't generally their fault), but I 
 don't at all admire most old bachelors: a selfish, un- 
 amiable race as a rule. 
 
 It is getting too dark to write, and / will dry up:
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 243 
 
 The whole Beranek family baths itself on Saturday 
 nights in the bath-room adjoining my "apartment," 
 and does it with unspeakable groanings. 
 
 Wednesday Evening, July 28, 191 5 
 
 I REALLY think I must invent episodes to fill my letters 
 with, so complete is the absence of real episodes of late. 
 To-day's events are as follows. Mass; breakfast; hos- 
 pital; luncheon; visit to F, in hospital; return and tea. 
 
 Isn't it exciting? 
 
 I have been revelling in having some English books 
 to read. "The Book of Snobs" I finished in two days, 
 but there are other stories and sketches in the volume. 
 And I have just read rather (only rather) a nice sketch 
 of Jane Austen — but anything about Jane Austen 
 interests me. 
 
 This book I will send you on and you can read it for 
 yourself. It is one of those Lady O'Conor sent, as was 
 "Mademoiselle Ixe," which I sent you yesterday. I 
 read "Mademoiselle Ixe" when it came out about thirty 
 years ago, and cannot read it again, though I can read 
 all Jane Austen (and do) twice every year, and all George 
 Eliot at least once each year. "Mademoiselle. Ixe" (so 
 they say) was refused by seventeen publishers and 
 brought the publisher who accepted it at last so much 
 that he gave the authoress £10,000 for her next book 
 that no one cared sixpence for. 
 
 Thursday a.m. 
 
 Your letter of Monday has just arrived, and I am 
 delighted that you liked the Country Life and the odds 
 and ends of photographs I had sent. The picture of 
 young Percy Wyndham was the absolute image of him: 
 he had not much of his father's family's cleverness, 
 but he had a very sweet and kind nature, and never
 
 244 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 looked as if he knew himself to possess almost perfect 
 beauty. So far as I can gather, neither of George 
 Northey's sons is killed, but Anson, the Catholic, is 
 wounded: as a matter of fact, the younger, Armand, is 
 a cripple and could not be out here. 
 
 It is bright and fine but quite cool, and everyone notices 
 how much better I look — in consequence. 
 
 I must go round to hospital. 
 
 Friday Evening, July 30, 191 5 
 
 It has been a lovely day and is now a lovely evening, 
 not hot, but with the soft afterglow of a warm sunset: 
 swallows miles high, and a sky like lavender-satin. Down 
 in the garden the French soldiers working, chatting, 
 laughing, their red caps and legs like patches of blossom 
 here and there among the green. 
 
 Mile. Beranek came home this morning from Switzer- 
 land, and the father and mother are shining with delight 
 at her return; this bit of Edelweiss she brought for me 
 and I send it on to you: you know it is a " porte-bonheury" 
 otherwise I don't particularly admire it, it is too flannel- 
 petticoaty. 
 
 I did some work in hospital this a.m., but we have not 
 a great number of wounded for the moment. One man 
 is doing very well who had a bullet cut out of the muscles 
 of his heart three days ago! After all, you see, some 
 operations do good! I do admire the doctors and nurses, 
 they have such hard and difficult work, and do it all with 
 such unfailing gentleness and devotion. 
 
 My friend Chavasse is now quite well again — the 
 young doctor who cut his own finger very deeply while 
 operating on a gangrened leg. For some time it was 
 touch and go whether he would develop perhaps a fatal 
 blood-poisoning. 
 
 I got a letter just now from a friend of Lady O'Conor's, 
 a Comtesse de who lives in Paris, asking me to
 
 John Ayscough' s Letters to his Mother 245 
 
 tea: she is the widow of a diplomat, Hke Lady O'C, 
 and she speaks with ardent affection of her. She has 
 two sons, both at the front. 
 
 The young Jew I told you of is going to England in a 
 day or two, and I shall quite miss him. Yesterday a 
 Comtesse somebody, wife of a friend of his, came to see 
 him, and the Colonel nabbed her as she was going in 
 and asked ever so many odd questions. "Was she 
 a married woman?" etc., concluding with, "Have you 
 any reason to think it will give him any pleasure to see 
 you!^ 
 
 A fly flew into my right eye yesterday, and never flew 
 out again: it felt about the size of an aeroplane and hurt, 
 and my eye still pains me. No doubt it was meant for 
 a compliment, but I'd much rather flies would not take 
 my eye for a portion of the firmament. 
 
 This afternoon I spent with F. He is beginning to teach 
 himself English, and it is rather funny, especially as the 
 book (grammar and phrase-book) is most ridiculous. 
 Here is one of the phrases (mind, the book is quite new 
 and modern!): "These ladies are uneasy because they 
 have no back-scratchers." I assured him that, though 
 our great-great-grandmothers may have used back- 
 scratchers, English ladies are not now uneasy without 
 them. In a shop the purchaser demands "An ounce of 
 tea and four cheeses," and I hastened to relieve his mind 
 as to the sort of meal he might expect in England. What 
 is most mysterious is that while there is no sounded H 
 in French at all, in English he (like all French people) 
 sticks a fierce H at the beginning of every word that 
 really starts with a vowel. He is rather shocked at 
 Roger's wanting to marry a young female of twenty- 
 seven, and thinks it will lead to "chagrins" — the 
 chagrin being that the young lady will probably flirt 
 with someone nearer her own age. I assured him that 
 in Roger's neighbourhood the only youths would be sheep. 
 Then he said, "But if your brother has a son, by the
 
 246 John AyscougV s Letters to his Mother 
 
 time he is twenty your brother will be seventy-nine. 
 How can he educate that young man properly?" I 
 hinted that Roger would be likely to bother himself 
 very Httle with "that young man's education." French 
 people are so very practical, and in marriage their great 
 idea is the education of the children. I couldn't help 
 laughing at the picture evoked of Roger strenuously 
 educating his son, and devoured with regret that he was 
 not young enough to be a companion to his boy. 
 
 I pointed out that Mrs. Roger would add much to her 
 husband's comfort by nursing him as he grew old. 
 
 "Good gracious {Mon Dieu!), do you marry your nurses 
 in England.?" exclaimed F. in horror. 
 
 "Not always. Sometimes (when we are greedy) we 
 marry our cooks." 
 
 But that he refused to believe, and said I was rigoleur. 
 Mrs. Beranek says I am to go down to my dinner! 
 
 So good night. God bless you and give you none but 
 happy dreams ever. 
 
 Saturday Nighty July 31, 191 5 
 
 I HAVE often grumbled lately because I had nothing 
 to make a letter out of: to-night I have too much, though 
 it doesn't concern myself, so you needn't be alarmed! 
 It concerns the Beraneks: they have all been arrested 
 and carted off to prison, accused of being spies. 
 
 I will tell you the whole story. When I came in this 
 morning from saying Mass, I saw a couple of strange 
 men outside the door, but didn't think much of it, be- 
 cause with a number of soldiers quartered in the grenier 
 (it isn't a real barn, but a sort of large shed) many un- 
 known people come and go. 
 
 But when I got into the hall, there was Jeanne Beranek, 
 the daughter, who cam^ to me in floods of tears, saying 
 that their naturalisation had been cancelled and that 
 the house and little property was all "sequestrated." 
 In the dining-room were half a dozen men and Mr.
 
 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 247 
 
 Beranek, the former making an inventory and the 
 latter helping them. I asked him in EngHsh what it 
 all was, and he said, " Our naturalisation has been can- 
 celled and all I have is put under a 'sequestration.'" 
 I then talked to the head man conducting the affair, 
 who was of course extremely civil and respectful to me. 
 I said that I had been here three and half months, and 
 that personally I could only give the Beraneks an excel- 
 lent character. But, I asked, was it advisable I should 
 quit, and he said, Oh, no, if I was comfortable here. 
 Not a word was said as to any accusation against the 
 Beraneks, simply that their naturahsation was suspended, 
 and that the Republic took over their property: they 
 could not sell anything, not even a bunch of flowers, 
 except through himself as administrator. 
 
 They cleared out and left me to my breakfast. I went 
 to Paris to buy some things I wanted for F., and, on 
 my way back, called at his hospital and told him all this. 
 He and I had just lately discussed things here and won- 
 dered if everything was all square. Some things have 
 seemed to me fishy, and he had agreed with me. 
 
 This evening his godmother was there, and she made 
 little of it all, which neither he nor I was inclined to do. 
 I asked him if I had better clear out, and he quite agreed 
 that I had better seriously consider it. She pooh-poohed 
 this, and saw no reason at all for our ideas. I said, 
 "But suppose they were arrested!" 
 
 She seemed to think that quite absurd, and very soon 
 I came home and found the faithful Wilcox awaiting 
 me: he told me the house was locked up, and empty, 
 all the three Beraneks, father, mother, and daughter, 
 having been taken away by the police. I had my own 
 key and let myself in, my own rooms were open and 
 nothing touched, all the other ro6ms locked up, even the 
 kitchen, larder, etc. I went out to get some dinner at 
 an hotel, as I could not even make myself a cup of tea 
 here: then I came back and here I am.
 
 248 John Ayscouglfs Letters to his Mother 
 
 It is all very sad, and rather tragic: the empty house, 
 the thought that these folk, who have treated me well, are 
 in prison. I do not pretend to be certain that they are 
 innocent, but I hope so. To-morrow I must look about 
 for some other quarters, as I can't be bothered to go 
 out for every meal. To-night I stop here, and Wilcox is 
 coming round to sleep here, as I prefer not to stay here 
 quite alone. But even if they are proved innocent 
 (and it is so hard to prove innocence even when innocence 
 is there), it is not Hkely to be done very promptly: and 
 I cannot stay on here with everything locked up — 
 linen, plates, dishes, knives and forks, kitchen fire and 
 everything. 
 
 I wish the nuns, when they recommended the family 
 to me, had told me they were Germans. I should not 
 have come here, for I don't care for Germans and wanted 
 to be with French people, if only for the practice in 
 talking. It was the Beraneks themselves who told me 
 after I had been here awhile that they were only natural- 
 ised French — he Bohemian and she German. 
 
 I do not now believe that they are spies: but, as I 
 said to F. only yesterday, and again to him and Madame 
 M. this evening, I should not dare to say that it is impos- 
 sible they should be. There are certain little things I 
 have mentioned to him, and he, like myself, has thought 
 them odd. 
 
 (i) Madame B. goes to Paris once every week and 
 lately oftener, at 2 a.m. i.e., in the middle of the night, 
 returning late in the following afternoon. Of course 
 this is to sell flowers and plants, and may be necessary: 
 but in these times, when they know they are suspected, 
 I think it at least imprudent of them to stick to such a 
 custom. (2) and (3) less odd, but still odd — they 
 never go even into the greenhouses without locking up the 
 house, that is why I have my own key of it, and, as Wil- 
 cox noted, the men who come to see Beranek are never 
 received anywhere but in the middle of the garden.
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 249 
 
 where no one could overhear, and no one could approach 
 without being seen. 
 
 (4) and (5). Beranek has been gardener to the Emperor 
 of Russia, and for years to the Austrian Ambassador in 
 Paris. That is so in accord with German methods — 
 to plant their spies, and irawj-plant them. Why did the 
 girl stay a fortnight in Switzerland just now, meeting 
 Germans? Of course the little niece had to be sent 
 away, the police insisted, and a child of thirteen could 
 not be sent alone, but I think Mile. B. would have been 
 wise to take her to Switzerland and come straight back. 
 Perhaps, for a gardener, M. B. is too accomplished a 
 linguist, talking English, French, German, Russian, 
 Polish, Bohemian (Czechi), Bulgarian and Serbian. 
 
 Certainly they were zvild to get me to lodge here: and 
 I have told F. since that it had seemed to me possible 
 that this was because I am an English officer and they 
 thought other English officers would be constantly com- 
 ing here. At first they seemed quite indifferent about 
 money, but (since no English officers ever come here) 
 they have shown an ever-increasing keenness about it. 
 
 By this time I expect you are quite sure they are 
 spies! I am not a bit: but, I repeat, F. and I have both 
 discussed all this (and the points above detailed) and we 
 have agreed that there may be suspicious features. The 
 fact is all Germans are tarred with the same brush and 
 the world has learned that none are above suspicion, at 
 all events. 
 
 It is a bore to turn out: it is so quiet and peaceful 
 here, and economical: but I expect to-morrow or next 
 day will see me out of this. 
 
 I am now dog-sleepy and must go to bed : not without 
 a prayer for these poor folk: it is hard to think of them 
 rushed away from their peaceful and pleasant home 
 to a prison: and they may so well be innocent all the 
 time.
 
 250 John Ayscougb's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Sunday Evenings August i, 191 5 
 
 It is quarter to seven p.m., and I am sitting down to 
 tell you how things are and how / am. I am very well, 
 though the fuss of yesterday gave me a rather sleepless 
 night and a morning of neuralgia. That is all finished, 
 and I am quite well. 
 
 Young Vicomte de Missiessy came to call half an hour 
 ago and has just gone away: I told him all our history 
 here, and he was ever so much interested — quite excited! 
 — and full of sympathy for the nuisance to myself. 
 
 Wilcox came last night and defended me from the 
 ghosts of this empty house; but after Mass I let him go 
 for the day, as his fiancee is only here till to-morrow 
 morning and he may not see her again till after the war, 
 as the family she is with are leaving France till the end 
 of it. He is so devoted and unselfish I felt bound to be 
 unselfish, too. 
 
 I lunched at the Hotel de France on the Place d'Armes, 
 quite close (next door!) to the chateau, and asked about 
 a room there with "pension": and they agreed to give 
 me a room looking on the Place (it is a huge empty space, 
 and quiet) with full pension, including wine, tea, etc., 
 for eleven francs a day, (nine shillings a day); and that 
 is cheap for Versailles. Then I went to see F. (it takes 
 nearly an hour to get there) and came home promising 
 to go and see him again later in the afternoon to tell 
 him if anything new had turned up. 
 
 I found here the receiver, as he would be called in 
 England, a very civil man, who begged me to stay on in 
 the house, at least till they have decided what to do 
 with it: if they let it, he said, it should be on condition 
 of my being allowed to retain my apartment if I wished. 
 He gave me the key of the kitchen and of a small dining- 
 room, so that now I can provide myself with the little 
 meals, breakfast, tea, etc. He also gave me access to 
 the house-linen, sheets, towels, napkins, etc., to the
 
 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 251 
 
 plates, dishes, knives and forks, etc.: all which makes a 
 great difference to my comfort. 
 
 In the kitchen, on a loaf, I found a little note from 
 Beranek to his wife (she had not got back from her 
 nocturnal trip to Paris when he and their daughter were 
 arrested). It seemed to me very sad. "Dearest wife: 
 Try not to be broken down. Bring linen. We await 
 you with a thousand kisses. Put on your best clothes," 
 The last touch, because, poor things, they are little likely 
 to see any of their property again. 
 
 The question of my going to see them has settled itself, 
 as they were removed last night to Petit Pre in this 
 department (Seine et Oise) to be taken thence to a 
 concentration camp, where they will probably remain 
 till the end of the war, I am told that probably the 
 Government will "administer" this little property till 
 the end of the war, and then sell it all. 
 
 So far as I can discover, no definite charges are yet 
 brought against them, but it doesn't follow that none 
 will be brought. 
 
 I think it struck me with a peculiar, homely sadness to 
 see the meal, half cooked for yesterday's luncheon, about 
 the kitchen and that no one would ever eat. I said 
 Mass for them to-day, innocent or guilty, and I am 
 bound to say that all who knew them, think them quite 
 innocent. I am glad it is to be a concentration camp 
 only, and not a regular prison. No soldiers work in the 
 garden now, but Beranek's foreman (French) seems 
 trying to keep everything going all by himself, 
 
 I did go back to F, as I had promised, but only stayed 
 a few minutes. He thinks, as I do, that as the officials 
 are so civil I had better stay on here, at all events a few 
 days, as I may thus hear of something much more suitable 
 than if I dashed off at once. It would bore me to pieces 
 to board in a French family, and Michel de Missiessy 
 says I am quite right; I should have to be talking, talking 
 all day long to the whole family and have no liberty.
 
 252 John Ayscough' s Letters to his Mother 
 
 Meanwhile I have my house and garden to myself and 
 am lord of all I survey. 
 
 8.15 P.M. 
 
 I interrupted my letter half an hour ago to get ready 
 and eat my "dinner:" a funny, but not at all bad little 
 meal. I was not inclined to go out to get dinner at a 
 hotel, as the nearest is quite as far from here as you are 
 from the village inn at Winterbourne. This is a residen- 
 tial, aristocratic part of Versailles, far from shops, etc. 
 Well, my dinner consisted of an excellent pot of tea, 
 bread and butter, pate de foie gras, marmalade, and a 
 splendid pear. So you see I did not starve. I ate it 
 up here in my own room, and left the washing-up to 
 Wilcox when he arrives. 
 
 F, said to-day, "I'm so glad you had Wilcox for your 
 servant at this tiresome juncture: he is so steady and 
 prudent, so quiet and so fiercely devoted." All of which 
 is quite true. 
 
 I went over the house to-day with the "receiver" 
 ("administrator" in French) and everything is just as it 
 was at the moment of the arrest: the beds unmade, etc: 
 (as it all began quite early in the morning). I am sure 
 the Beraneks, mother and daughter, will be specially 
 hurt at that; they are tidy, orderly, domestic creatures, 
 who do everything themselves because they think servants 
 careless and slip-shod; and they will hate to think of 
 strangers seeing their good rooms all untidy and in dis- 
 order. I must say the officials seem to leave everything 
 strictly untouched. 
 
 Of course the mere untidiness here is nothing to the 
 awful havoc I saw in French houses, as good and better 
 than this, up at the front where the Germans had been: 
 and thence the certainly innocent had been driven out 
 homeless by these people's compatriots. Voild la guerre! 
 Even if these folk in this house were as innocent as you 
 are, it is not astonishing if on such as them falls a trouble
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 253 
 
 similar to and of less cruelty than that which has fallen 
 on thousands and thousands of French and Belgian 
 homes and famihes up in the huge district (seven whole 
 Departments of France, and nearly the whole of Belgium) 
 where the Germans hold sway. One hard fate doesn't 
 soften another, but at least these people have not been 
 hastily disturbed: for twelve months they have been left 
 at peace in their home, and none of them has been 
 wounded or killed: nor can one say that the French 
 police have acted with a harshness that had no reason. 
 For years this family has had this place without seeking 
 naturalisation; when they did go in for it, it was (as the 
 police urge) only when war was certainly known by Ger- 
 many and Austria to be coming. 
 
 You are not to imagine that any sort of real annoyance 
 has come to me personally out of all this. In England I 
 might easily have been cited as a witness, which would 
 have annoyed me extremely: but no idea of that sort 
 has occurred to the French officials, who merely showed 
 every anxiety to save me even the inevitable minor 
 inconveniences. I don't think even F. quite twigged 
 what a position an English officer "grade" (of higher 
 rank) has in France at present. I assured him that no 
 inconvenience would accrue to me personally: and he 
 said, "But perhaps as everything is sequestrated you 
 will have difficulty in removing your own things: a 
 French lodger would." 
 
 "Well, I'm not a French lodger," I told him: and the 
 receiver simply laughed when I asked him. 
 
 "I hope for your own comfort you will stay where 
 you are," he said, "but if you choose to leave at any 
 hour, pray do, and pack up all your things and take them. 
 I am responsible, and I shall certainly not enter your 
 room or treat it as anything but your room till you give 
 me the key of it." All this has given you two long letters! 
 Some day it may come in useful in a story. Eh? But 
 not "while the war," as the soldiers say. . . . Good night.
 
 254 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 Monday Nighty August 2, 191 5 
 
 The Beraneks have not been merely interned in a 
 concentration camp, but have been imprisoned in a for- 
 tress, and that means that there are grave charges against 
 them. It seems they have been under surveillance a 
 long time. 
 
 For the next few days, at all events, I shall remain in 
 this house, but I have heard now of several quarters 
 recommended to me and to-morrow will go and inspect 
 them. 
 
 You mustn't picture me quite alone in my garden 
 house, for, there are nearly fifty soldiers in the grenier 
 adjoining, a Marechal de Logis (cavalry sergeant) and 
 his wife in a loft, their orderly in another, and the ever- 
 faithful Wilcox, who is here all night and nearly all day. 
 
 He complained of pain in his jaw and I sent him to 
 Chavasse, who X-rayed him, and discovered that the jaw 
 was broken. 
 
 He is quite excellent as an emergency servant, does 
 housemaid, cook (kitchen-maid, perhaps, under a Right 
 Reverend chef), caterer, etc., and all very well. The 
 picnic is rather fun and he thinks it "champion." 
 
 Tuesday Evenings August 3, 191 5 
 
 Your letter of Saturday arrived to-day, and the 
 beginning of it made me laugh at you! You say it was 
 a relief ("a great relief," I beg your pardon) to get my 
 letter that morning — why? because you had no letter 
 on Thursday, and on Friday only a number of postcards 
 addressed by me and accompanied by a little writing; 
 i.e., there was only one day without any word of my 
 continued existence, etc. That's the worst of being a 
 first-rate correspondent: if a day comes when one is too 
 busy to get in a letter, or too lazy to write one, or too 
 tired, then you feel it your duty to be anxious!
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 255 
 
 You have often said, " Don't write when you feel tired 
 or too busy." I take you at your word one day and 
 you are anxious. Please don't! Suppose I got an order 
 to move to Havre, or Calais, or Dieppe or Rouen: such 
 orders (I expect none of the kind) come suddenly and one 
 has to go off at once. Then there would have to be an 
 interval of several days without your hearing from me: 
 and I should have the uncomfortable certainty that you 
 were tormenting yourself. 
 
 Here endeth the sermon. 
 
 (On turning the sheet I find it is one on which I had 
 begun writing some French pronunciations for Wilcox, 
 but I can't begin again.) 
 
 I am flourishing, and enjoying our picnicky life in our 
 Garden House. I have nothing new to report about 
 the owners of it, and hardly expect to hear any more. 
 Of course I often think of them, and of the sadness of it 
 all for them, and wonder if they will ever see this home 
 of theirs again: but then one cannot help feeling that if 
 they are guilty they hardly deserve any compassion. 
 If they are guilty they have played a certain game, and a 
 very bad one, and have lost it. Very likely one never 
 will know whether they were guilty or innocent: but 
 even if they should be judged innocent I can't imagine 
 their ever caring to come back here whence they were 
 removed as prisoners and spies. It's a dismal subject 
 and we can change it. I need only say that for the 
 present I shall stay on where I am. The place suits me, 
 and I am comfortable, and Wilcox is in a state of beatitude 
 looking after me. He cooks quite v/ell, and is extremely 
 clean in all his ways. 
 
 I worked hard all morning at the hospital, a new batch 
 of wounded having come in, though a small one, then 
 home to a very good luncheon cooked and served by 
 Wilcox; then, as I had not to go and see F., a long rest, 
 reading, and . . . and . . . and sleeping: then out 
 again: home to a rather late tea, and that's all.
 
 256 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 
 
 My young Jew went off to-day and was really sorry 
 to go: he said often how impossible it would be to find 
 a better hospital in England, or to have more skilled 
 attention and nursing, or kinder. It so seldom occurs to 
 either officers or men among the wounded to see that 
 and to express appreciation of it all. I shall quite miss 
 him when going round the wards, he was always eagerly 
 looking out for me, and so cheery and bright in his talk. 
 
 It is certainly not autumnal here, though cool (with 
 frequent torrential showers to-day) and though (being 
 weeks ahead of England as to season) some autumn 
 flowers and fruits are in full swing: autumn plums, 
 pears: autumn anemones, dahlias, etc. 
 
 Yesterday (it is now Wednesday a.m.) I went and 
 looked at several lodgings — only a single room each, 
 rather a come-down after this Garden House all to 
 myself with its big garden, etc. One lodging I rather 
 fancied, kept by a very decent elderly woman who in- 
 formed me that she was almost English — because her 
 son is cook to Queen Alexandra. 
 
 I do not think any of your letters go astray, all reach 
 me safely: I wonder why you seem suddenly taken with 
 an idea that I do not get them. 
 
 I must explain that furnished lodgings here do not 
 supply any meals or attendance^ so that if I move from 
 this house I shall only move into another house and a less 
 attractive one, with no advantage that I lack here. 
 
 Wednesday, 7 p.m., August 4, 191 5 
 
 I SIT down to this table to write without the faintest 
 idea whence anything to write about is to come: but 
 once St. Dominic sat down, and with him all his friars, 
 at another table on which there was nothing to eat, and 
 he knew and they knew that there was nothing to eat in 
 the house, and not a coin among them all to buy any-
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 257 
 
 thing with. But St. Dominic said, "Little brothers, 
 this is our hour for sitting down to table: so let us keep 
 our rule, and so gain the merit of obedience, even though 
 nothing for our mouths should come of it." So he blest 
 the empty table as though it had been piled with cates, 
 and while he blest it angels set bread upon it. 
 
 This is my hour for sitting down to my little table to 
 write to you, and though I seem to have nothing in my 
 head, I will trust that something may slip into my pen 
 by some good-natured angel's suggestion. Of that scene 
 in the dim refectory, with the group of hungry and 
 obedient friars, there is a lovely fresco, by Fra Bartolomeo, 
 I think. Only the white habits of the friars, against the 
 dusk, are the same in it; the faces are all different, the 
 features, the expression; but on them all the same calm 
 and confident obedience. 
 
 After luncheon to-day I went out to F.'s hospital to 
 see him, and on the way met Lady Austin-Lee coming 
 to visit our hospital. We talked for half an hour, and 
 I need not tell you how excited she was by the Beranek 
 tragedy. "It will all come into a novel some day," she 
 declared, "and I'm sure that as it was to happen, you 
 feel a certain poignant satisfaction in having been so 
 near-hand a witness of it." . . . She begs F. and me 
 to lunch with her on Monday next. I found him up and 
 allowed to walk in the garden: and while we were there 
 the Mother General of the Order came by, wheeling a 
 heavy wheel-barrow full of plants, which I insisted on 
 pushing for her. There was a great deal of laughing; 
 she protesting that it was scandalous for me to wheel 
 barrows, and I protesting that it was much worse that 
 she should — of course I appealed to the nuns, who didn't 
 know what to decide, and could only laugh. She said, 
 "I was tired of correspondence and work indoors, and 
 thought it would rest me to garden a little." I told her 
 how much you would sympathize with her, and she and
 
 258 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 her nuns soon went on with their planting. F. said, 
 "They are such cheery creatures, and they chafF each 
 other all day." 
 
 He told me he had sent you a little poupee, which he 
 ordered from his home, dressed in the peasant costume 
 of the Doubs. He was in excellent spirits, and evidently 
 pleased to get Lady Austin-Lee's invitation for Monday, 
 by which time he will be allowed to go out. They have 
 nobbled me to pontificate High Mass on the Feast of 
 the Assumption in the church always called "La Paroisse" 
 because it is the parish church of the chateau. Louis 
 XIV built it, and Louis XV made his First Communion 
 in it. I tried to get out of this function, and hypo- 
 critically suggested that the Bishop might not like it. 
 "Oh, but he is delighted at the idea." 
 
 I then said that some of the necessary paraphernalia 
 were in England, but they said, "Oh, we have them all." 
 The mitre will probably be that of some old bishop of 
 two centuries ago with a head as big as a pumpkin, out 
 of which only my ankles will be visible to the public. 
 
 I must stop: it is so "darksome" (as the old-fashioned 
 Catholics still say) that I cannot see to write, and only 
 7.50 P.M. 
 
 Many thanks for the pretty picture of Ellesmere. 
 
 With best love to Christie and Alice. 
 
 Friday a.m., August 6, 191 5 
 
 I WENT to Paris yesterday to buy some special bandages 
 for F., was away from midday till evening, and made a 
 pilgrimage to the immense votive Basilica of the Sacred 
 Heart on the heights of Montmartre. It is really very 
 fine, and the position, towering over Paris (one has to 
 go up in a funicular railway), is superb: the view from 
 the portico of the church quite magnificent. I enclose 
 two cards, one of a little old building which was all there 
 was on the summit of Montmartre till 1866, and one of
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 259 
 
 the basilica. The other photographs are all of Notre 
 Dame de Paris, and possibly you have them all. 
 
 It kept fine all day, and only just as I got home did it 
 begin to rain — in a deluge, and went on all night. 
 
 Before starting for Paris I went to look at two lodgings, 
 in case I cannot stay on here: they each consisted of a 
 single room, a good room, well furnished as a bedroom, 
 and each cost (without any food, or attendance) ninety 
 francs a month, i.i?., three francs a day: one's food at an 
 hotel or restaurant would cost ten francs, at least, a day, 
 and there would be the bother of going out for every 
 meal, no matter what the weather. I shall certainly 
 stay on here if I can: without Wilcox it would be im- 
 possible, but he is quite excellent, and I am in great 
 comfort in his care. 
 
 Now I'm off to hospital. 
 
 Friday Evening, August 6, 191 5 
 
 Your letter of Tuesday arrived to-day, enclosing Mr. 
 Maurice Egan's card. He is one of the most admired 
 Catholic writers, and he is also American Ambassador 
 to the Court of Denmark. Besides all which he is really 
 a thoroughly nice man, and we have had a corresponding 
 acquaintance for a good many years. Sir Rennell Rodd, 
 our own Ambassador in Rome, was his colleague, as 
 British Minister at Copenhagen, and has often told me 
 how charming a man Mr. Maurice Egan is. Do you 
 remember some years ago Mr. Egan inviting me to the 
 marriage of his daughter? 
 
 It has been very showery all day, and rather stuffy. 
 I went to see F., and coming back it rained in torrents. 
 
 Since I began writing a lovely sunset has turned all 
 the sky to fiery snow-mountains. The rain is gone and 
 it looks like the promise of a fine day to-morrow. 
 
 F. read aloud English sentences to me, and it was very 
 funny. They represented a conversation between an
 
 26o John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 English traveller and a French railway-porter: and I 
 think this time some of the funniness was intentional — 
 the composer of the phrase-book meaning to laugh 
 gently at John Bull. This sort of thing (E. T. — 
 English Traveller. R. P. — Railway Porter) : 
 
 E. T. Porter! Porter! Hi, you! Come here! 
 
 R. P. Monsieur? 
 
 E. T. Put this luggage in a first-class carriage. Quick 
 now! 
 
 R. P. All this! How many persons are you.f* 
 
 E. T. How many persons? I am one person, can't 
 you see? 
 
 R. P. But one person cannot have all those luggages 
 in the carriage wiz 'eem. 
 
 E. T. "All that luggage!" Why, there are only four 
 valises, eight small parcels, two guns, three 
 fishing-rods, two rolls of rugs, and two of 
 overcoats and waterproofs, a dressing-case, 
 a dispatch-box, a lunch-basket, and this 
 bundle of books and newspapers. Put them 
 in at once. 
 
 R, P. But, Monsieur, there will be no rooms for the 
 luggage of the other passengers, 
 
 E. T. That doesn't matter, for I prefer a carriage all 
 myself. 
 
 R. P. There are ten places in the carriage; has Mon- 
 sieur taken ten places, then? 
 
 E. T. Head block! Put them in, while you ask 
 questions the train will go. 
 
 R. P. Has Monsieur taken 'is tee-ket? 
 
 E. T. Plenty of time. Put them in. 
 
 (The porter puts them in) 
 
 Railway Engine: St-st-st- Jub-jub. . . . 
 
 R. P. Ze train go: Monsieur will not be to can go, 
 having no tee-ket. . . . 
 
 E. T. Quick! Quick! Let me jump in!
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 261 
 
 R. P. It is forbade to get in while the train moves, it 
 is forbidden to get in wizout tee-ket. , . . 
 
 E. T. (Furiously) There . . . the train has gone, 
 
 and my luggage. . . . Damn! Oh yes! 
 Damfi! Quite so. Very much, Damn! 
 
 F. said to me, "It is very bad. In England you are 
 always divorcing yourselves." 
 
 I had a letter from Beranek to-day, which I shall 
 answer very cautiously. He says, "It is hard to be 
 dishonoured after a harmless life: but our sorrow and 
 shame are in His hands, who decides what each of us 
 has to bear." 
 
 Wilcox is often entertaining in a dry way, but he 
 doesn't set up for a wit, and says uncommonly little at 
 all. He is shy and reserved, and when he is funny it is 
 because something comes out which shows what a shrewd, 
 watchful observer he is. He is devoted to F. and says, 
 "The Baron gives me lumps in my throat whenever I 
 see him. So young, and just hopping lame about like a 
 bird with its leg and wing broke! He's a toff if you 
 like, and always so nice and so gentle, with a kind word 
 for a chap like me. In our regiment there are real officer 
 toffs, and second-hand toffs — you can always tell. But 
 Baron C.'s the best I ever saw." 
 
 Saturday Evening, August 7, 191 5 
 
 I PERCEIVE that I have, during the last day or two, 
 been dating my letters (as to the day of the month) a 
 day, in arrear. , . . 
 
 To begin with the weather, and so prove myself still 
 English, it has been stuffy all day, and is more stuffy 
 now than ever; I expect we shall have thunder, but the 
 thunder-storms never come to much here, nor do they 
 cool the air much. 
 
 I saw the administrator (receiver) this morning and 
 have agreed to stay on here for the present: they make
 
 262 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 me pay a very low rent, whereas all the furnished lodgings 
 I have looked at were dearer than I could afford, and 
 none of them provided meals indoors. So Wilcox and 
 I will reign on here, and it is the arrangement I greatly 
 prefer. After this airy and open place, with the big, 
 cheerful garden, all the lodgings in streets seemed so 
 stuffy and dark, gloomy and airless. Besides, I am near 
 the hospital and near the convent where I say Mass when 
 I do not say it in hospital; and, finally, I am hke a cat 
 that hates to move. And here I do not have to go out 
 for any meal, as I should in any of the lodgings : for none 
 of them give board. In wet weather especially that 
 going out for every meal would be a terrible nuisance. 
 
 I had your two letters dated Tuesday, this morning, 
 and I am so grieved to find that my news of the upset 
 here had upset you, too. It is quite all right now, and I 
 have had no discomfort even, largely because Wilcox is 
 so sensible, systematic, devoted, and energetic. 
 
 I hope that long before now my letters will have shown 
 you that nothing that has happened here caused me any 
 personal discomfort. For the Beraneks it has been very 
 sad, if they be quite innocent as they may so well be. 
 It is not true that they are in a fortress, though the news 
 came from the General in command here; they are only 
 in an "Asile of Detention": and the fact of their being 
 removed there does not in itself imply any definite 
 accusation, only "suspicion." It is useless arguing out 
 all that, as one can really know nothing. 
 
 I am sending you to-day under another cover a series 
 of excellent views of Plas Newydd, the house of the Ladies 
 of Llangollen, that a Welsh bookseller sent me. It is 
 extraordinary to myself to see how perfectly I remember 
 the place, though it is fully fifty-two years since I saw it, 
 and perhaps only saw the inside once. The man who sent 
 them is an admirer of John Ayscough and knows he was 
 once living at Llangollen. 
 
 I am rather pestered lately with French ladies who
 
 Joh7i AyscougJfs Letters to his Mother 263 
 
 want to make me a sort of governess and boarding-house 
 agent, and I fancy they are all sent by a nun at the 
 convent. 
 
 . . ."It is to-morrow morning" (as Mr. Pecksniff 
 said, putting his head out of the coach window!), i.e.y 
 6 A.M., Sunday, and I have written the last half of this 
 in my pyjamas before beginning to dress: which I must 
 now do. 
 
 As you will have perceived for yourself, I have nothing 
 to say, and have not been able successfully to disguise 
 the fact. 
 
 Monday Night, August 9, 191 5 
 
 I WENT with F. to Paris to-day to lunch with Lady 
 Austin-Lee. Our party consisted of herself and us, and 
 Comtesse d'Osmoy (pronounced Daumois), whom we 
 both had met there before. Sir Henry was away in his 
 island of Jethou, opposite the harbour of Guernsey. 
 Madame d'Osmoy is charming, an American, though a 
 very English one. 
 
 We were all very pleasant together and had an ex- 
 cellent luncheon. Afterwards we talked and then Lady 
 Austin-Lee sang. She sings really beautifully, and has 
 been accustomed to sing with great masters of music. 
 
 When we were waiting for the tram to come back to 
 Versailles, a young woman tried to get into another 
 tram close to us while it was moving and she fell. There 
 was a cry of horror from the people, and I felt quite sick, 
 it seemed so certain she would be killed before our eyes.- 
 The tram caught her dress, and dragged her, and between 
 the tram and the rather high kerb there were only a few 
 inches of room: but they managed to stop the huge tram 
 almost instantly, and the woman was not hurt at all, 
 only frightened. I had dashed forward to help, but all 
 I had to do was to pick up her combs and her little 
 parcels. It was a ghastly moment, but no harm came 
 of it.
 
 264 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 Tuesday a.m. 
 
 It lightened all night, and there were growls ot distant 
 thunder, but it has done very little toward cooling the 
 air, or clearing the atmosphere. 
 
 I hope you won't have it very hot, as it knocks you 
 up too, though you are apt to forget that the moment 
 the heat has changed into rain and a cloudy sky. 
 
 I FORGOT to put a date — it is Wednesday evenings 
 August nth, and it is also 6.45 p.m. I daresay you are 
 sitting out in the garden, for I hope it is a fine evening 
 with you as it is here: fine and not hot, fresh and not 
 muggy. 
 
 As I came in just now there was a very big butterfly 
 hovering over the geraniums, bufF (not yellow or sulphur- 
 colour), almost a pale brown, with black edges to the 
 wings, and black bars and splotches. He seemed very 
 tame and almost let me catch him with my fingers as he 
 sat on a flower. 
 
 I went to see F. after lunch (all morning I was in 
 hospital, doing a little work), but he was out, so I came 
 back into the town and went to see Madame de Missiessy, 
 whom I found at home; I sat for a long time talking to 
 her and her daughter, in English, and they were both 
 very homey and pleasant. 
 
 The Comtesse said, "You must come and dine again," 
 and I answered, "Very well; but I Hke talking like this: 
 one does not need a plate to talk over," and she seemed 
 to like that, and be pleased that I shouldn't be the sort 
 of man who will only come when you feed him. 
 
 They have lived in Versailles about a year, before 
 which they lived in Paris, and left it because she says 
 that till the war came, everyone was living so high, and 
 spending so much, she could not keep up with it. Before 
 the Paris time they lived in Savoy (not Italian Savoy, 
 but French Savoy, up among the mountains near Aix)
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 265 
 
 in a chateau lent to them by her husband's brother: 
 there they Hved a very simple country life ("like peasants," 
 she said), all very happy together, making their pleasures 
 consist of country things. And now they do not care 
 for Versailles, and do not go in for its society, only know- 
 ing a few old and tried friends settled here. She says I 
 am very wise in not letting myself be dragged into Ver- 
 sailles "society," which is all idleness and gossip. I 
 don't pretend to be a miracle of penetration, but I do 
 think that I have certain ''protective instincts" (as some 
 animals have) that warn me what to avoid. No one 
 told me anything about Versailles society, but I "twigged" 
 it, from the very look of the place. 
 
 Even the Bishop, who is really a great man, is not well 
 liked by the Versailles "society": simply because he is 
 large-minded and liberal in his ideas, and also because 
 he is a -people's bishop. The diocese is enormous and 
 hugely populated, with a vast working-class population, 
 and he has neither time nor inclination for the fuss of 
 "society." He is sure to be promoted to an Arch- 
 bishopric, and probably to the Cardinalate; the Church 
 approves him, but the "world" — the little tin-pot 
 world of Versailles — does not. 
 
 At the de Missiessy's this afternoon I imitated Monsieur 
 G. limping up to nab me for luncheon: and I made such 
 an ugly face that their huge dog leapt up with a howl and 
 nearly swallowed me, grimace and all. He is so enor- 
 mous that when I saw him first I thought he was a sofa 
 with a woolly rug thrown over him. 
 
 As I was going to the de Missiessy's, I saw a small 
 crowd outside a much smaller police-station, and one 
 rather large man being hauled into it by the gendarmes. 
 Some amiable women got him in by strong pushes against 
 the broad base of his back. I asked what he had done. 
 "Oh," said an intensely interested boy, "he tapped on a 
 soldier." I suppose he tapped too hard. 
 
 I remember the old Bishop of Amycla telling me of an
 
 266 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Irish soldier who was being tried for manslaughter. 
 He said, "Well, I was coming back to camp in the moon- 
 light, and I saw a head on the ground, sticking out of a 
 tent, and one always kicks things lying about like that, 
 so / did: and it killed the chap the head belonged to." 
 The jury acquitted him, saying that he merely yielded 
 to a natural impulse. But I doubt if a French jury will 
 think it a natural impulse to tap on a soldier. 
 
 It is only seven-forty, and I have had to light my lamp; 
 even in the window it had grown too dark to write. 
 Wilcox has been writing to his mother downstairs, and 
 has just brought up his letter for me to read. At first 
 he used to bring me his love-letters to read too, and 
 excellent they were, full of wonderful, manly and pure 
 love and devotion. But to read them even at his desire 
 seemed to me like eavesdropping, and I told him no one 
 should see them before the girl to whom they were written. 
 I think I must be growing like a spider who spins long 
 Hues out of his own inside, for out of mine, with nothing 
 like news to help me, I am daily spinning you lines which 
 reach from Versailles to Winterbourne. 
 
 I'm so glad you approve of our staying on in our 
 Garden House. I was half-afraid you would think I 
 should be gloomy here. I have two bedrooms, a kitchen, 
 and a nice little dining-room, opening into the private 
 garden (not the nursery-garden), with plate, china, glass, 
 house-linen, etc., and I pay ^ what? Well, I bargained: 
 I pointed out that an English Colonel and his soldier- 
 servant made excellent care-takers, and the administrator 
 quite agreed. "Would one franc fifty a day be too 
 much.^" he asked, and I said, "Not at all too much." 
 One shilling threepence a day! F. was quite awe-struck 
 by my capacity for affairs when I told him. He never 
 dreams of enquiring the price before buying anything; 
 and I told him I couldn't afford to be so lordly. 
 
 Comtesse d'Osmoy was asking for you yesterday. 
 "I shall always remember her miniature," she said.
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 267 
 
 And every time I look up there it is, hanging a foot from 
 my nose — the end of my nose, about three feet from my 
 face. 
 
 Comtesse de Missiessy said to-day, "I always say 
 some little prayers now, every day, for your dear mother, 
 and beg Our Lord to keep her well and full of courage 
 till she can have you with her again. My prayers are 
 very little prayers, but I have been only a mother since 
 my dear, dear husband left me, and I know what it 
 must be." 
 
 "So does He, dear Madame." 
 
 *'Ah, yes. That is what must keep you both brave." 
 
 I told her how poor we were when you were left with 
 your three children to bring up, and how happy you made 
 our childhood, so that it never occurred to us to think 
 with envy of rich children. "In fact," I said, "I don't 
 know if rich children ever do enjoy things as poor gentry's 
 children do." 
 
 "I'm sure they don't," said she, "they are blase and 
 peevish: and they have so many expensive things to do 
 that they do not care for any of them." 
 
 You see we are always talking of you. Now I will 
 stop. 
 
 Friday Evening., 6.30 p.m., August 13, 191 5 
 
 Winifred Gater sent me two excellent little photo- 
 graphs of you, in your bath-chair, and I have written at 
 once to thank her: it was a very kind thought of hers, 
 and I was really grateful. The oblong-shaped portrait 
 has the expression you assume when I have just told 
 you some amazing fable, and the other, the upright- 
 shaped one, has the other expression that you put on 
 when you have done something bad (like walking off to 
 the garden alone) and don't intend to repent. 
 
 This afternoon I tried to go for a walk, and had just 
 got into the gardens of the chateau when it came down 
 a pelt, and I had to trot home: several kindly French
 
 268 John Ayscougifs Letters to his Mother 
 
 women dashed out of shops as I came through the Rue 
 de la Paroisse to offer umbrellas, but in uniform one 
 may not carry umbrellas as I had to explain. 
 
 All the flat parterres near the Orangerie, under the 
 palace windows, are filled with calceolarias, and they 
 look like a vast yellow carpet, of geometric pattern, with 
 dark green borders (box). 
 
 I myself, on my way home, looked like a dripping 
 statue escaped from one of the fountains: but I changed 
 at once, and was not wet inside (I don't mean inside my 
 body, but inside my tunic). 
 
 It is quite fine again now, with a pretty parti-coloured 
 sky. 
 
 A little French soldier whom I knew at the front, 
 and to whom I have sent parcels since, came to see me 
 the other day — straight from the front, on his way 
 home — and he was so fearfully smelly, poor fellow, that 
 when he had gone, Wilcox (who is the cleanest man I 
 ever knew) said, "Anyone would think one of the trenches 
 had been to call in this room." I must say I had suflFered 
 considerably myself. It was a hot afternoon and the 
 soldier had walked fast in his huge, heavy capote. All 
 the same, it was nice of him to come. 
 
 Mondajy 9.45 a.m., August 16, 1915 
 
 I WROTE you a very meagre and short letter on Saturday 
 night, and even that poor apology for a letter never went 
 by yesterday's post — I was so rushed all day that I 
 overlooked it. 
 
 I got up at five and said my "office," dressed, etc.; 
 at 7.30 said Mass at the hospital, at ten pontificated the 
 High Mass at Notre Dame, ran home to do some business, 
 lunched with the clergy at twelve, pontificated Vespers 
 (followed by Procession, Benediction, etc.) at two, had 
 some tea, and then held evening service at the hospital. 
 
 I got on very well at my two functions, and the church
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 269 
 
 was packed each time — between two and three thousand 
 persons. It was terribly hot in church, and the vest- 
 ments very heavy, but I did not feel it in the least, a sign 
 of my being in excellent health. I had dreaded one of 
 my awful neuralgia attacks, but had not a touch of it. 
 The luncheon party did not bore me at all either; there 
 were only three other priests, and they were nice. 
 
 I saw F. after Mass, and Lady Austin-Lee has again 
 invited us both to lunch with her on Wednesday: on 
 Thursday she is going on a short visit to Normandy to 
 stay with Comtesse d'Osmoy. 
 
 I am delighted that Alice has not actually fled yet, 
 though alas! her departure seems close at hand. I know 
 how much you will miss her, and I shall not be half so 
 easy in my mind about you now. O dear! I wish I could 
 get home! 
 
 Well, my dear, I must go and work at the hospital. 
 
 Monday Evening, 7.15, August 16, 191 5 
 
 Though it is only a quarter-past seven, it is already 
 nearly too dark to write at my window: and in a few 
 minutes I shall have to drag my table back into the 
 room and light my lamp. 
 
 This morning was almost cold, but by midday it had 
 grown hot again; still, it is autumny. 
 
 F. was to have come this afternoon at 2.30, but didn't 
 turn up: I waited in for him, and wrote duty letters — 
 twelve of them to English, French, and American cor- 
 respondents. So, though I was sorry not to get a walk, 
 I did a lot of business. I did a long morning in the 
 hospital, and felt I deserved a walk after luncheon to 
 blow away cobwebs and homesickness! 
 
 (I have already had to desert my window and light 
 up for the evening.) It was a year yesterday since I left 
 home to come out to this rotten old war: and in my 
 innocent soul I thought then the war would all be over in
 
 270 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 a few weeks! Still, dear, one cannot help reflecting how 
 much God has done for us: no harm befell me up at the 
 front: and I am well and comfortable: and He has 
 preserved you wonderfully in health and on the whole 
 in good spirits. Times of low spirits must come occa- 
 sionally; nevertheless, on the whole your courage and 
 trust have sustained you, and for that I am unspeakably 
 grateful. 
 
 I am so glad you liked the little veil; it seemed to me 
 pretty, and I am sure you will turn it to some use. 
 
 I told you that I got on all right at the two functions 
 yesterday, which I had quite dreaded. The mitre was 
 enormous and would have been a mask, only the Master 
 of Ceremonies poised it on my ears: at Vespers they had 
 stitched it up, and it fitted beautifully. The music was 
 fine, but too grandiose and florid for my taste; only the 
 professional singers took any part. 
 
 However, they were all pleased and I was much thanked. 
 
 I think you rather take it for granted that the Beraneks 
 were guilty: I don't at all; I merely think that there 
 was enough to justify the police in taking action, i.e., that 
 they were not bullying, but merely taking precaution to 
 be on the safe side. I find it really was because of the 
 girl's journey to Switzerland that the arrest took place: 
 the police went with her, stayed near her all the time in 
 Swit(;zerland, came back with her, and on the next day 
 arrested all the family. She was with Germans the 
 whole time — but then it was to hand over the young 
 cousin to her parents, and it was the police themselves 
 who gave the order that the little girl should not remain 
 here: so the Beraneks had to send her away, and they 
 could hardly send a child of thirteen to Switzerland, in 
 war time, all by herself. What seemed to me so im- 
 prudent was Mile. Beranek staying on in Switzerland a 
 fortnight, as that could not be necessary. 
 
 One thing very much against the spy theory is this: 
 from the beginning / have had one key of the letter box.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 271 
 
 and I can't imagine a spy family risking any dangerous 
 letters falling into a stranger's hands; and as I opened 
 the box, which is at the gate, every time I passed in or 
 out, they must have known that no letter of theirs would 
 be likely to escape my notice. 
 
 Tuesday a.m. 
 
 It is a regular white fog, with an autumn chill in the 
 air and yet no doubt by midday it will be ever so hot. 
 
 I hear the Russians are doing very well, also that we 
 are, and also that immense numbers of fresh English 
 troops have come over to reinforce our line; so we are 
 evidently going to do something interesting. 
 
 Since I wrote the above I have said Mass and had 
 breakfast, and the fog has all gone and it is a morning of 
 brilliant sun and blue sky. 
 
 And now this snappy and disjointed letter must be 
 shut up: I wish I could shut myself inside it, and go 
 with it. 
 
 Courage and patience! I shall be going one of these 
 days. 
 
 Tuesday Eveningy August 17, 191 5 
 
 Here I am again at my window, beginning a letter to 
 you, this time early enough to have some hopes of finish- 
 ing it before it gets too dark to write without the lamp. 
 What to tell you is another matter! I did a good morn- 
 ing's work in hospital, seeing a number of new arrivals, 
 almost all of the Leinster Regiment, and hardly any of 
 them very severely wounded. They all seemed very 
 glad to see me, and were glad to get prayer-books, rosaries, 
 scapulars, etc. 
 
 I meant to go for a walk in the park after luncheon, 
 but only read instead. 
 
 I got your letter of Saturday this morning, and am 
 glad you liked mine of Wednesday, and that you were
 
 272 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 amused by it; also that you think the de Missiessy family 
 sounds nice. They are nice, very like an English family 
 of good class. They asked F. to go and see them, but he 
 won't: he has to admit that Comtesse de M. is charming, 
 but for some reason he can't abide Mademoiselle, and I 
 perceive that it is mutual. However, I don't take any 
 notice. I wish he would go, because he might pick up 
 some nice young men friends there; all the young men I 
 met there are of good class and nice. Oddly enough, I 
 have never met any man friend of his who was a gentle- 
 man or nearly one: and I think he likes having inferior 
 men-comrades, as they toady to him: and all the while 
 he is a bit ashamed of them, for if any of them come 
 to see him when I am with him, he always seems relieved 
 and glad that I get up to come away as soon as I can do 
 so without rudeness. Of each of these friends he has 
 invariably said (afterwards), "He is a very good fellow, 
 but not a gentleman." 
 
 "Oh," say I, "you need not tell me that: though I am 
 English I know a French gentleman very well when I 
 see him." 
 
 I fancy the big school he was at was a commercial 
 school, and that he had never mixed with young fellows 
 of good class; and so now he is shy of them. His absolute 
 dislike of visiting places and things of historic interest is 
 extremely unlike the ordinary taste of Frenchmen of 
 position, who are generally particularly fond of seeing 
 and talking about such things. But it is no use com- 
 plaining because one's friend has not one's own tastes. 
 I always knew we had scarcely a taste in common: he 
 hates reading, and has no appreciation of any art except 
 music: pictures are quite uninteresting and meaningless 
 to him. We have had heaps of battles about this — 
 for when I have been with him in Paris I wanted to take 
 the opportunity of seeing the many things of historic 
 and artistic interest there, but he simply wont (and you 
 know our young gentleman can be obstinate) and never
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 273 
 
 cares for anything except shopping or sauntering along 
 the crowded boulevards. 
 
 I only grumble to you, who know how fond I am of 
 him; but really I have sacrificed countless hours to his 
 tastes — or lack of tastes — to please and cheer him, 
 when I personally detested this idle waste of time. He 
 has very good brains and it often fills me with regret to 
 see how he lets them run to seed. I wish he was well 
 enough to work, but he is not, and it's no use thinking of 
 it. I fancy only the higher aristocracy do read in France, 
 among the others there are no books; and I noted often 
 the same thing up at the front. In no house where we 
 billeted were there any books, though often the houses 
 were excellently furnished and evidently belonged to 
 people with plenty of money to spend. 
 
 Do you still get books from Boots' library in Salis- 
 bury? Whenever I get back to writing I don't think I 
 shall want to write anything to do with the War. If I 
 could I should forget it! 
 
 I had a letter of very grateful thanks from my young 
 Jew, who has gone home; at least he has gone to Ireland 
 (London is his home) and he writes from Dublin Castle, 
 where he sleeps in the throne room! I must answer him 
 as soon as I can find a moment for it. 
 
 I am sure Madame de Missiessy would love to have 
 anything you made for her: but were you not expecting 
 some more ''pieces" from Hampton's? If so, wait till 
 they come and make her a pretty bag for work. All the 
 time she and her girl talk they are working, which is not 
 the French way at all: as a matter of fact, she is Belgian, 
 only her husband was French. I told them I had de- 
 scribed to you the little procession of children and friends 
 on the night of her birthday, when they all gave her 
 their gifts of flowers, bonbons, etc., and they said, "Oh, 
 that is not French at all. It is a Belgian custom, and 
 our French relatives and friends laugh at it." 
 
 At the on Saturday the other guests were a refugee
 
 274 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 family from Lille (in German hands), a father about 
 thirty-four, a mother about twenty-eight, and two little 
 boys of twelve and seven. They were pretty little crea- 
 tures, but how they ate! I thought their little stomachs 
 would crack. The lady, who had excellent teeth, smiled 
 incessantly, but did not say much: she was rather pretty, 
 but had powdered herself so profusely that her face 
 looked like a rissole waiting to be fried. 
 
 Now I must stop: my letters grow duller every day: 
 but since the tragic disappearance of the Beraneks nothing 
 has happened. 
 
 A Scots officer in hospital told me this yarn to-day. 
 
 A Scottish laird sent for his gardener and said, "Fer- 
 gusson, I'm given to know that you go about saying I'm 
 a mean fellow, and not much of a gentleman!" 
 
 "Na, na, laird," says Fergusson, "I'm nane o' that 
 talkin' sort: I ay keep my opinion to myself." 
 
 The small cutting below someone gave to Wilcox: 
 
 ''A Notre-Dame 
 
 — Dimanche 1 5 aout, en V'eglise Notre-Dame^ a Ver- 
 sailles, a dix heures du matin, une messe pontificate a 
 et'e celebree par Mgr. Bickersfatte-Drezu, protonotaire 
 apostolique, aumonier de Vhopital militaire anglais de 
 Trianon-Palace. 
 
 Mgr. Bickersfatte est un converii qui s'est fait un 
 nam comme romancier catholique a cote des Nezvmann 
 et des Benson.^' 
 
 I have not really changed my name to Bickersfatte! 
 
 The said Wilcox is nearly all right again, and I think 
 he will box no more. 
 
 I duly received the "Christmas Books" by Thackeray, 
 and have already read "Our Street," "Mrs. Perkin's 
 Ball," and "The Kickleburys on the Rhine," — passable 
 but quite second-rate stuff; and if I had been Lady 
 Ritchie I should have refused to re-publish them side by 
 side with her father's really great books. None of these
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 275 
 
 papers have the least inspiration or illumination; they 
 have only a certain waspish sharpness, and that so re- 
 iterated that it becomes stale and tedious. 
 
 How Thackeray hated the Irish and libelled them! 
 I wonder some big Hibernian did not larrup him: but 
 then Thackeray was very big, too, 
 
 I must stop now to write and thank a lady who has 
 sent me a large box of sweets for the soldiers: they like 
 them very much, almost better than cigarettes. 
 
 This is a deadly dull letter, but / am dull, with all the 
 cotton-woolliness of a cold still in my head. 
 
 I like to think of all your prayers for me, and know 
 they must be heard: don't get discouraged! 
 
 Wednesday Evening, August 25, 191 5 
 
 I HAVE written so many letters this evening that I am 
 nearly at the end of my writing tether. I had tea early 
 and started writing directly after. 
 
 The day has been about as eventful as usual. Mass at 
 eight, breakfast 9.30, hospital till i, luncheon 1,15, 
 then a read and a rest on my bed, then letters till tea, 
 then more letters. 
 
 One of the poor fellows in hospital (not a Catholic) 
 has lost both hands and his sight. He is so brave and 
 patient and cheerful. What must his poor mother 
 feel! 
 
 One of my own patients has temporarily lost both 
 speech and hearing through the explosion of a big shell 
 quite close to him — he received no wound at all. I 
 had to talk with him by writing in a copy-book: he is 
 only twenty and rather a merry-looking lad. 
 
 I wonder if you realise how homesick I am! I am tired 
 to death of Versailles, though I don't want any move 
 except to move home. 
 
 What I miss in all these minor books of Thackeray's 
 is the note of pathos: there are plenty of wonderful
 
 276 John AyscougV s Letters to his Mother 
 
 threads of pathos in "Vanity Fair" and "The Newcomes," 
 and "The Virginians" (especially), but not an atom in 
 these short tales; only a grim, ruthless, scoffing sarcasm 
 and sour fun: and the unrelieved fun ceases to amuse. 
 
 At five o'clock I was saying my rosary for you and 
 picturing you sitting in the garden: it was just the day 
 for it. 
 
 I must stop: my brain is woolly (and so is my pen). 
 
 Thursday Evening, August 26, 191 5 
 
 I RECEIVED your letter of Monday this morning, and 
 not long afterwards went to Paris in the tram, going 
 first to an English chemist's in the Champs Elysees to 
 get some phenacetin, as I had one of my goes of neural- 
 gia. Then to an exhibition of ancient tapestry, lace and 
 ecclesiastical plate saved from Rheims and from various 
 places, such as Ypres, in Flanders. 
 
 The tapestry and lace were most magnificent: I had 
 never seen such "important" specimens of lace any- 
 where, enormous pieces as big as a side-board cloth, i.e., 
 perhaps five yards long and one to two yards deep. 
 The most beautiful was an immense piece of Point D' 
 Argentan, the design quite entrancingly lovely, and in 
 absolutely perfect condition, but there were also equally 
 splendid and huge pieces of Venice point (with raised 
 design) Venice point with flat design, Mechlin point, 
 Brussels, Point d'Alen9on, and countless Spanish and 
 other laces new to me. As to the tapestries they were 
 vast, and quite glorious: what a blessing they were re- 
 moved from Rheims, Ypres, etc. 
 
 Then I went to Lady Austin-Lee and had an excellent 
 lunch. Sir H. seemed well and in good spirits. They 
 have been wonderfully nice to me, and of boundless 
 hospitality: and she always speaks of me to others with 
 extreme affection. 
 
 I should have enjoyed myself better if I had not had
 
 John AyscougV s Letters to his Mother 2'j'j 
 
 a splitting headache all day, which is, I am glad to say, 
 now gone. Paris on a blazing August day is not the best 
 cure for a headache: not that it is noisy, or stuffy: its 
 streets are wonderfully quiet for a great city, and the 
 spaces are so huge and open there is plenty of air. Still, 
 I think, the air of vehement movement and bustle makes 
 a headache much worse. 
 I must go to dinner. 
 
 Saturday Night, August 28, 191 5 
 
 It has been hotter than ever all day to-day, with the 
 sort of heat I specially dislike: a thick, dirty-feeling 
 heat, without any visible sun. A sort of sirocco, in 
 fact. F. came this afternoon and asked me to take him 
 round to see our hospital, which I did. While we were 
 going through the wards Lady Austin-Lee came in, and 
 asked us both to luncheon again for next Thursday: is 
 she not hospitable .f* 
 
 I received enclosed from Lady Glenconner, which you 
 may Hke to read: I had written to her a few days ago, 
 when feeling particularly homesick, demanding one of 
 her long letters to interest and cheer me up. Poor 
 woman, I think it needs all her courage, and sense of 
 duty to England, to keep her up against the anxiety of 
 having both her elder boys out in the war: Bim at the 
 front in this country, and Christopher, younger still, on 
 his ship in the Dardanelles. And, though she seems very 
 happy in her daughter's marriage, still the loss of a third 
 child, and the only girl, from the home must make the 
 circle very small now. Besides it seems to me that the 
 marrying of one's daughter must make a woman feel 
 old: I don't suppose she is forty yet, at which age many 
 spinsters are called girls! But with the probability of 
 being a grandmother in a year or so one can hardly 
 think of oneself as a girl. She is really a friend and her 
 cleverness and Wyndham brilliance, and her many
 
 278 John AyscougVs Letters to his Mother 
 
 affairs never make her overlook the absent, or make them 
 "out of sight, out of mind." I do hope and pray no 
 harm may come to her boys: but the Guards have all 
 through this war suffered terribly, and I see she is full 
 of dread. 
 
 I sent you "The Sacristans" this morning, and a 
 cutting from a Yankee paper calling it a very fine story. 
 I remember, when I wrote it, thinking it a good bit of 
 work, but I was too lazy to read it again before sending 
 it to the Catholic World, and entirely forgot what it is 
 about. I think I remember that it was rather grim and 
 tragic. 
 
 You write about my unselfishness — well, I always 
 think one can (if one has any sense) know one's own 
 faults and their opposites as well as anyone else can 
 know them: and I don't think I am selfish, only I demand 
 affection for affection, and when I fail to get it, then I 
 am sore and perhaps unreasonable. What I mean is 
 this — I expect I try to buy affection by acts of what 
 people call unselfishness, and real unselfishness wants 
 nothing, not even affection or gratitude. 
 
 Though I told you that to-day's heat is the sort I 
 dislike, it has not tried me at all, a proof that I am well. 
 I have not, for a long time now, had any more of that 
 tired, languid feeling. 
 
 F. returned to the charge to-day about trying to make 
 me go to pontificate vespers for the nuns at his hospital 
 to-morrow. I fancy he had promised to make me do it, 
 and his obstinacy was engaged! Three times he returned 
 to the charge, and at last he said, "You don't know how 
 much I am annoyed at your continued refusal." Then 
 I said, "My dear boy: I do not want to tell you how much 
 it annoys me that you will continue to make me refuse. 
 When I intend to do anything I am asked I say 'Yes' 
 at once. I do not refuse three or four times in order to 
 say *Yes' at last." 
 
 The little lavender-bags are so sweet and charming:
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 279 
 
 I keep one for myself, and I gave some to some of the 
 nursing sisters in the hospital, who were dehghted 
 to get them. Wilcox got one which he promptly sent 
 home to be kept among his treasures. He has a profound 
 veneration for you! 
 
 I fill my letters with very uninteresting talk . . . but 
 there is nothing to tell you! My life is as monotonous 
 as a cuckoo's song, and if cuckoos wrote daily letters to 
 their parents one would pity the parents. I am to go 
 to dinner, and so good night. 
 
 Monday^ 8 a.m., August 30, 191 5 
 
 I AM only going to say a hurried "good morning," 
 and then am going oflF on a long day's pleasuring. Our 
 hospital has, for the moment, very few patients, and 
 consequently one can get away for a whole day nearly 
 without omitting any duty: and I am off to Fontaine- 
 bleau. It is a fine, but cool, morning, and I have always 
 been talking of this trip to Fontainebleau. It is thirty 
 miles on the other side of Paris, and so one has to make 
 an early start from here if one intends to get back the 
 same evening, as I do. 
 
 The rain I hoped for on Saturday night duly arrived, 
 and yesterday was a lovely, clear, cool, clean-aired day, 
 sunny and with a blue sky: before we had had great heat, 
 with (often) a clouded sky, or a hot haze. 
 
 ... I must shut up or I shall miss my train. 
 
 Wednesday Evenings 5.30, September i, 191 5 
 
 I SENT you such a mean little letter to-day that now 
 I must try to make up by sending you one of decent 
 length, though I do not know at all what I am to make it 
 out of . . . 
 
 I duly received the second little letter-case which I 
 will bestow on some deserving object!
 
 28o John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 It is only half-past five, and nearly dusk, because the 
 sky is covered with dark clouds, and I expect we shall 
 have a wet night, but the day has been fine and bright 
 though very cool. After writing to you I must write 
 to Lady Glenconner, or she will think me ungrateful, 
 as she obeyed my order to write me a long letter, by 
 return of post. 
 
 I get up very early here, and yet somehow I don't 
 get half as much into the day as I do at home: away from 
 my own house I never seem able to get into an effective 
 routine and system of work. 
 
 I sent you a very little geranium-seed, but though the 
 border is so long, and so broad, and none of the first 
 bloom was cut, there is very little seed: the heads, left 
 on the plants, are very unsightly, but hardly any have 
 seed, they are just ugly withered bunches. I looked for 
 more seed just now, and only got about half-a-dozen 
 seeds. 
 
 Seeing Fontainebleau made me realise more the selfish 
 extravagance of Louis XIV in building Versailles. He 
 had magnificent palaces in Paris — our kings had nothing 
 in London approaching the Tuileries (which I just re- 
 member, but long vanished now), or the Louvre; he 
 had all the glorious chateaux of the Loire — Blois, 
 Chambord, Chenonceau, Azay, Langeais, Amboise: and, 
 if they were too far from Paris for country-houses, he 
 had St. Germain and Fontainebleau. He could not 
 hope to equal Fontainebleau, and he did not: but he 
 tried to surpass it, which he could only do in mere size, 
 richness, and grandiosity. Of course Versailles is more 
 grandiose, much richer, much more ostentatious, thari 
 Fontainebleau, but in charm and ar istic splendour it 
 does not touch it: and the Versailles park, clever and 
 even imposing as it is, has none of the loveliness of the 
 Fontainebleau forest. To console you, however, for 
 not having seen the forest of Fontainebleau, I may say 
 that, lovely as it is, the trees are nothing hke so grand as
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 281 
 
 those in the forest at Savernake: they are crowded too 
 close, and there is too much undergrowth (to encourage 
 the wild-boars, etc.), so that none of the trees are forest- 
 giants like those at Savernake. And Louis XIV knew 
 well, when he spent his millions in making Versailles, 
 that France was starving. 
 
 The book of views of Fontainebleau cannot, of course, 
 give you an idea of the exquisite schemes of colour in 
 each room: no palace can be more beautiful in that 
 respect, for sheer perfection can never be surpassed. 
 
 One of the little lavender bags you sent I keep in my 
 letter-drawer, which I just opened, and a quite delicious 
 fragrance came out to remind me of you and home — 
 of which I never need any reminder. To-morrow I 
 go to lunch with Lady Austin-Lee, and shall see no more 
 of her for some time, as she is leaving Paris for a month's 
 holiday in the country: I don't think she often goes to 
 England — which, of course, is not her home. She is 
 a very sincere woman, and I think with her once a real 
 friend it is. always a friend. . . . 
 
 I owe tons of letters — to Lady O'Conor and the 
 Bishop among others: and the latter is always so good; 
 I leave his letters six or seven weeks unanswered, and as 
 soon as I do write to him he answers by return, always 
 with brimming affection. 
 
 Father Wrafter has sent me another parcel, goodies 
 for the men and more envelopes for me — to him, too, 
 I must write. 
 
 I wish I could paint you the sunset effects outside my 
 window — the sunset itself is at the other side of the 
 house. But the upper sky is all slaty-grey, the fore- 
 ground of the garden dusky green, with only the colour- 
 patches of roses and white hydrangeas showing up, for 
 it is in the house's shadow: but a row of cypress bushes 
 catches a wonderful golden gleam, and behind it a long 
 brown roof has turned carmine; the trees beyond the 
 garden are deep brown-pink, and the white houses among
 
 282 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 them are salmon-rose, with their roofs a brilHant raw 
 scarlet like new flower-pots: just the lower rim of the 
 sky behind is lilac-rose, flushing into a warmer purple 
 every moment. 
 
 It is lighter now than when I began writing an hour 
 ago. But the moment the sun has set it will be nearly 
 dark. 
 
 I have proclaimed an armistice with the lean cat and 
 made her into a pensioner: instead of fleeing from me 
 she comes now for a crusty breakfast, and for a supper 
 of scraps, and the birds are less an object of wistful 
 interest to her. I read somewhere that beasts of prey 
 are always hungry, as they never — with all their hunting 
 — get enough to fill their gaunt sides. It made me 
 feel quite sorry for them. 
 
 I must now write some other letters, so I will stop 
 this babble which you must find nearly as silly as Tenny- 
 son's brook. 
 
 Friday Mornings September 3, 191 5 
 
 "I HOPE you are quite well as this leaves me at 
 present," my cold having entirely vanished. 
 
 Yesterday F. and I lunched with the Austin-Lees, 
 Sir Henry being there, and a Captain Randall, a great 
 aviateur and expert in it. The two latter went off^ after 
 luncheon to the embassy to do business, and Lady Austin- 
 Lee, F. and I went ofi^ to a cinematograph in the Boule- 
 vard des Italiens. The show was excellent, and Lady 
 A.-L. enjoyed it tremendously, but I found it too long, 
 as it lasted over two hours. The war films (quite recent 
 ones) were excellent and very wonderful. 
 
 Lady A.-L. wanted me to go and have tea with her 
 afterwards, but I wished to go and buy the steel helmet 
 for Bim, that Lady Glenconner asked me to get, so I 
 went off" on my own and left her. 
 
 It is a very autumnal morning, dark and sombre, and
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 283 
 
 threatening abundant rain: quite cold, so I am feeling 
 well and cheerful. 
 
 Just now I burned my finger — the one one holds a 
 pen with, with the lid of the kettle, and I am trying to 
 write this with the pen held between the third and fourth 
 fingers, and do not find it all easy. 
 
 Your Tuesday's letter came just now, in which you 
 tell of your after-tea visit to the garden. If at any time 
 you are tired or sleepy, don't force yourself to write a 
 letter, but just write a few words saying, "I am well and 
 will write soon." What matters is for me to know 
 that you are well. It isn't news I care for. And both 
 of us have often some difficulty in finding any. 
 
 I must shut up and go to the hospital. 
 
 Many thanks for the pretty and lucky white heather. 
 
 Friday Night, September 3, 191 5 
 
 I AM very tired after a long and wearisome afternoon 
 in Paris trying to find the steel "calotte" for Bimbo 
 Tennant, as his mother asked me. I tried innumerable 
 shops ever so far apart, some in the most central and 
 fashionable neighbourhoods, and some far away in 
 extremely ww-fashionable quarters, to all of which shops 
 I had been recommended: it was only very late in the 
 afternoon that at last I did get the thing; so to-morrow 
 I can send it ojff" to Bimbo, though I feel much doubt as 
 to whether he will wear it. I did nothing else in Paris, 
 so my visit has given me nothing to tell you. 
 
 Wilcox has sallied forth to see an old French priest who 
 talks English and is devoted to him; this priest is abso- 
 lutely bUnd, and says his Mass by heart. Before our 
 menage in this Garden House began Wilcox could go and 
 see his friend much oftener. He is too busy now, for 
 Wilcox has to be housemaid, caterer, marketer, cook, 
 and kitchen-maid, and it keeps him pretty well occupied. 
 / cook some things, omelettes of ever so many sorts
 
 284 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 invented by Mr. Ayscough, sauces for our fish, etc., 
 and puddings when we have any. 
 
 Did I tell you that in the cinematograph yesterday 
 there was a series of quite wonderful Indian shikar (hunt- 
 ing) scenes.^ Too wonderful; one of them made me 
 feel quite sick. A sort of caravan of native camel- 
 drivers, passing through a jungle, decide to let loose one 
 camel and sacrifice it, to give them time to escape from 
 some tigers. You see the wretched camel loosed and 
 left, and then as it trots to and fro across a glade a huge 
 tiger leaps out and attacks it. The beast makes for the 
 camel's long neck and in a few seconds pulls the huge 
 terrified animal down, and you see all the horrible strug- 
 gling and kicking till the struggles cease and the camel 
 is dead. It was like a nightmare. 
 
 There is none of that quivering and sputtering there 
 used to be in the old cinematograph: it is all quite clear 
 and smooth, with no starts or flickers. 
 
 I wonder how Madame M. is enjoying herself at the 
 seaside; her only idea of dissipation is going to church, 
 and I fancy she will find it hard work amusing herself. 
 In some ways she is like Countess S., but less of a lady, 
 and extremely generous, whereas our older friend was 
 mean and stingy. The resemblance chiefly consists in 
 a total absence of tastes, and a flat sort of pietosity. 
 But Madame M. does much for the poor, and works 
 really hard nursing the wounded. Neither lady ever 
 reads or thinks: and Mme. M. doesn't even gossip! 
 
 I must be going to bed and, as I have nothing to write 
 about, you do not lose much. Good-night, dear, and 
 may you have none but happy dreams and wake to- 
 morrow to a happy day. 
 
 Sunday i September 5, 191 5 
 
 It is a lovely autumn morning, just the sort I love, 
 bright and cool. If I were not homesick I should say
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 285 
 
 Versailles was looking lovely: but I am "fed up" with 
 it, as the soldiers say, and can't admire it as it deserves. 
 
 Last night, instead of writing to you, I wrote a long 
 letter to the Bishop, as his last to me had been waiting 
 since July — six weeks — for an answer. 
 
 This day last year the horrible retreat from Mons 
 ended and we began to move north again. How well 
 I remember it! We were quite near to Paris, though 
 I did not realise then how near, having no map: I have 
 just been looking out the places on a map of the environs 
 of Paris I bought yesterday. 
 
 turned up yesterday and wanted luncheon: I 
 
 can't manage luncheon for guests in this house now, 
 so took him off to an hotel: to-day he lunches in Paris 
 with a middle-class comrade, to-morrow he asks me to 
 give him lunch again. I wish he would try to content 
 himself with the luncheon the nuns give him at his 
 convent and not be so restless. But, as he will not read, 
 he must be always running about. 
 
 We had a smallish batch of wounded in yesterday, 
 about two hundred and seventy, after having none for 
 several weeks. So I must go round and see them. 
 
 Your parcel of lavender-bags also arrived this morning, 
 and quite scent the room. Lady Austin-Lee said on 
 Thursday that the one I gave her made the whole drawer 
 in which she put it fragrant. 
 
 I have been up since five and am quite sleepy already 
 — it is about ten-thirty. 
 
 September 6, 191 5 
 
 I RECEIVED this morning your letter acknowledging 
 mine telling you of my Fontainebleau visit. . . . Fon- 
 tainebleau is in every way superior to Versailles, though 
 less pretentious, and one feels all the time how the former 
 had been a home of the French kings for eight hundred 
 years, whereas Versailles was only built to be a pompous 
 death-bed for the monarchy.
 
 286 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Yesterday, having had a late breakfast after Mass, 
 and wanting no luncheon, I hired a victoria and drove 
 again to Malmaison, the Empress Josephine's house and 
 home. It was a lovely afternoon and a lovely drive. 
 
 Outside the "barrier" (town-gate) at this end of Ver- 
 sailles, the country, real country, begins at once, whereas 
 outside the barrier on the Paris road there is no country, 
 but houses the whole way to Paris, though it is true they 
 are but a narrow strip with forests behind them. 
 
 The first place we passed was a hamlet called Rocquen- 
 court, with a large, very comfortable-looking chateau, 
 in very large and fine grounds, backed with woods, 
 belonging to Prince Murat; he is a cousin of the Clarys. 
 You know Napoleon I's sister Caroline married his 
 general, Joachim Murat, and Napoleon made them King 
 and Queen of Naples: and the present Prince Murat, 
 who would also be King of Naples had not the Napoleonic 
 power fallen, is very rich, and very thick with the Clarys, 
 who have often talked of him to me. 
 
 We also passed a hunting lodge of the Emperor Napo- 
 leon Ill's and a pretty property of the Empress Eugenie's 
 — all carved, so to speak, out of the forest. At Malmai- 
 son I discovered that the Empress Josephine and her 
 daughter. Queen Hortense (mother of Napoleon III), 
 wife of Napoleon's brother Louis, King of Holland, were 
 buried in the parish church, called Rueil: and went 
 there. It is a handsome, well-kept church, and I got 
 you cards of the monuments, which are huge (much too 
 big). The drive home was by another road through 
 a forest called St. Cucufa — a very odd name: quite 
 lovely, with a very pretty lake in the middle of it, a 
 small lake that made me think of some of those near 
 Ellesmere. 
 
 I was game to go on a long while writing: but has 
 
 just come in asking for luncheon, and I can't write with 
 anyone waiting ostentatiously for me to be finished. 
 
 So good-bye. I send two or three odds and ends of
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 287 
 
 cards too — a very nice Fontainebleau one, and two of 
 Versailles. 
 
 Monday Evening, 6.45 
 
 Yesterday was a very bright, though quite an autumn 
 day, all sun and shine, though driving through the forest 
 there was an unmistakable "bite" in the air, belonging 
 rather to late October than early September — whereas 
 last year at this time, at the front, September was all 
 blazing heat; like a very hot August. To-day there has 
 been less sun, after midday, and between five and six 
 quite cold, though a hot thick fog came on. 
 
 I am, this evening, a bit in the dumps and am selfish 
 enough to tell you so. I am homesick in every way, 
 not only for you! but for my home occupations, too. 
 The day here seems to slip away with so little done: 
 and yet I get up very early. 
 
 There seems no doubt at all that Germany is beginning 
 seriously to want peace: but the Allies know very well 
 that peace now would really give them nothing after all 
 they have spent in suffering and in men, in money, and 
 in sacrifices of every sort. The New Tork Tribune put 
 it very well, saying, "Germany is like a gamester who 
 has been winning all night, and says, 'Now we have played 
 enough; let's stop,' but the others, who have been losing, 
 say, 'Not at all: you must go on.'" The AlHes feel that 
 Time will be their best friend, and Germany knows it 
 will not be hers. The Allies began to fight short of 
 everything, men, munitions, training, and comprehension 
 of what the war was to be: now they are much stronger, 
 and grow stronger daily: so they can't be expected to 
 want to stop — just at Germany's moment: and espe- 
 cially as they know what impossible demands Germany 
 would make. 
 
 Still it is a beginning of hope that one side should at 
 last be thinking of peace. Obviously, as long as neither 
 side thought of it there could be no beginning of hope.
 
 288 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 And, after all, I expect that when Germany sees that 
 the Allies are not jumping at the first idea of peace, her 
 demands will come down: the more she realises that 
 the Allies waiit to go on, the less anxious to go on will she 
 herself be. . . . 
 
 I had a charming letter to-day from Herbert Ward 
 (talking of the cinema in my letter the other day reminded 
 me of him: do you remember he was with us when a 
 man came and gave a short "demonstration" in our 
 dining-room?). He is now in Quetta at the extreme north 
 of India, on a signalling course; a great change from 
 Madras, his station, in the far south. He is a very 
 faithful and devoted friend. . . , 
 
 It is lamentable that they should have disfigured that 
 dear little old plain church: it wanted no restoring, and 
 as for yellow-washing the old Saxon font it was brutal. 
 
 I am to go and eat. So good night. 
 
 September 7, 191 5 
 
 You will be astonished to see a letter with this date — 
 let me hasten to tell you I have 7iot been moved from 
 Versailles, and shall go back there to-morrow night. But 
 I have always wanted to see Chartres, which has about 
 the most interesting cathedral in France, and a famous 
 ancient shrine of Our Lady; so, as to-morrow is the feast 
 of Our Lady's birthday, I determined to come here 
 to-day and say Mass at the shrine to-morrow morning. 
 Chartres is a smallish place, perhaps as big as 
 Winchester, but a very clean, cheerful little country 
 city, beautifully situated, and the cathedral finely placed. 
 It is one of the oldest in France, and, as you will see by 
 the cards I shall send you, extraordinarily beautiful. 
 It is full of almost unique mediaeval stained glass, and one 
 of the two spires is a dream of beauty: the other, much 
 less lovely, is far older. The famous shrine of Our Lady 
 is very interesting; in the time of the Druids there was
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 289 
 
 a black image of a Mother and Child, and those heathens 
 venerated it as the mysterious presentiment of a "Vierge 
 Enfantee," a Virgin who should have a son. When 
 Christianity was first preached here, the pioneers of the 
 new faith did not sniff at the old devotion, but explained 
 it, and said, "The Virgin with the Son is Mary, the Mother 
 of Jesus, the God made man," and the old worship, 
 become articulate and conscious of itself, went on, and 
 has gone on ever since. 
 
 The shrine is a wonderful chapel in a quite wonderful 
 crypt under the great cathedral: and is lighted by count- 
 less tiny lamps that have a singular and most impressive 
 effect. I got leave to go there alone, when no crowd 
 was there, and said the Rosary in perfect quiet and 
 solitude (I am to say Mass there at six-thirty in the 
 morning) and was allowed to venerate the special relic 
 of the place: i.e.^ the veil of Our Lady. The whole 
 relic is only exposed on rare occasions, but a Httle bit has 
 been detached and is enclosed in a Gothic reliquary and 
 that they brought to us, and I was able to examine it 
 closely. It is a little piece of some very ancient linen 
 fabric, woven loosely, with a sort of pattern running 
 through it. It is one of the great relics of the Catholic 
 Church, and it is really a privilege to have been able to 
 see and venerate it under these conditions, apart from 
 any crowd and fuss. The whole crypt is really wonder- 
 fully impressive, huge, of immense age, dating back to 
 the introduction of Christianity in almost apostolic 
 times, and unspoilt by any attempts to make it smart 
 and modern: the weird lighting with the countless tiny 
 oil-lamps is exactly what suits it. In one part is a stone 
 well, one hundred feet deep, down which the first martyrs 
 of Christianity in these parts were thrown. I have seen 
 nothing so impressive outside Rome. 
 
 I am staying in a very old, quiet, and comfortable 
 hotel, clean and excellent, but quite unpretentious, and 
 not expensive: the whole place is more like an English
 
 290 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 cathedral town than any I have seen outside England: 
 only here the cathedral is still Catholic, whereas in 
 England the cathedrals are torn from the worship for 
 which they were built. 
 
 This letter won't go by the military post, and I should 
 like to know how long it takes to reach you. 
 
 The railway journey was very pretty, through a coun- 
 try like an endless park, with prosperous villages here and 
 there, rich farms and opulent rows of new corn-ricks. 
 
 I wrote my last letter in the "dumps;" the change of 
 scene and air has quite cheered me up again. And, 
 as you know, I always like travelling, even short distances; 
 and the mere railway journey is a pleasure and relief 
 to me. I am uncommonly sleepy, and must go to bed. 
 
 Wednesday Night, September 8, 191 5 
 
 This morning I posted to you by the French civil post 
 at Chartres a letter I wrote you there last night: but 
 I do not know whether you will receive it before this one 
 or after. I need only repeat that letter so far as to 
 explain that I have long been anxious to visit Chartres, 
 whose cathedral is one of the most ancient, beautiful, 
 and interesting in France — or indeed in any country: 
 and as to-day is Our Lady's birthday, and the great 
 feast-day there, I went yesterday so as to be able to say 
 Mass in the shrine there to-day. 
 
 I have so many different cards of it that I shall send 
 them in at least two batches — perhaps in three: but 
 none are duplicates, and I would like you to keep them all. 
 
 I said Mass in the shrine at six-thirty this morning. 
 The chapel is in the crypt, which was crowded with 
 hundreds of pilgrims who all went to Holy Communion. 
 It was wonderfully impressive and devotional, almost 
 like saying Mass in one of the Roman catacombs. After 
 Mass I went to the hotel for breakfast, then went to 
 High Mass sung in the cathedral itself. The Arch-
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 291 
 
 bishop "assisted" at the throne, and I was in the stalls, 
 and saw the function beautifully. It was fine in itself 
 and the setting glorious. The vast church was crammed 
 with pilgrims, and the music was solemn and good — 
 pure Gregorian: and the ceremonies carried out with 
 perfection: quite one of the scenes that one can never 
 forget. 
 
 After luncheon I went to visit two other churches, 
 St. Pierre and St. Aignau: both very fine and very ancient. 
 The stained glass at the cathedral, and at St, Pierre, 
 is splendid, and hard to rival, being of the eleventh 
 and thirteenth centuries, very rich, though somewhat 
 sombre in efi^ect, of very dark colouring, and making 
 the church darker than is usual. 
 
 After another farewell visit to the cathedral I caught 
 an express train back here: and found my Garden House 
 very homely and comfortable. 
 
 I do not think any cards can quite convey the singular 
 loveliness and charm of Chartres Cathedral. Every 
 moment one looked at it, from every point of view, its 
 beauty seemed to become more entrancing, and it stands 
 well, not shut in by mean houses as many Continental 
 cathedrals are. Rouen is not comparable to it: Chartres 
 being much earlier, and much purer in style, less florid 
 and less heavy. And the city of Rouen does not attract 
 me a bit; it is big, noisy, crowded, and very dirty, whereas 
 Chartres is brilliantly clean and cheerful, stands high, 
 and though the streets are often very ancient and winding, 
 they are gay, and at the same time quiet; though it 
 has forty thousand inhabitants it is a regular country 
 town, with no manufactures or tall chimneys and no 
 slush or grime. Round the cathedral there seems to 
 reign a smiling calm, that the caw of countless jackdaws 
 upon the towers only makes more peaceful and more 
 gay. The weather was perfect, very brilliant sunshine, 
 and not too hot, though a great deal warmer than it has 
 been for weeks.
 
 292 John Ayscough*s Letters to his Mother 
 
 It was not at all an expensive trip either, for with 
 military ticket one got there (first class) for four francs, 
 and the hotel, though thoroughly comfortable, was very 
 cheap. 
 
 I must go to bed now, and so wishing you none but 
 happy dreams and praying hard^ hard that we may 
 soon be together again. . . . 
 
 Friday Mornirig, September 10, 191 5 
 
 I AM beginning what I fear will be a very short and 
 a very empty letter before going across to the convent 
 to say Mass. It is a perfect autumn morning, clear, 
 pale, azure sky, light horizon-haze, bright sun, and tiny, 
 smooth breeze. But it will become hot as the day ad- 
 vances, as yesterday did — our hottest day for weeks. 
 
 Yesterday afternoon I went to tea — the first tea I 
 have been to, I think, since leaving England — with a 
 very nice family of Americans; their name is Pringle, 
 and they are, of course, of Scotch descent, but their 
 family has been in America for nearly three hundred 
 years. They themselves were all born in America, but 
 have lived in France nearly all their lives: they have a 
 house at Biarritz and another here, to which latter they 
 have only just come for the autumn. Only one of the 
 four sisters is a Catholic, but they are all ardent admirers 
 of Mr. Ayscough's books. The family consists of four 
 sisters and a brother. 
 
 I found them having tea under the trees in their garden, 
 and was instantly surrounded by a yelping crowd of 
 dogs (six), one of which, without a moment's hesitation, 
 bit me in the front of the leg. The ladies seemed to 
 take it as a matter of course, and said: 
 
 "How silly of you to bite Monsignor, Toto; he is not 
 going to hurt you." 
 
 There was a young American there, too, from Paris, 
 I think; very American, with an accent you could have
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 293 
 
 wiped your boots on, but evidently a gentleman and 
 nice. He looked rather scowly when the train of dogs 
 flew at him on his arrival. 
 
 By this post I send you two ginger-bread pigs, one for 
 you and one for Christie, which I bought in the pil- 
 grimage-fair at Chartres. They were made to order, 
 at least the names were! 
 
 In the little box I put the rest of the cards, and a small 
 round box which I bought at that Kermesse at Chaville 
 two or three months ago: I didn't in the least want it, 
 but the enterprising lady insisted on my giving her five 
 francs for it. So now I send it on to you, with a little 
 geranium seed in it, and you can use it for what you like. 
 
 I find that many people now feel certain that the war 
 cannot last beyond the end of this year; that the Germans 
 are running short of money, men, and food, and that 
 soon they will be forced to stop fighting. I'm sure I 
 hope so. I began this before Mass and went on with it 
 after my breakfast. During Mass the sun made pretty 
 dancing lights and shadows on the altar, shining through 
 the leaves of the trees outside that the breeze was shaking. 
 
 We had a new batch of wounded in yesterday, not 
 very many, but nearly three hundred. I must go round 
 to the hospital now. 
 
 Sunday Night, September 12, 191 5 
 
 I WENT to Paris to-day to lunch with the English Pas- 
 sionists at their house in the Avenue Hoche. They are 
 three. Fathers Logan, Hearne and McDarly, all very 
 nice, straighforward, friendly men, and I enjoyed it. 
 After luncheon we sat in the garden and talked, and then 
 I came back here for my little evening service. 
 
 Since then I have been reading the Month you sent me 
 with this writing-block, and I think I have read it all 
 through. Such a long quiet read was a treat; I seem 
 to have so little time for reading here.
 
 294 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 I heard that the Cardinal cannot get nearly all the 
 chaplains he wants for this place (France, I mean), . . „ 
 Not that priests are unwilling to come, but because their 
 Bishops won't let them. 
 
 Father Keating, the editor of the Month, saw the 
 Cardinal a few days ago and tackled him about the 
 continuation of my series of papers in the Month, and 
 the Cardinal at once said that I am to go on writing them, 
 and spoke of them in terms of high eulogy: but the 
 indiscreet writings of some chaplains, to newspapers, etc., 
 had caused the general prohibition some months ago of 
 all writing for the press, which prohibition I have scru- 
 pulously obeyed; this prohibition was, of course, de- 
 manded by the War Office. You will accordingly see 
 a new instalment of my "French and English" in the 
 October Month. 
 
 The American family I lunched with yesterday are 
 very good company, and ought to be in a book. They 
 are from Carolina, and aristocratic but not poor, as many 
 of the old Southern gentry are; on the contrary they look 
 in every way all calm prosperity. They have quite 
 a nice garden to their house, and seem to spend most of 
 the day sitting out in it, knitting, embroidering and 
 talking — especially the latter. The small dog who bit 
 me made great friends with me on my second visit and 
 was jealous when any of the other dogs came near. 
 
 Monday Evening, September 13, 191 5 
 
 I haven't anything particular to tell you, except that 
 I am always thinking of you, and saying countless Masses 
 for you. When you sit looking out of the window if 
 you think of me you may be pretty sure I am thinking 
 of you, too. . . . 
 
 Do you remember a very nice young aviator who 
 came over to luncheon once — his name was Mapple- 
 beck, and he had had a bad accident while flying, but
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 295 
 
 was quite recovered? I am so grieved to see that he 
 has been killed. Poor lad: he was very lovable and 
 attractive. 
 
 We are having a spell of heat here, too, but I do not 
 feel it at all. I have been rather uncomfortable lately, 
 owing to inflammation of the periosteum, which means 
 the envelope of the roots of my teeth. I went and saw 
 the dentist and told him flatly I would only have a tooth 
 out if he could undertake it should be a very diff'erent 
 operation from the last. This was the elderly dentist, 
 not his partner, who operated before. He examined 
 my teeth and said, "They are excellent: but they are 
 quite extraordinarily firmly rooted in your jaws: only 
 one, the broken one (it is not decayed, but simply broken), 
 is the culprit that sets up the slight inflammation: but 
 I cant advise you to have it out: for it is fixed hke a 
 rock in your head, and you would suffer horribly. My 
 partner will never forget how you sufi^ered with the 
 corresponding tooth in the other jaw which he extracted. 
 He says it was far the worst extraction he ever had to do, 
 and he could not have believed anyone's tooth would 
 be so embedded like a rock in the jaw." 
 
 So I have to grin and bear it: and no doubt it will be 
 all right in a day or two. I was quite pleased to find 
 the dentist of my own opinion that it would be useless 
 to risk the real shock of another extraction hke the last. 
 And I think, considering that that other tooth was so 
 immovably fixed I was lucky that he did not break 
 away some of my jaw with it. The cocaine injection 
 deadened the pain of the first extraction, but there were 
 four, and the eff"ect had quite gone ofi^ before the whole 
 thing was completed, so that the last two . . . were 
 really wrenched out without anything to make the shock 
 and pain less. I felt that my heart could not stand much 
 more, and I believe if I had gone on to have another 
 tooth out then I should have collapsed. 
 
 I must stop: and so good night.
 
 296 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Saturday Morning, 6.15 a.m., September 18, 191 5 
 
 Your letter of Tuesday morning I found at the hospital 
 when I went round there yesterday morning, after clos- 
 ing my own letter to you. 
 
 I worked in hospital till luncheon-time, then came home 
 and after luncheon went off to the chateau to meet the 
 Pringles, F. and young Mr. Dawson (he is quite grown-up, 
 you understand — about thirty-seven or thirty-eight!) 
 
 We had a very interesting time going over the chateau; 
 in addition to all I had seen before — the state apart- 
 ments, chapel, etc. ; we saw the private apartments of the 
 kings and queens, the apartments of the princesses 
 (daughters of Louis XV), and the apartment of Madame 
 du Barry: the bathroom of Louis XV and that of Marie 
 Antoinette, etc. 
 
 F. got us into trouble! We were in the king's dressing- 
 room, all close together in a group, and I said to the 
 guardians, "I suppose that door is a 'service-door' for 
 the servants to enter by?" 
 
 **No, Monseigneur, it is a cupboard," said the man. 
 F., with all of us looking, must needs open the door, 
 and. . . . 
 
 "Modern!" explained the guardian, laconically. 
 
 The four Americans evidently were choking with 
 laughter, and so were we three men: but we all scuttled 
 off to pretend to admire some carvings or pictures or 
 something! 
 
 We also went up onto the roofs, and the views over 
 the surrounding gardens, park, and forests were really 
 glorious. 
 
 Then we went to tea with Mr. Dawson at his flat, 
 and a young M. Pleyel came in and played the piano 
 quite magnificently — the finest playing I ever heard 
 except Paderewski's and Slivinski's: but this young 
 fellow is only twenty, and a soldier (not by profession, 
 but by conscription).
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 297 
 
 I am so glad you like the little brass and silver box that 
 I bought at the Kermesse at Chaville; also the pig — 
 you had better eat him up, or he will get high this close 
 weather. 
 
 In a week or two I shall send you some small plants 
 of the fuchsia I told you of — with scarlet trumpet- 
 shaped pendant flowers: not large plants, as the gardener 
 tells me it is a very quick grower, and these small plants, 
 about ten inches high, will be quite big and tall next 
 year. 
 
 Now I must dress: so good-bye. 
 
 Sunday Nighty September 19, 191 5 
 
 Your letter of Thursday reached me to-day, and now 
 I hope to have a quiet talk, though, like yourself, I haven't 
 a great deal to tell you. Yesterday I had to go to Paris 
 to get Bimbo Tennant a steel helmet, painted dove-grey, 
 in addition to the "calotte" or steel skull-cap I had 
 already sent him. It was hot and stuffy; but to-day 
 has been quite different, sunny, clear, and fresh — much 
 more to my taste. A good many leaves have fallen, 
 and the many boulevards of Versailles are strewn with 
 them. Soon the parks will be looking lovely, but to make 
 the trees turn colour some night-frosts will be wanted 
 and so far there have been none. 
 
 I had a note to-day from Miss Maria Pringle (the 
 Catholic sister) asking me to tea to-morrow; they really 
 are an acquisition to my very small stock of friends here, 
 their talk is pleasant and cheerful, and they are charming 
 ladies, of an old-fashioned sort not too common now. 
 
 I am to lunch with them one day this week, too, to 
 meet a very great friend of theirs of whom I have often 
 heard — the Marquise de Montebello, whose husband 
 used to be a very distinguished ambassador from France 
 to the court of Russia, where Madame de Montebello 
 herself made a great name by her charm and cleverness.
 
 298 John Ayscouglos Letters to his Mother 
 
 On Tuesday morning I am going to Paris to see the 
 consecration of a Bishop by the Cardinal Archbishop of 
 Paris at the Madeleine. The new Bishop — Monseig- 
 neur Riviere, is Cure of the Madeleine and is becoming 
 Bishop of Perigueux: it will be a very fine and interest- 
 ing function; Cardinal Amette will be assisted by the 
 Bishop of Arras (which town is in German hands) and 
 the Archbishop of Sens. 
 
 The Pringles are indignant if one pretends to think 
 them Yankees: for South Carolina was all against the 
 Northern States, and was friendly to England at the time 
 of the war of American Independence. And they only 
 went to America in the eighteenth century, and scofF 
 at the Pilgrim Fathers! 
 
 When I was in India long ago the German Jesuits in 
 Bombay and in that Presidency were extraordinarily 
 kind and hospitable to me, and their work was splendid; 
 they had built half a dozen immense and excellent col- 
 leges, and the Government was loud in praise of their 
 work: now they have all been "deported" (one hundred 
 and twenty-four of them), including the Archbishop of 
 Bombay and the Bishop of Poona, They are not ac- 
 cused of any plotting or disloyalty, and it seems rather 
 hard — but the other missionaries, always very jealous 
 of their splendid work, have been badgering the Govern- 
 ment to "deport" them. As a matter of fact, being 
 turned out of Germany for being Jesuits, they were the 
 last people to want to abuse the hospitality and toler- 
 ation of our Empire. As all the clergy throughout the 
 whole Bombay presidency are Jesuits and Germans, it 
 is a sad thing for the Catholic population in those parts, 
 as they will be left without clergy. Mass, or sacraments. 
 They had been there sixty years, since 1854, and the 
 condition of things when they arrived was very bad: 
 they were given the job on purpose; the only priests 
 there before being nominally "Portuguese" (really ?iatives 
 of Portuguese name, descendants of converts made long
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 299 
 
 ago by Portuguese missionaries, and called by the family 
 names of their Portuguese godparents), ignorant, and 
 incapable. The Jesuits got everything restored to de- 
 cency and order, built churches and schools and colleges 
 everywhere, and made their congregations models of 
 behaviour and inteUigence: and now the whole body of 
 clergy in the Presidency is ''deported" wholesale. 
 Good night. 
 
 Monday Evening, September 20, 191 5 
 
 To-morrow morning I must get up before five and 
 say Mass before six so as to get into Paris in time for 
 the beginning of the consecration of the Bishop of Peri- 
 gueux. So I must write to you to-night, as I may not 
 get home in time to write before our rather early post is 
 made up for England. 
 
 I have not long come in from the Pringles, who asked 
 me to tea. The family (and the dogs) were in full force, 
 and we sat under the trees in the garden, till it grew a 
 little chilly, when we moved indoors. The dogs had 
 several loudly contested battles among themselves, but 
 as they only bit one another I had no objection. 
 
 All morning I worked in the hospital. One poor fel- 
 low has his eyes badly burned by the liquid fire the 
 Germans squirt at our fellows now. But I do not think 
 he will permanently lose his sight. 
 
 I was shown by Miss Maria Pringle a very interesting 
 little note thrown into one of the French trenches by the 
 Germans, and picked up by a French soldier-friend of 
 hers. It was written in good French and said: 
 
 ^'Comrades and brave friends! Why go on fighting 
 against us? We do not hate you; it is the EngHsh we 
 hate. We know how brave you are, and how splendidly 
 you fight: but you cannot dislodge us, we are too strongly 
 entrenched and have too many troops behind us. You 
 will only sacrifice your brave lives for nothing. Do make
 
 300 John AyscougWs Letters to his Mother 
 
 up your minds to surrender and we promise on our word 
 of honour that you shall be well treated. The English 
 are doing badly in Egypt and in South Africa: they will 
 be beaten soon. You are foolish to be on their side. 
 Why be beaten with them.? Come over and trust to 
 us and you will be well treated. 
 
 *' Tour comrades and friends.** 
 
 I had often heard of these notes, but had never seen 
 one. 
 
 The French are not at all likely to be taken in by that 
 sort of stuff: it would take a very different salt to catch 
 them by the tail. 
 
 Your letter of Friday arrived this morning: I am so 
 glad it cheered and pleased you to know how constantly 
 I say Mass for you — many times each week — and that 
 my thoughts are almost incessantly with you. 
 
 I knew you would be grieved to hear of young Mapple- 
 beck being killed; he was really a nice lad, and I had 
 often hoped to meet him again. 
 
 I guessed Miss Burtt would come round to see you: 
 and am delighted that my very minute gift gave her 
 pleasure. / thought that little brooch pretty, though 
 less original-looking perhaps than the others. 
 
 There does not seem to be much news in the paper 
 to-day, but the letters I get from fellows at the front 
 seem sanguine and cheerful. You mustn't be too much 
 depressed by the Daily Mail, whose pessimism is part of 
 its campaign against the existing Ministry. I fancy 
 it wants to get Lloyd George made Premier. 
 
 You will say that this is a very dull and prosy letter, 
 and so it is: but hospital work is monotonous and does 
 not give one much to talk about. 
 
 I gave some of your lavender-bags to some of the nuns 
 at the convent opposite, where I say Mass five days a 
 week. I only said you had made them, but they hopped 
 to the conclusion that you had made them expressly
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 301 
 
 for them, and thanked me with such profuse gratitude 
 that I felt quite guilty. They charged me with volu- 
 minous messages of gratitude. 
 
 I must dry up now: so good night. 
 
 Tuesday Evening, September 21, 191 5 
 
 I SAID Mass at quarter to six this morning, had break- 
 fast and went in to Paris, getting there at 8.20: and went 
 straight to the Madeleine, where the consecration of 
 Monseigneur Riviere was to take place. 
 
 The tickets I had were not numbered, and only gave 
 admission to the church, so I had no right to expect any 
 good place, but I showed my card and they gave us 
 two splendid places at the very top of the church, close to 
 the sanctuary, where one saw the whole ceremony per- 
 fectly. 
 
 It was quite one of the finest and most glorious func- 
 tions I ever saw. The Cardinal Archbishop of Paris, 
 Cardinal Amette, was the consecrant, assisted by the 
 Archbishop of Sens, and the Bishop of Arras, and there 
 were sixteen bishops altogether. The music was most 
 beautiful, and the long, very ancient ceremony extraor- 
 dinarily imposing and fine. 
 
 Toward the end a Master of Ceremonies came and 
 begged that when all was over I would allow him to 
 present me to the new Bishop. Poor man, he looked 
 terribly tired, and I should think he had violent neural- 
 gia — / should have had if I had been in his place anyway. 
 
 After some luncheon I went on one of the Seine steamers 
 down the river to the Jardin des Plantes, and renewed 
 my acquaintance with the wild beasts, some of whose 
 portraits I send you! 
 
 We went to the lions' quarters at three o'clock to see 
 them fed, but the lions' butcher telephoned that he had 
 not been able to get their dinner in time, and could not 
 send it round till five o'clock. If I was disappointed,
 
 302 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 imagine the disappointment of the lions! They looked 
 so terribly empty, and each of them fidgeted round and 
 round his or her den in uncontrollable hunger and im- 
 patience. They are only fed once in the twenty-four 
 hours and the piece of horse-flesh they get is not big, 
 so I'm sure the poor creatures were enduring pangs of 
 hunger. When I speak of the "lions," that includes all 
 the large wild-beasts in that house — wolves, panthers, 
 pumas, hyenas, etc. There are lots of jackals, very 
 pretty little foxy beasts, and uncommonly glad to get 
 hunks of buns, etc. : so were the huge bears — brown, 
 black and polar. But no amount of hunger would make 
 the lions eat sweet cakes! They looked much as Napoleon 
 would have looked had you offered him an acid-drop. 
 One large snake had just been changing his skin, and the 
 old one was lying in his tank, but he seemed quite done 
 up by the ceremony — like the Bishop of Perigueux. 
 
 There were plenty of crocodiles, but no large ones; 
 four or five huge turtles; a lot of chameleons, that really 
 did absolutely copy the colours of what they were sit- 
 ting on — those on a tree-stump were just the shade of 
 its bark, while those on the yellow sanded floor were 
 exactly of that shade. 
 
 No English mail came in to-day, so I suppose there 
 will be two to-morrow. 
 
 I am very sleepy after getting up at twenty past four 
 this morning and all my runnings about to-day: so I 
 will go to bed. 
 
 I hope you are well, and that this honest autumn 
 weather is suiting you — to-day, by the way, was un- 
 commonly hot in Paris, much hotter than any day of 
 August; still not stuflFy or heavy. On the Seine there 
 was a fresh and sweet breeze. 
 
 Good night.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 303 
 
 Thursday Evenings 5.45 P.M., September 23, 191 5 
 
 It is a heavy, disagreeable evening — what I call 
 "gashly": the sun disappeared about three o'clock, and 
 it became thick and cloudy, but hotter than ever, with 
 not a breath of hve air anywhere. Now a few hot drops 
 of rain are falling, but I fear it is not going to be much. 
 
 I used to tell you that this grey, hot weather at Ver- 
 sailles was like a Malta sirocco, but the difference is that 
 whereas the sirocco was teeming with damp it is not so 
 here, but very dry, and I suppose that is why one does 
 not feel it much. Still it is very oppressive, and always 
 depresses my spirits for the moment: as you know the 
 dark weather that comes from rain never depresses me 
 in the least — that seems to me natural and above-board. 
 
 Hurray! The rain is really coming down, and I hope 
 it will go on all night and give us a clean, washed day 
 to-morrow. Though it has not yet struck six, it is so 
 dark in my window that I have to move my writing- 
 table back to its place and light up for the evening. 
 
 I had a very nice letter from Lady Austin-Lee to-day, 
 rather reproaching me for not having written, so I must 
 do so: and Countess d'Osmoy also writes, mildly re- 
 proaching me for my silence. I must write to both this 
 evening, also to Lady O'Conor and the Duchess of Wel- 
 lington. 
 
 The story of the German governess at Woolwich is 
 very interesting and instructive; no doubt the Germans 
 have had plenty of such spies for years past: and no 
 doubt everyone thought their particular Fraulein was 
 immaculate. 
 
 I wonder where the Beraneks are, and if they are 
 still in the land of the living. 
 
 Queen Eugenie of Spain must be having a very un- 
 comfortable time of it; Spain is furiously pro-German, 
 and her mother-in-law, the Queen Dowager, is, of course, 
 Austrian. Is the Austrian Emperor's portrait that he
 
 304 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 sent me still displayed on the inlaid table in the drawing- 
 room? I forgot all about it: but I think it would be 
 well to wrap it up in silver paper and put it safely away 
 till after the war. 
 
 I must now stop to tackle those other letters. 
 
 I bought you a pretty ring for a birthday-present 
 to-day, and thought to send you, besides, a little tip. 
 Does that suit your ideas? 
 
 With best love to Christie. 
 
 Saturday Evening, September 25, 191 5 
 
 When I was writing to you a night or two ago I spoke 
 of the very close, hot, sunless weather we had had, and 
 how a few drops of rain began to fall. Since then the 
 weather has quite broken, and yesterday and to-day 
 have been very rainy, though it has not rained all day 
 to-day, nor did it do so yesterday. 
 
 However, at two o'clock this afternoon, the hour at 
 which we were to start in the Pringles' motor for Ram- 
 bouillet, it came down in torrents, and seemed determined 
 to go on indefinitely. So we (F. and I) were not sur- 
 prised that the motor and the ladies did not turn up. 
 After a while one of their footmen brought a note asking 
 if we could go to-morrow, Sunday: and so we walked 
 round and found the four ladies all at knitting or em- 
 broidery or stitching, and rather glad to have two people 
 to talk to. The five dogs all leaped to their feet, and 
 barked and snarled, but we were neither of us bitten, 
 and presently they all dashed out into the garden to bite 
 the gardener at their leisure. When they returned they 
 were quite quiet for a while, but presently Koko became 
 jealous of Cricket, who was seated on Miss Susie's lap, 
 and made a leap at him and bit him, which Cricket 
 returned with interest. Miss Susie tried to impose 
 peace, and I saw Koko (my friend) give her two pretty 
 successful bites. She did not seem to be either surprised
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 305 
 
 or annoyed, and Koko's mistress, Miss Maria, said, 
 *' Susie, your dress must have some very nasty dye in 
 it, for poor Koko is spluttering and making faces as he 
 always does when he has got something disagreeable 
 in his mouth." 
 
 Apart from these little interludes our visit was very 
 pleasant and peaceful: I gave them (not the dogs) 
 a lavender-sachet each, and they were delighted: and 
 also I gave them a copy of "Mezzogiorno." To-day I 
 sent Lady Austin-Lee a copy of "Faustula," and will 
 give her "Gracechurch" as well. The Pringles showed 
 me an interesting picture of the "Pringle House" at 
 Charleston, in which their old aunt lives alone. It was 
 built in George II's time out of bricks brought from Eng- 
 land, and is a fine, solid, Georgian house, with a fine 
 stone portico: handsome, grave, respectable, and aristo- 
 cratic-looking. 
 
 In spite of the dogs I never met so nice an American 
 family, and they give one a very pleasant impression of 
 heartiness and sincerity. They are just the sort of people 
 you would like (I can't undertake to say you would like 
 the dogs!) and they like the sort of things I like — read- 
 ing aloud some book worth reading, in a homely sort of 
 way, while the rest work. 
 
 Dearest, have courage and trust, and God will bring 
 us to each other again. 
 
 Sunday Evening, September 26, 191 5 
 
 If this is a short letter it is not because I am pressed 
 for time, but because my very long letter of last night 
 used up pretty nearly all I had to say. 
 
 Our hospital is for the moment nearly empty, as we 
 sent every man who could possibly be moved away to- 
 day, having received an order to be ready to receive a very 
 large number of wounded. This means that we are 
 making a big "push" up on the front: and oddly enough
 
 3o6 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 I heard first that it was to be from Scotland! i.e., in a 
 letter from Lady Glenconner two days ago. Bim had 
 told her that a big advance was to be made, involving 
 a million men. 
 
 I said Mass this morning asking God to be with our 
 hosts, and especially that we and our French comrades 
 might succeed in taking vast numbers of prisoners who 
 should surrender unhurt. 
 
 God knows I have never prayed bloodthirsty prayers: 
 still one can see now that it would have been a merciful 
 thing if in the beginning of the war we could have, with 
 our Allies, inflicted a crushing blow on the enemy even 
 if it had involved great loss of life: for then the war 
 would have not dragged on with its daily and weekly 
 losses of life for thirteen months. 
 
 It looks as if things were about to emerge from the 
 deadlock of the last month or two: Bulgaria's mobili- 
 sation has made Greece mobilise, and will probably make 
 Roumania do the same, and at least there will be action: 
 nothing tends to prolong the war like the sitting tight 
 of recent weeks. 
 
 I must write other letters now: so good-bye. 
 
 Monday Evening, September 27, 191 5 
 
 We had a good large convoy of wounded during last 
 night, and I was busy in hospital all morning. Every- 
 one seemed in good spirits, the French and English ad- 
 vance had been so successful and encouraging — the 
 most successful thing on our front since the Battle of 
 the Marne nearly a year ago. If this activity continues 
 and is blest with similar success, it will do something 
 toward ending the war. 
 
 There is an air of cheerfulness and satisfaction on all 
 faces. I went to luncheon with our Americans, but the 
 Marquise de Montebello, who was to have come from 
 Paris (on purpose to meet me), had to telegraph that she
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 307 
 
 could not come, as she is in charge of a hospital, and 
 wounded soldiers were pouring in. Five thousand French 
 wounded arrived, in Paris only, from the front yesterday. 
 Our hostesses and host were very nice and pleasant and 
 our luncheon party was very agreeable. 
 
 Afterwards two of the sisters motored us in to Paris 
 for the drive, in their huge and most luxurious motor. 
 We went by the forest and park of St. Cloud and came 
 back by Neuilly and the Seine. I enjoyed it immensely; 
 as you say, these kind and really very agreeable ladies 
 are a great acquisition. They have a great friend at 
 Biarritz (where they consider their home is, as the house 
 there is their own, and they spend eight out of the twelve 
 months there every year), the Duchess of San Carlos, 
 an American married to a Spanish grandee, who, they 
 say, is wildly jealous of their knowing me, as she is a 
 fervent admirer of John Ayscough's books. . . . 
 
 Yes, I am sorry for the German Jesuits of the Bombay 
 Presidency; but, as you say, English Jesuits in Germany 
 would no doubt have had much worse to suffer. And 
 if it leads to the appointment of English priests for the 
 whole Bombay Presidency, it will do great good. And 
 it appears that there have always been many English 
 who disliked and resented having these German priests 
 to hear their confessions, preach to them, etc., and after 
 the war a more satisfactory arrangement may be arrived 
 at. It certainly seems odd that in a whole Presidency 
 of a British possession the priests should be foreigners. 
 
 Tuesday, 7.45 a.m. 
 I am just going to say Mass for you. 
 
 Tuesday Evening, September 28, 191 5 
 
 It is a chilly, tempestuous evening, and I like it! 
 The morning was fine, so was the early afternoon, and
 
 3o8 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 
 
 I was pleased to think that the Pringle party going to 
 Brittany were having such a nice day for their start: 
 for Mr. Pringle, Miss Maysie and Miss Susie, with the 
 chauffeur, were going in the big new car to Brittany 
 till Saturday — it is very powerful and quick, and can 
 do one hundred kilometres an hour. They were to do 
 four hundred miles to-day! 
 
 I was to go to tea with Miss Cassie and Miss Maria, 
 and did so, but when I arrived the whole family was 
 there. They only got as far as Rambouillet, fifty kilo- 
 metres from here, when the car broke down hopelessly. 
 However, it was decent enough to do so close to the 
 railway station, and they came back to Versailles by 
 train. So their trip is all off. They did not seem to 
 mind much, and took it very cheerfully. 
 
 There were two Irish ladies there, a Miss S. and a 
 Miss B., the latter a tall, rather severe-looking person 
 in black, who eats nothing but raw meat! She is sup- 
 posed to be able to assimilate no other nourishment. 
 
 And that is all there is to tell you. 
 
 Wilcox, to cure his stammer, used to read aloud to his 
 friend Father McGrain in India, and I let him read aloud 
 to me for half an hour every evening. He reads wonder- 
 fully well, and read some of "Gracechurch" to me 
 to-night. The only mistake he made was to pronounce 
 the name of Dives to rhyme with lives. 
 
 Your letter of Saturday arrived to-day. I'm glad you 
 liked the heast cards. I also thought the panther more 
 like a leopard: but all his names and titles are painted 
 up over his den, and he is some sort of panther. He is 
 not very large, and is very agile and playful, with graceful, 
 rapid movements: but when he sits still and looks out 
 at you he has a sulky, ill-conditioned face. 
 
 I saw that Stonehenge had been sold to that man, and 
 for a very poor price. I expect Lady Antrobus will be 
 savage; but I have heard nothing of her for ages. I 
 used to meet Sir Cosmo at Amesbury Abbey; he is not
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 309 
 
 at all like his brother, being tall and slim. ... I wonder 
 she does not buy West Amesbury House (that big pic- 
 turesque house as you go from Amesbury to Wilsford); 
 she always had a great liking for it. . . . 
 
 If my very small birthday present arrives before the 
 third, please keep it till that morning and don't open it 
 till then — on your honour now! 
 
 I think the Pringles do know the Austin-Lees already, 
 but not very intimately. I heard from Lady A.-L. to-day. 
 Sir Henry is with her, and they return to Paris altogether 
 next week. 
 
 I must dry up now, and think of dinner, or supper. 
 It is rather an unconventional meal, never soup, sometimes 
 fish, sometimes mutton chops, sometimes cold ham: 
 never pudding, and almost always fruit. 
 
 Give my best love to Christie and remember me duly 
 to the Gaters. 
 
 September 29, 191 5 
 
 It is only the 29th, but as this will not go till to-morrow 
 I think I had better be getting my birthday letter ready. 
 Beside the ring I only send you a pair of gloves, and in a 
 few days will send you a small tip, . . . 
 
 I had to go to Paris to-day, and bought the gloves 
 there: they are 6f, because in the shop they said our 
 English sizes are slightly larger than theirs, so that 6j 
 in French sizes is equal to 6^ in English. 
 
 It was a cold, drizzly day in Paris, and I stayed no 
 longer than I could help, and when I got home I was 
 deUghted to find that Wilcox had made a good fire in 
 my room: the first I have had. For in the kitchen we 
 do all our cooking on gas stoves, which are very clean 
 and convenient. 
 
 I always have revelled in the first fire of autumn, and 
 this one made my room look uncommonly cheerful and 
 homely.
 
 310 John AyscougJjs Letters to his Mother 
 
 September 30 
 
 It is a very bright, but quite cold autumn morning, 
 and much more like very late October than the last day 
 of September. I have just received your letter of Mon- 
 day, and I suppose Alice is with you now, as she was to 
 arrive last night. I do hope she will be with you for 
 your birthday, and I think she will, as you said she was 
 to come for a week. 
 
 One of the nuns of the convent where I say Mass every 
 day gave me a book written by one of their English 
 sisters, and I send it on to you as part of your birthday 
 present. I do trust you will have a happy birthday: 
 I shall say Mass for you at eight o'clock, and in the 
 evening at 8.30 will drink your health in a bottle of fizzy 
 wine that must be bought for the purpose: there is no 
 hope of my being with you this year for your birthday; 
 but things are going so well for us now that there really 
 does begin to be hope of my being with you before we 
 are any of us much older. 
 
 Almost all my Masses now are said for (i) you, (2) the 
 blessing of God upon our arms and those of our Allies. 
 
 I have a very large number of wounded to attend to, 
 and must go round to hospital to do it. 
 
 So good-bye; and wishing you every possible happiness 
 and blessing on your birthday, and during your eighty- 
 seventh year. 
 
 Best love to Christie and Alice. 
 
 Thursday Nighty September 30, 191 5 
 
 I POSTED my meagre birthday presents, a little ring, 
 a pair of gloves, and a book, to you to-day: with a rather 
 dull letter. As I think it very likely they will arrive too 
 soon, I wish you a very, very happy birthday and all com- 
 fort and happiness possible till we are together again, and 
 after. Ahce was to arrive last evening, and as I think
 
 John AyscougVs Letters to his Mother 311 
 
 you said she was coming for a week, she will be with 
 you on your birthday, of which I am very glad. She will 
 cheer you two old parties up, and have plenty to tell you. 
 
 Our hospital is now crowded and so I am busier than 
 usual, but of eight hundred wounded who came in last 
 (on Tuesday night) there was not one stretcher case — 
 they were all able to walk in. 
 
 The paper to-day says that the German losses, on this 
 western front, are 120,000 in killed, wounded and pris- 
 oners. If we keep on hammering at that rate the war 
 really will come to an end some day, and Germany will 
 have to plead for peace. 
 
 Talking of figures, you made me laugh by saying that 
 Mr. Chubb or Jubb or Drubb only gave 6,000,600 pounds 
 for Stonehenge — only, i.e.., six million six hundred pounds! 
 Not so bad, either. I have a fire again to-night, and am 
 revelling in it: it has been a glorious autumn day, bright 
 sun, but cold and bracing — fancy Versailles bracing! 
 
 We have had no frost, but the cold rains have finished 
 the really splendid long border here: for months it has 
 been a blaze of colour (like my face). 
 
 Friday Morning 
 
 No English mail in yet, so no letter from you to ac- 
 knowledge; but no doubt the post will come in later on 
 in the day. 
 
 Yesterday someone sent me two bottles of old whisky, 
 which arrived smashed to atoms, and everyone else's 
 letter smelling vehemently of whisky. 
 
 I must now go off to the hospital. 
 
 Friday Night, October i, 191 5 
 
 During the last few days, since the big advance of 
 our troops, our mails for some reason have been coming 
 in very irregularly, and to-day's has not yet arrived: 
 but no doubt it will crop up to-morrow morning.
 
 312 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 I have really nothing to tell you, as during the last 
 day or two I have been too busy in hospital to go and 
 see anybody or do anything. 
 
 The worst of this exclusively hospital work, and work 
 in a hospital like ours, is that you hardly ever get to 
 know any of the men well, as they are seldom kept here 
 many days. As soon as they can possibly be moved 
 they are packed off to Rouen or England, that we may 
 have their beds free for more lately-wounded men. 
 
 In the street to-day I met Mile, de Missiessy, who told 
 me her mother has been ill for three weeks with sciatica, 
 and is to-day rather sad because her elder son has to 
 join his regiment at Souchez to-morrow, the place where 
 the fighting is so fierce. She begged me to go and see 
 Comtesse de Missiessy to cheer her up. 
 
 Saturday Morning 
 
 The same post brings me another parcel from Father 
 Wrafter, a very nice letter from Lady O'Conor, a very 
 cordial and affectionate letter from the Bishop, and a lot 
 of others. 
 
 Our bright, cold, and invigorating autumn weather 
 continues and I feel very fit in consequence: for the 
 moment I have no cold — at Versailles I am generally 
 armed with one — and my "periosteum" has given over 
 annoying me. 
 
 Sunday y October 3, 191 5 
 
 Many Happy Returns of the Day! I said Mass for 
 you at seven thirty this morning and begged Our Lord 
 to give you a happy, cheerful day, and to grant you all 
 your prayers. It is a lovely October morning, very 
 bright, with a disappearing frost, no wind, but a keen 
 brisk air. 
 
 The only letter I got to-day — a very rare occurrence 
 — was yours of Thursday: a very cheery one, reflecting 
 your pleasure at Alice's coming.
 
 John AyscougWs Letters to his Mother 313 
 
 I am so glad you mutually thought each other looking 
 well. 
 
 Now, my dear, I'm going for a little stroll in the parks, 
 the first for weeks and weeks. 
 
 So with best love to Christie and Alice — and ten 
 thousand wishes that you may be having a happy birth- 
 day. 
 
 Tour Birthday., at night 
 
 In a few minutes I shall go down to dinner to drink 
 your health in a specially purchased bottle of wine, the 
 only cheap thing in France just now; any reasonably 
 cheap eggs explode in your face, and any cheap butter is 
 appalling. 
 
 This morning before luncheon I went, as I told you I 
 was going to, for a little walk in the park, and went to 
 the Little Trianon, almost wholly empty at that hour. 
 The day was lovely, so was the place, and I enjoyed my 
 solitary stroll very much. Last year I remember going 
 for another lonely stroll on your birthday — up at the 
 front then, and I nearly strolled into the German lines! 
 It was just such a day as to-day, bright and fresh, with 
 the smell of autumn in the brisk air. 
 
 The Trianon glades were incomparably lovelier to-day 
 than last time I was there: the blackish-green monotone 
 of summer changed into many varied shades of yellow, 
 citron-green, and russet: and the ground patched with 
 deep, rustling litter of fallen leaves. I picked a few 
 geranium seeds from the long borders in front of the 
 little palace, and though they are nothing wonderful, 
 they will interest us hereafter as having come from 
 Marie Antoinette's garden. 
 
 On coming home I found a note from the Pringles 
 asking what had happened to me, as I had not been near 
 them since Tuesday, and begging me to go round this 
 afternoon, which accordingly I did. They were all very 
 cordial and friendly and glad to see me: and, as their
 
 314 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 big motor has been put right, our trip to Rambouillet is 
 to come off to-morrow afternoon, if it is a day Hke to-day 
 and yesterday. We go by the village and castle of Mont- 
 fort, whence Simon de Montfort came. 
 
 After tea I went to the hospital for my little evening 
 service: and then instructed a convert; and finally came 
 home and am writing this. 
 
 Monday Night, October 4, 191 5 
 
 I HAVE a little more than usual to make you a letter of, 
 because to-day our trip to Rambouillet really came off, 
 and most delightful it was. The motor came to the 
 gate at two o'clock, and inside were Miss Maria, Miss 
 Maysie, and Miss Susie — the eldest sister. Miss Cassie, 
 and the brother, Duncan, stayed at home. 
 
 The whole drive of about twenty-five miles each way 
 was through a perfectly lovely country — we went one 
 way and came back another, but both ways were equally 
 beautiful. It is nearly all forest, but not flat forest, 
 deep forest valleys, and wooded hills. 
 
 We went by Port Royal, and got out of the motor to 
 visit the site (there are scarcely any ruins) of the famous 
 Abbey of Port Royal: I doubt if you know much about 
 it, but perhaps you may. In the late seventeenth 
 century and early eighteenth the nuns of Port Royal 
 were very famous, chiefly for their austerity and fervour, 
 but they fell into bad odour with Rome and the rulers 
 of the Church on account of a suspicion of heresy that 
 attached to them — the Jansenist heresy, which showed 
 itself in a hard and narrow rigorism, and, like all heretics, 
 they were uncommonly obstinate. The convent, or 
 Abbaye, was still going strong at the Revolution, during 
 which it was completely destroyed: so completely that 
 little remains save the Colombiere, a great dovecot, of 
 which I enclose a card, and another of the remains of 
 the kitchens, etc.
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 315 
 
 The situation is lovely, sloping meadows, shut in by 
 wooded ridges of hills, and views of rich water-meadows 
 in the valley-bottom. 
 
 After getting back into the motor we went through 
 Dampierre, a village belonging to the Due de Luynes, 
 with his big chateau nestled down in it. He is quite 
 young, and I meet him occasionally. 
 
 At Rambouillet we went over the chateau, which is, 
 of course, no Versailles, or Fontainebleau, but is fascinat- 
 ing. A very ancient chateau — a fortified manor, not a 
 castle — was replaced by another chateau in the four- 
 teenth century: of the older chateau there remains the 
 massive, squat tower, and in that tower Francis I died 
 on March 31, 1547. 
 
 In 1706 Rambouillet became the property of the Comte 
 de Toulouse, son of Louis XIV by Madame de Montespan, 
 and he had all the rooms lined with exquisitely carved 
 panelling, as you can see in the pictures I send. Louis 
 
 XV often stayed there, and hunted in the forest. Louis 
 
 XVI bought the place and it became a royal residence — 
 a sort of shooting lodge. Napoleon I also used to stay 
 there, and his bathroom is now a small study: he had it 
 all painted in Pompeian style by Vasserot. 
 
 Louis XVIII and his brother Charles X often stayed 
 there and on August 2, 1830, Charles X signed his abdica- 
 tion in the dining-room. 
 
 Napoleon I, after Waterloo, came there, and slept 
 there for the last time on June 29, 1815 — eleven days 
 after Waterloo, setting forth next day on his journey to 
 Brest to deliver himself to the English. At present the 
 chateau is the country-house of the President of the 
 Republic. The cards I send will give you an idea of 
 the place both outside and in. We had tea in the little 
 town, and motored back to Chevreuse. . . . 
 
 Your letter of Friday, October ist, arrived to-day, 
 and I can see from it how you are enjoying Alice's visit.
 
 3i6 John Ays cough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Saturday, lo a.m., October 9, 191 5 
 
 Your very cheery welcome letter of Wednesday has 
 just arrived, and gave me great satisfaction because it 
 showed you were in good health, spirits, and courage 
 when you wrote. I'm glad you asked the Geddeses to 
 tea, and found them pleasant people. . . . 
 
 It is another excellent autumn morning, far from 
 warm, but cheerful and sunny. I have been saying Mass 
 for the soul of the eldest son of my fish-wife. When I 
 went to buy my fish yesterday I found the poor woman 
 weeping bitterly over her mackerel and sprats — and 
 guessed only too well what had happened, for I knew 
 she had three sons at the front. The eldest had just 
 been killed at Souchez (where Comtesse de Missiessy's 
 son is). I could only say that I would say Mass for him 
 to-day: and she, and two of his sisters, came to hear it, 
 
 I went to see Comtesse de Missiessy yesterday, but 
 found her future son-in-law's motor at the door, and he 
 just waiting to take her off to Paris for a few days' change, 
 so I did not go in. 
 
 I'm in dread about Bim Tennant, not having had any 
 reply to my last letter (which required an answer), and 
 knowing that the whole brigade of Guards had it very 
 hot the other day: the Colonel and Second-in-Command 
 of the Coldstreams both killed. I should feel it very 
 much if anything happened to dear Bim; he is more 
 fond of me than any of them are, and he is a very, very 
 nice lad. 
 
 We have had some sharp work on our Indian frontier, 
 up north; Mahometan tribes (usually the most loyal) 
 up against us, and we have had heavy losses, fourteen 
 thousand in one place. No doubt the German agents 
 have been busy spreading tales of our being beaten in 
 this war, and so lowering our prestige. Unfortunately, 
 Herbert Ward, our young friend, is up there, and I fear 
 his mother will be terribly anxious if she knows: but it is
 
 John AyscougJjs Letters to his Mother 317 
 
 not everyone who does know of this fighting on the 
 Indian frontier. 
 
 I am going to tea to-day with my Pringles and always 
 like going there. 
 
 Please thank Winifred for her very great kindness and 
 thoughtfulness in writing me enclosed: nothing could 
 have given me more real pleasure than what she says 
 about you. 
 
 Saturday Night 
 
 As I wrote to you this morning and as nothing has 
 happened since, not even a shower of rain, I shan't have 
 much to say: but I want to write to-night because to- 
 morrow I shall be busy in the hospital. 
 
 I went to tea with my Pringles who were all very 
 jolly; the tribe of dogs met me at the door and were 
 extremely urbane, only jealous of one another, each 
 wanting to be petted. After tea, in the drawing-room, 
 something excited them, and my old friend Koko bit me 
 in the thigh without the slightest prejudice: it did not 
 hurt, and did not draw blood, but of course I felt it; he 
 always bites whomsoever is nearest, so no personal compli- 
 ment was intended. 
 
 On Monday I am lunching there and we are to motor 
 to St. Germain. 
 
 Our diplomacy in Greece and the Balkan Courts seems 
 to have been rather innocent and ineffective. Anyway 
 I trust King Ferdinand may meet with the due reward 
 of his Judas policy, and that the Greeks may not fall 
 into the folly of making friends with the friends of Turkey. 
 If the Germans detach too many men for the Balkan 
 adventure they may find themselves pushed pretty hard 
 on the Western front and the Russian, too.
 
 3i8 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Monday, 10.30 a.m., October 11, 1915 
 
 Yesterday I had your very cheery and comfortable 
 letter of Thursday, and also two copies of St. Joseph's 
 Lilies. Certainly the "appreciation" ought to satisfy 
 you, if unbridled eulogy of J. A. is what you want! I 
 liked all the literary part very well, but the personal 
 part at the beginning, about my heroic services out here 
 (at Versailles!!!) made me feel rather silly. However, I 
 was at the front once! 
 
 After luncheon I went for quite a long walk in the 
 parks, at the back of them, where there are no formal 
 walks or statues, or fountains, but natural woods and 
 glades. 
 
 It was quite lovely in those woods, and I did so much 
 wish you could be there. The hghts among the trees 
 and glades were exquisite, and the carpet of fallen leaves 
 made a comfortable rustle as one walked. . . . 
 
 Monday Evening, October 11, 191 5 
 
 This morning I lunched with the Pringles, and after- 
 wards we all motored to St. Germain, and thence on to 
 Poissy, of which place I enclose half a dozen cards. The 
 church is very fine, and in it is the old font in which St. 
 Louis (King Louis IX) was baptised. I do not remember 
 the exact date, but I should say it was seven and a half 
 centuries ago. We walked down to the bridge, of which 
 you have a card here enclosed, very fine, and with ex- 
 quisite views of the river. It was a mild, misty after- 
 noon, but the mist did not hide the woods, and only 
 made them more beautiful. We walked back to the 
 church, where we had left the car, and drove home by 
 St. Germain again, where we again got out to walk on 
 the famous terrace, of which I sent you a card at the time 
 of my former visit to St. Germain. The view from it 
 across the Seine valley is quite superb, and the terrace
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 319 
 
 is over a mile and a half long: there our poor exiled 
 James II used to walk and think of England — as I do! 
 
 At one end of it is the vieux chateau of St. Germain 
 (not the great chateau of which you have cards) where 
 Louis XIV was born. 
 
 When we got back to Versailles we all went to a 
 restaurant, where I treated our party to tea and toast 
 — quite English toast. 
 
 To-morrow there is to be an interesting concert in the 
 chateau here, in the Galerie de Batailles, and of course 
 the Pringles have taken a ticket for me, too: and I am 
 to go to tea with them on Thursday. They are really 
 the most hospitable and kind creatures, and they are an 
 immense acquisition. 
 
 I only got your letter of Friday when I got in here; 
 You must not want to exterminate all the Bulgarians! 
 but you may exterminate their hateful king as soon as 
 you like. He is a German, and a very bad one, base, 
 treacherous, totally without heart or conscience, and 
 eaten up with ambition. I am sure he imagines that 
 Germany and Austria will make him Balkan Emperor. 
 
 He is, of course, a cousin of our King, though not a 
 very near one — and you will remember another cousin 
 of his. Prince Leopold, who came to see us at Plymouth. 
 His mother. Princess Clementine, was a daughter of Louis 
 Philippe, and as great a schemer as her father. 
 
 I must write other letters. 
 
 Tuesday Night: no, Wednesday Morning; 
 
 It is past twelve and a.m. 
 
 I DULY received to-day your letter of Sunday. 
 
 Yesterday I went with the Pringles to a very interest- 
 ing concert given (i) to entertain wounded soldiers; (2) and 
 also to raise money for the Versailles war hospitals: so, 
 of course, the wounded men did not pay, but everyone 
 else did.
 
 320 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 It was the same sort of thing as the entertainment at 
 the Trocadero, which I described to you long ago, but on 
 a much smaller scale. Still the "encadrement" was 
 more interesting, for yesterday's concert was given in the 
 vast Galerie de Batailles of the chateau here, a splendid 
 and truly regal hall lined with colossal pictures of French 
 victories. I enclose a copy of the programme, as it is a 
 sort of little memento. 
 
 The concert lasted from two till five thirty! Then I 
 took the Pringles to tea at a nice little tea-shop we have 
 discovered: then I came in and began the instalment of 
 "French and English" for the November Month. 
 
 To-day, Wednesday, I have, after luncheon, to attend 
 the funeral (not to conduct it) of the officer commanding 
 the Kings' Own Scottish Borderers, Colonel Verner, who 
 died in our hospital from his wounds, on Sunday night; 
 I remember him at Plymouth as a subaltern. 
 
 Thursday, 9.45 a.m., October 14, 191 5 
 
 Wilcox has just gone round to hospital for the letters, 
 so I do not know yet whether there is one from you for 
 me, or no: there almost always is. Yesterday, imme- 
 diately after luncheon, I had, as I told you, to attend the 
 funeral of Colonel Verner, who commanded the King's 
 Own Scottish Borderers, and died on Sunday night from 
 his wounds. The funeral started from the hospital and 
 was a fine and touching sight. The French sent a double 
 squadron of dragoons, besides many officers; there were 
 all our officers who could possibly be spared from duty at 
 the hospital, and about seventy men. The French 
 uniforms were splendid, and made a fine contrast with 
 our sober khaki. 
 
 We marched very slowly, all through the town to the 
 Gonard Cemetery, Mrs. Verner walking all the way just 
 behind the hearse. Her son (wounded) walked at her 
 side, also her mother and sister-in-law. These chief
 
 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 321 
 
 mourners had a sort of guard of honour of French 
 dragoons. At the grave the poor widow stood by her 
 lad's side, and slipped her hand in his: they were both 
 of them very simple and quiet. Only as the coffin was 
 lowered did I see her lift her eyes as if trying to force 
 back her tears, and a sort of spasm held her very pale 
 face. 
 
 There were numbers of French, both at the graveyard 
 and along the route to it, and I think the wonderful 
 sympathy and respect shown comforted the poor woman. 
 
 This morning when I got up at quarter to six there 
 was a thick fog, but it has gone, and I should not wonder 
 if we had a sunny day. The Pringles have a Beast 
 Party to-day, to polish off all the callers whom they 
 don't much mind missing. They apologised for asking 
 me to come and help, and seemed quite grateful when 
 I said, "Of course." So handing tea-cups will be my 
 afternoon's occupation and F.'s too. His little friend, 
 the Duchess of Trevise, was next me at the concert on 
 Tuesday, but we only beamed at each other, as French 
 people do not chatter and whisper throughout a concert. 
 
 A Frenchwoman came to me and told me that a certain 
 soldier at our hospital was very eager to marry her. I 
 saw him and said nonchalantly (quite as if I knew)y 
 "But you are married. . . ." He at once admitted it, 
 and swore he had never meant to deceive Mademoiselle 
 G., that he merely wished for the pleasure of walking 
 out with her, etc. So that little plot is cracked. 
 
 I shall presently be sending back the two Thackeray 
 books you sent and with them some packets of letters. 
 So don't be disappointed, thinking it is a nice present! 
 
 I must dry up. 
 
 Friday y 6 a.m., October 15, 191 5 
 
 I WOKE about three o'clock with horrible neuralgia; 
 and, as it got worse every quarter of an hour, I determined
 
 322 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 at four o'clock to try a cure — the opposite of a "rest 
 cure" — and got up, dressed, went down to the kitchen 
 and worked! — washed up crockery, cleaned some sauce- 
 pans, cut up and cleaned vegetables for soup, put the 
 soup on to simmer, etc.!!! and it was a complete success: 
 the neuralgia is almost gone, and now I am sitting down 
 to complete the cure by writing to you. 
 
 It is just light, though not light enough to write with- 
 out a lamp, and there is a dense white fog, as there was 
 yesterday at dawn; but yesterday it ended in a very sunny 
 day, and I expect it will be the same to-day. 
 
 Yesterday afternoon I went to tea with the Pringles, 
 who had a regular tea-party; of course it was much less 
 pleasant than when they were by themselves; the guests 
 blocked themselves up in corners, and would not budge, 
 and there was no general talk or moving about. Miss 
 Maria said to me, "I wish one might shake them." I 
 said, "I know all about tea-parties, and your mistake 
 was in giving them chairs: my mother always used to try 
 and make me do the same thing, but once you let chairs 
 into an At Home tea-party you're done for: the people 
 glue themselves to them and will neither move about nor 
 talk to anyone but the accomplice on the chair adjacent." 
 
 I got your dear letter of Monday yesterday; you seem 
 to get mine much quicker than I get yours, at least it is 
 so sometimes, for the one I wrote on last Thursday 
 morning, as I was starting for Paris with Wilcox, you 
 got on Saturday afternoon. 
 
 This letter of yours encloses Mr. Gater's note thanking 
 you for the wine: I am very glad you sent him that 
 gift, for he seems very much to appreciate it, and its 
 being a naval prize makes it interesting. 
 
 Now I must do my real dressing and shaving; my 
 four o'clock in the morning toilette was "provisional," 
 like a revolutionary government.
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 323 
 
 Saturday y 11 a.m., October 16, 191 5 
 
 I FEEL quite in the mood for writing a long letter, but 
 it is eleven o'clock and I must go round to hospital, so 
 my letter must be put off till to-night. 
 
 Saturday Evenings October 16, 191 5 
 
 This morning I had no time to do more than write to 
 say I had no time to write! So now I will try and make 
 up. I went off to the hospital and saw a lot of new 
 arrivals and then came home to luncheon, after which 
 I met F, at the gate of the Grand Trianon in the park, 
 where the Misses Pringle (or rather three of them, for 
 Miss Maysie has a cold and "kept house") were to meet 
 us and go for a long walk. However, only Miss Maria 
 (and three dogs) turned up, as Mr, Pringle had made 
 two of them go out with him in the car. So we went for 
 a little walk, in the Little Trianon, which was looking 
 perfectly exquisite. The trees have turned the most 
 lovely colour, and their pictures in the lakes, and in the 
 little artificial river, were almost more perfect than 
 themselves: and there was a tender, opal-like "atmo- 
 sphere," not in the least a mist, but just an effect of 
 bluish pink between the more distant belts of trees and 
 the eye. 
 
 Tou would have longed to paint dozens of pictures of 
 it all, and there are inexhaustible pictures there. After 
 our walk we returned to the Pringle House and had tea; 
 the motorists had not returned, but we found Miss Maysie 
 in the drawing-room. Almost everyone here seems 
 armed with a cold just now, including poor Mr. Ayscough, 
 whose snufflings make me very uncomfortable. I am 
 sure it is the relaxing air of Versailles that makes one so 
 apt to catch cold, but if one hints to any native that it 
 is relaxing, he almost swallows one, cold and all. 
 
 Lady Austin-Lee was out when F. and I called there
 
 324 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 yesterday, but this morning I had a note from her begging 
 me to go to luncheon to-morrow: that, unfortunately, 
 I cannot do, as I am engaged to lunch with the chaplain 
 of the convent where F. is in hospital. 
 
 Yesterday he and I went into Paris, where I had to 
 buy two more helmets at Lady Glenconner's request, 
 one for a son of her sister. Lady Wemyss — who was 
 Lady Elcho when you met her long ago: since then her 
 very old father-in-law has died, and her husband has 
 become Lord Wemyss: the other helmet is for another 
 brother-officer of Bim's, Osbert Sitwell. 
 
 Also I wanted to buy the stockings, muff and "stole" 
 for you. 
 
 I did buy all these things, and to-day sent off your 
 things which I hope will arrive in due course. I hope 
 you will think the fur — a soft grey — pretty, and it 
 feels soft and comfortable: of course it is not one of the 
 costly furs, for, though you deserve the best, I could not 
 afford them. The stole is large and broad, and should 
 keep you warm. I think the soft slaty grey of this fur 
 will suit you better than black or the yellowish sorts of 
 furs. 
 
 After our shopping we called on Lady Austin-Lee, 
 and, she being out, we went then to the Faubourg St. 
 Honore, to call on Comtesse de Sercey, a great friend of 
 Lady O'Conor, whom I have been promising to call upon 
 ever since I arrived here. She was out, but her sister. 
 Mile. d'Angleau, was in, and we stayed about half 
 an hour. She is a clever, amiable person, with almost 
 overwhelming conversational powers. 
 
 And that, I think, is all I have to tell you of my doings. 
 
 Your letter of Wednesday came this morning in which, 
 oddly enough, you mention Harold Skyrme's being in the 
 "Warspite" and by the same post came a letter from 
 him. He had had a few days' leave which he spent in 
 the bosom of his family, the whole bosom assembling at 
 Cardiff for the purpose.
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 325 
 
 All letters from neutral countries like Holland would 
 be sure to be opened by the censor; my letters to you 
 never are. 
 
 is quite civil to me these days. He must be feeling 
 
 out of sorts. You must understand that his poHteness 
 is like anybody else's rudeness. I must stop now to 
 write to Father Wrafter: he has got his wish at last and 
 is coming out to the front as a chaplain, and his last act 
 is to send me a beautiful warm new rug and a big piece 
 of Irish bacon! 
 
 Monday y 12 noon, October 18, 191 5 
 
 I CAN only write very hurriedly: last night when I got 
 in from church I had a ruck of little things to do, one 
 after another, till it was bed-time; and this morning, 
 since Mass, I have been really very busy. 
 
 It is St. Luke's Day, and is a regular St. Luke's summer- 
 day, very sunny, rather still, and rather cold. Just as I 
 was vesting for Mass this morning I heard that my late 
 landlord here, Beranek, is dead: so I offered the Mass 
 for him. He was in a very precarious state before his 
 arrest, spitting blood, and so on; and all the worry of 
 his imprisonment no doubt told against him. I believe 
 he has been ill almost ever since his arrest: and his death 
 hardly surprises me. 
 
 Yesterday I was very busy: but had to lunch at F.*s 
 convent, a party of five — myself, F., the chaplain of 
 the convent, a Canon of Versailles, and the Duke of 
 Trevise, grandson of Napoleon's Marshal Mortier. The 
 luncheon was rather stodgy and overpowering; but 
 everybody was very nice and cordial: only my cold was 
 at its snuffly-est stage and I felt incapable of making 
 myself agreeable. I walked home to shake down the 
 food! 
 
 I must dash round to hospital: so with best love to 
 Christie.
 
 326 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Tuesday, 11.30 a.m., October 19, 191 5 
 
 You mentioned in the letter I had from you yesterday 
 that you had been two days without a letter from me — 
 but then you had twice lately mentioned having two 
 letters from me in one day, and it is inevitable that if 
 two of my letters arrive together there must be a day 
 without any — if you have two letters on the same day 
 'twill then mean that two days with no letter must 
 follow. . . . 
 
 I fancy that I and Wilcox between us live on less than 
 one English servant, i.e., we live on less than five shillings 
 a day between us, and that includes not only food, but 
 drink, lighting (petroleum, etc.). 
 
 I enclose some eucalyptus leaves off one of the many 
 trees here: if you get a cold have them boiled in a small 
 saucepan, and after sweetening with honey, or treacle or 
 sugar, drink the "tisane" as hot as you can take it, 
 after you are in bed. It is excellent. You should repeat 
 the dose every night till you are cured. 
 
 Yesterday and I took Miss Susie and Miss Maria 
 
 Pringle for a long walk in the wild parts of the park 
 behind the Trianons in the direction of St. Cyr. It was 
 a perfect St. Luke's summer day, and the trees and 
 glades were too lovely: I have never seen such exquisite 
 autumn colouring, and yet very English. The trees 
 were all our own sort of trees, elms, chestnuts, beeches, 
 oaks, alders, etc. 
 
 Then we went back and had tea, after which I had 
 church at the hospital. 
 
 I must stop. I can send heaps more eucalyptus leaves. 
 
 Thursday Morning, 10 a.m., October 21, 191 5 
 
 Versailles in the mornings at this season is hke a 
 city in the clouds. I suppose all the thick mists come 
 from the forests with which we are surrounded for miles
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 327 
 
 in every direction. To-day the fog is the densest we 
 have had, but I expect about noon it will yield and turn 
 to a soft, sunny afternoon. 
 
 I had your letter of Monday just now, in which you 
 tell me of Winifred's Sunday afternoon visit: I am sure 
 you enjoyed the quiet chat with her. 
 
 Yesterday I went to tea with the Pringles, who had 
 half expected a tea-party, but the other guests weren't 
 able to come (except one) and I was delighted. That 
 one was a young Anglican chaplain, a tall, clean pink 
 young divine, with an air of always saying "Dearly 
 beloved Brethren." 
 
 The eldest Miss P. said, "I know you are always 
 sending your mother post-cards . . . would you send 
 her these? They may interest her because she knows 
 America, and I think they are pretty." So I send them 
 on, though of course Pennsylvania is very far from your 
 part of America. The Pringles' mother was a Penn- 
 sylvanian, from Philadelphia, a Miss Duncan, also of a 
 good Scotch family, and I fancy, from all I hear them 
 say, very charming, refined, and clever. 
 
 How clever you are and economical! I am sure the 
 tea-jacket and lilac gown together are charming: I wish 
 / could make new tunics out of old breeches! 
 
 I must dry up because I have nothing more to tell you. 
 
 Thursday Nighty October 21, 191 5 
 
 I HAVE just come in from a long and delightful motor- 
 excursion with the Pringles. They picked me up here 
 at two and we went by St. Cyr, through Trappes, Houdan, 
 etc., to Montfort, where we got out to visit the church 
 and then the ruins of the castle. 
 
 The church has a very ugly, late (seventeenth century) 
 facade in a villainous pseudo-classic taste: but the east 
 end is lovely, with beautiful flying buttresses. I enclose 
 a few cards, one of the approach to the little town from
 
 328 John Ayscougb's Letters to his Mother 
 
 the south — on which I have put "A": one of the 
 approach from the west, with the castle ruins to the right, 
 marked "B": one of the south side of the church, 
 marked "C": one of a street in the town, marked 
 "D" : one of the beautiful east-end and apse of the 
 church, marked "E, " and the one marked "F" illus- 
 trates one of a series of splendid stained-glass windows 
 running almost all round the church — not early glass, 
 but sixteenth century Renaissance, quite superb of its 
 sort. 
 
 The card marked "G" (at the back) is of the ruins of 
 the castle. The situation of the castle reminds one of 
 Arques, but the ruins consist of the tower here shown 
 that only dates from 1498, the lower donjon-tower, and 
 a few detached lumps of rubble masonry — nothing near 
 so fine as Arques. The great interest of Montfort is its 
 being the domain of the great Simon de Montfort, so 
 famous in our own history. 
 
 After leaving it we came home a different way by 
 Mantes, a much more considerable place with a cathedral; 
 but we were so late, and the fog was getting so thick, 
 that we only stayed three or four minutes to admire the 
 cathedral, and came on: so I could not get you any cards. 
 
 The drive was all through a beautiful country, very 
 "accidente," narrow valleys, so close together as almost 
 to seem like the furrows of some Titanic ploughman, 
 and all bristling with woods, whose trees were of every 
 conceivable colour, russet, carmine, scarlet, orange, 
 lemon, melon-rind, and grey-green. 
 
 We came home through St. Germain, passing close 
 by the palace where James II held his exiled court: it 
 stood up pallid in a shroud of mist. 
 
 And that is all of the day's doings that gives me any- 
 thing to write about. 
 
 Shan't we (F. and I) miss the Pringles when they go 
 south? They are so boundlessly hospitable and kind, 
 and they are themselves so nice: always cheery and full
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 329 
 
 of a piquant sprightliness, chaffing each other remorse- 
 lessly all the time. I think they are the very best sort 
 of Americans, really well-born and absolutely well-bred: 
 the mixture of the South Carolinian father and Penn- 
 sylvanian mother is most agreeable. You know Phila- 
 delphia, whence their mother came, is supposed to be 
 the most aristocratic city in America. The Americans 
 say, "Boston for what you know: Philadelphia for who 
 you are; and New York for — what you've got." 
 
 A certain Norman Marquis found me out the other day 
 and bored me to death over the Normans and their 
 grandeur, and our own direct descent from the reigning 
 family of Normandy: he wanted me to take part in a 
 great Norman reunion, and I flatly refused, saying I 
 had very different work here, and dropped him and his 
 Normans promptly. 
 
 Saturday Mornings 7.35, October 23, 191 5 
 
 I AM just beginning a letter to you before going across 
 to the Hermitage convent to say Mass. It is a very 
 cold, bright, frosty morning, after a night of clear, bitter 
 cold moonlight. 
 
 I am to meet F. about 11.30 and we are to go in to 
 Paris together to lunch at Lady Austin-Lee's. 
 
 Yesterday I did nothing all day but the following. 
 At a quarter to eight I said Mass: at nine buried a poor 
 soldier; then worked in hospital till 1.30. Then wrote 
 letters till tea: then evening service at hospital, from 
 5.30 to 6,45, then home to say "office," write letters, etc., 
 till bed-time. 
 
 I had two letters from you yesterday, one written on 
 Tuesday morning and one on Tuesday afternoon. In 
 the second you announce safe arrival of the furs and 
 stockings: I am quite delighted that they please you so 
 much. I hoped that you would like them, and really I 
 thought this grey Siberian fur prettier than some far
 
 330 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 more costly. Also I thought that the stockings seemed 
 warm and comfortable. 
 
 10 A.M. 
 
 I HAVE said Mass, breakfasted, and received my 
 letters, including yours of Wednesday and one from 
 Winifred Gater. 
 
 The furs and stockings seem to have been a most 
 successful present: and I am very glad you think the 
 latter good quality — I think French people think more 
 of quality and less of "cheapness" than w^e do. But 
 these stockings were anything but dear, 3 fr. 50, a pair, 
 I think, i.e.^ about 2/8. 
 
 Among Father Wrafter's recent gifts to myself is a 
 very soft and warm rug — about the same quality as 
 the one Lady Glenconner gave you, though of a different 
 colour: and it makes me very comfortable. 
 
 To-morrow I have to go to tea with the Pringles to 
 meet Madame de Montebello. 
 
 Yesterday I absent-mindedly sallied forth in Mack 
 trousers and khaki tunic. I met Wilcox, who said, grimly, 
 "Well, Monsignor, I'm glad you've got any on, you're 
 that absent-minded." 
 
 All the same I'm not a patch on him for up in the 
 moon-ness. He is capable of putting the meat to roast 
 in my bed. 
 
 Sunday y October 24, 191 5 
 
 Yesterday I went in to Paris to lunch with the Austin- 
 Lees, whom I had not seen since early in September. 
 There we met also Comtesse d'Osmoy, who was passing 
 a few days in Paris — her home is far away near the 
 sea in Normandy, in a big chateau called Plessis. She 
 was very nice, as she always is, and seemed delighted to 
 see me again. She enquired keenly after you; your 
 miniature made such an impression on her!
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 331 
 
 Lady Austin-Lee looked younger and prettier than 
 ever in black — mourning for the only relative she had 
 in France, who died the other day at Orleans. . . . 
 
 The fourth guest was a very young American man 
 called Scott, from Rome, where he has lived almost his 
 whole life with his mother, a very nice fellow. 
 
 Lgot back just in time for my evening service at 5.30 
 in the hospital. And that is my day for yesterday. 
 
 To-day, Sunday, I am not very fit, a sort of gastric 
 bother: ^ and a scandalous tongue! (I don't mean as 
 talking goes, but to look at.) 
 
 I was going to the Pringles, this afternoon, but don't 
 feel up to it. . . . 
 
 Monday, 1.30 p.m., October 25, 191 5 
 
 It is a very sour, cross-looking day, with very little 
 light and no warmth; no breeze, but only a dank emana- 
 tion from the sodden woods — the sort of day that 
 makes evening, with drawn curtains and lighted lamps, 
 very welcome. 
 
 I am much better than I was yesterday, and have just 
 eaten an excellent luncheon. By to-morrow I shall be 
 quite well: but I had a regular chill of the liver — a 
 thing I often do get at home. 
 
 After Mass yesterday I came home and went back to 
 bed, and stayed there, and ate nothing; which treatment 
 brought about the desired results. 
 
 I hope you will not try to economise over fires and 
 catch a chill. 
 
 I heard from Roger to-day and send the letter on to 
 you: also Mrs. Newland's. And I had yours of Friday, 
 acknowledging receipt of some eucalyptus leaves. 
 
 I must stop or I shall miss the mail. 
 
 ^ It was not " gastric," but much more serious. He steadily became more 
 ill till after his operation in January. CEd.]
 
 332 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 Tuesday, ii a.m., October 26, 191 5 
 
 I RECEIVED this morning your letter telling of the 
 arrival of the five officers. I am delighted to hear that 
 you made them welcome, but I don't think you would 
 be likely to do anything else. If the house of one officer 
 in the army is not open in war time to other officers I 
 don't know what house should be. If any more come, 
 please think of them as if they were me, and let them be 
 treated as you would like me to be treated, if cold, tired, 
 and hungry, I knocked at any door for hospitality, 
 
 I am quite well again now after my gastric attack of 
 Sunday; and I am going in to Paris for a drive with the 
 Pringles in their motor-car at 1.30. So I must bustle up 
 as I have not done my hospital yet — it is very empty 
 for the moment. 
 
 It is a rather unpleasant day, raw, and with a biting 
 wind; but even as I write the sun comes out to do his 
 best for us. 
 
 I must really be off. So good-bye. 
 
 Wednesday, 11.30 a.m., October 27, 191 5 
 
 It is a very bright (though far from sultry) October 
 morning, cheery and healthy. It began badly yesterday 
 but turned out brilliantly fine, and I had a very nice 
 drive into Paris in the afternoon with the Pringles: we 
 went through the park and forest of St. Cloud — the 
 palace no longer exists, it having been burned by the 
 Communards in 1871. 
 
 The colouring of the trees was splendid, and there are 
 magnificent views out across the Seine valley. 
 
 We went to see Madame de Montebello, whom I 
 found charming: she is very picturesque, with grey 
 hair powdered white; she is very "grande dame," and 
 imposing, but most cordial, and full of "esprit" and 
 brightness. We cottoned to each other promptly. She
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 333 
 
 was French Ambassadress at St. Petersburg when Lady 
 O'Conor was our own Ambassadress there. By the way 
 I heard from her to-day, and she enquires much after 
 you. 
 
 I see in to-day's paper that young Yvo Chatteris, son 
 of Lady Wemyss, to whom I sent the helmet, was killed 
 on the seventeenth. I think that is the fourth nephew 
 Lady Glenconner has had killed since the war began: 
 and, as he was in the Grenadiers with Bim, I fear it will 
 terrify her. 
 
 On getting back from Paris yesterday I had to give 
 Holy Communion to a poor soldier who is very badly 
 wounded — a big piece of shrapnel wedged into his lung: 
 then I had evening church, a daily event as long as the 
 men will come. 
 
 I must dry up and go round to hospital now. 
 
 Saturday i October 30, 191 5 
 
 I HAVE just received your letter of Wednesday, and in 
 it the envelope of my own letter to you of last Sunday 
 opened by the "Base" censor out here — Paris, Rouen, 
 or Havre, I don't know which. As it is the first letter 
 from me he had opened, out of the tons I have posted, 
 I can't grumble. 
 
 The duck arrived at the same time; thus announced 
 by Wilcox, "Enter forth His Highness (hope not) the 
 chicken." 
 
 The duck is splendid, a very large one, and well-grown, 
 well-fed, well-killed, and well-trussed. It shall be roasted 
 for our Sunday dinner to-morrow, and will last us several 
 days. A chicken last week lasted us all Sunday, Mon- 
 day, Tuesday and Wednesday, and made us the soup 
 that finished our supper on Thursday! Mary sent a 
 killing letter with the duck, which I will duly answer. 
 
 Yesterday I went to tea with the Pringles: a semi-tea 
 party, with about five other guests, all of whom bored
 
 334 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 me: but I stayed on after them and enjoyed the time 
 with my kind hostesses alone. To-day I lunch there, as 
 I have told you. 
 
 It is a grumpy-looking day; sunless and bleak; but 
 not really very cold. 
 
 I don't like your occasional allusions to having a fire: 
 you ought to have one every day. MIND! Have good 
 fires, and keep your old bones comfortable, which will 
 save doctoring, and will keep you out of the blues. 
 
 I must go off to hospital now, so good-bye and with 
 best love to Christie. 
 
 Sunday, October 31, 191 5 
 
 It is a wet, drizzly morning, not cold but cheerless- 
 looking, and one's room, with a good fire, is a very pleasant 
 place to be in. 
 
 After Mass at the hospital, and seeing a few patients 
 rather specially ill, I came home, breakfasted, and am 
 now writing this to you. 
 
 Mary's duck is roasting downstairs, and filling the 
 house with excellent odours of an unwontedly good 
 Sunday dinner. I will drink Mary's health in the gravy! 
 
 Yesterday I lunched at the Pringles — a party of 
 about a dozen, five of themselves. Marquise de Monte- 
 bello, a Captain Belz (Alsatian, who has only one leg 
 left, having had the other blown off fighting for France), 
 an old half-French, half-American, Mr. Vail, etc., and 
 myself. We had an excellent lunch and I had long 
 talks with Mme. de Montebello. She is granddaughter- 
 in-law of Napoleon's Marshal Lannes. 
 
 I must dry up — take this round to the hospital. 
 
 Monday, All Saints^ Day, November i, 191 5 
 
 A VERY wet "Toussaint," but not at all cold. I had 
 Mass at hospital at eight and directly after breakfast 
 went back there to give Holy Communion to a man
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 335 
 
 who was rather bad. This afternoon after luncheon I 
 go back to give it to another man. 
 
 Yes! poor young Yvo Charteris was already killed 
 when I sent him the helmet. I fear it will make Lady 
 Glenconner terrified for Bim. The officers of our Guards 
 have suffered fearful losses from the very beginning of 
 the war. I duly received the mittens yesterday, and do 
 not despise them at all: you may be sure I should never 
 despise anything made by you: when we have cold, raw 
 days I will wear them, but to-day is rather muggy and 
 close. 
 
 I want you to make me a little sort of pad (rather like 
 a kettle-holder!) for cleaning my razor on after use. It 
 should be rather thick — just as a kettle-holder is: one 
 side might be made of coarse linen (old rag, a bit of old 
 table-cloth, napkin, or towel) : the other side of cloth, 
 velvet, etc. On the linen side one would wipe the razor, 
 on the other one would polish it. 
 
 I am going to tea with the Pringles after leaving the 
 hospital, and I am afraid that will be the good-bye visit. 
 I shall miss them terribly; for I am really /on^ of them: 
 and they are cordial hospitality itself. 
 
 I must dry up (I wish the weather would!) and so with 
 best love to Christie. 
 
 All Souls* Day, Novemher 2, 191 5 
 
 I HAVE just got back from the big function at the 
 cathedral — a High Mass of Requiem, with "Allocution" 
 by the Bishop. The cathedral was crammed and a 
 very large proportion of the congregation were French 
 officers and soldiers. The singing was fine and Mgr. 
 Gibier's discourse was just what it should be — simple, 
 tender, sincere, direct, full of sympathy and heart: not 
 too long, and not too eloquent! I was able to understand 
 every word. 
 
 Before the Mass I talked to him, and he was very
 
 336 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 cordial and nice; he has a wonderfully sweet and good 
 face, singularly like Pius X. 
 
 It was rather a struggle to get there in time; but I 
 was (ten minutes before Mass began), for the cathedral 
 is right at the other end of Versailles and I had three 
 Masses of my own to say at the hospital first. The 
 Pope now gives leave for three Masses on All Souls' 
 Day as on Christmas Day. I got up at quarter to five! 
 Yesterday afternoon I went to tea with the Pringles, 
 and stayed on till nearly seven, chatting very comfort- 
 ably: how I shall miss them! 
 
 Your letter of Saturday arrived to-day and I return 
 the postage rate; but I doubt if it concerns me, as our 
 rates are special: nothing for a letter under four ounces, 
 and so on. 
 
 Wednesday Morning, November 3, 191 5 
 
 . . . This will be a scrubby short letter, because (i) 
 I have nothing to say; (2) no time to say it. 
 
 I received your letter of Sunday this morning, in 
 which you promise me a cake from Mrs. K. When 
 I glanced through that bill of Hart's I noticed that the 
 prices are all much lower than what one has to pay here 
 — so I was pleasantly surprised. 
 
 I went to tea with the Pringles again yesterday, and 
 stayed on very late chatting. To-day I go again — 
 and to-morrow, at 8 a.m., they start for Biarritz in their 
 car: the servants going by train. I shall miss them 
 terribly: they are the only friends I have made here 
 except F. and the A.-L.'s, and their departure will leave an 
 irreparable gap. The weather, very sour and scowly 
 the last day or two, has brightened up, and to-day is a 
 regular smiling October day, which really should have 
 arrived last week. 
 
 I sent you a harum-scarum book called ''Manalive" 
 by G. K. Chesterton: it rather makes my bones ache
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 337 
 
 (my mind's bones) it is so jumpy. But I must confess 
 it keeps me interested. 
 
 Friday Morning, November 5, 191 5 
 
 ... I AM afraid that on Sunday you will have no letter 
 from me, though you will receive a very amusing book — 
 "Some Experiences of an Irish Resident Magistrate." 
 Yesterday I had such a crowd of little things to do in 
 the morning that I missed the post altogether. To go 
 back to Wednesday: I went to tea for positively the last 
 time to my kind Pringles, and stayed on till nearly seven. 
 I really felt sad saying good-bye to them, and cannot 
 tell you how much I shall feel their loss. However, 
 instead of grumbling at that I had better think gratefully 
 of the many pleasant hours they have given me during 
 the last couple of months. 
 
 They were to start at 8.30 yesterday morning; lunch 
 at Romorantin, motor on to Limoges, dine and sleep 
 there, and motor on to Biarritz to-day. 
 
 Yesterday I gave Lady Austin-Lee luncheon in Paris, 
 at a restaurant called "L'Escargot," rather a famous place, 
 but not at all smart, nor in a smart part of Paris. L'Es- 
 cargot is its name because snails are the specialty of 
 the house. Lady A.-L. and I had both of us a curiosity 
 to go to the place and to try the snails. Some of the 
 people we saw ate three dozen each! but we only ordered 
 one dozen and a half between us, and, though I ate 
 eight out of my nine. Lady A.-L. only ate six out of 
 hers. The taste is all right, but they look appalling! ! 
 I am glad to have tried them, but don't intend to try 
 again. After the snails we had another specialty of 
 the house — pigs' feet, first stewed, then roasted : not 
 nasty, but not particularly good. Mind, this place, 
 though rather in the slums near the "Halles," is anything 
 but cheap: there were several millionaires lunching 
 there near us!
 
 338 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 I'm glad all the papers, etc., I send make a little 
 pass-time for you. I hardly ever waste a paper, it is 
 sure to be welcome to someone. 
 
 Sunday, November 7, 191 5 
 
 ... It is a very November day, pale, dim, wreathed 
 in white mist, and with a chill breath, though not a real 
 wind. A regular Ellesmere day of late autumn, a tree 
 smell everywhere in the dank air! I do like the French 
 turning up their noses at our English weather: for their 
 own is its twin brother. 
 
 I said Mass at the hospital and afterwards went to four 
 different wards to give Holy Communion to men who are 
 rather bad. Then I came home, breakfasted, read your 
 letter of Thursday and the New York Herald — which 
 I sent on to you. I sent you an Album of Crochet a 
 day or two ago, and now I send another. I thought you 
 might care to send them round by Bert to Miss Polly 
 Burtt, but if you care to keep them I should, of course, 
 like that better still. The cake has not arrived yet, 
 but will probably come to-night. Our letters come in 
 the morning, but our parcels only arrive about twelve 
 hours later. The cards I enclose are from the Pringles, 
 despatched as they sped south in the car from Limoges 
 and Perigueux. ... I miss them sadly, but no more 
 than I knew I should. 
 
 Monday y November 8, 191 5 
 
 ... I ENCLOSE a further flight of post-cards, fired 
 off by the Pringles on their way south. They have now 
 reached Biarritz, and very soon I shall have a shower 
 of letters as well! 
 
 Last night, when I looked out before going to bed, 
 it was thick fog: during the night that changed to a very 
 hard frost without any fog: and an hour after I got up 
 the frost had gone and the fog come back.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 339 
 
 It is very cold, and most opportunely a new top-coat 
 arrived last night from England, what we call a " British 
 Warm," a rather short, very comfortable and cosey 
 uniform overcoat. I wore it this morning going out for 
 Mass and found it a joy. 
 
 I told you that I gave Holy Communion to four men 
 yesterday after Mass: one of them died at midday, 
 poor lad. At my httle evening service last night I 
 noticed a very intelligent-looking young fellow, with 
 rather a handsome face, Irish colouring and eyes: as 
 they were going away I nodded to him to stop a moment, 
 and asked him his name. "Patrick McGill." "Where 
 do you come from?" "Donegal: but I live at Windsor." 
 "I suppose you have only been a soldier since the be- 
 ginning of the war?" "Yes." "What are you by 
 occupation?" "A novelist." Then I remembered . . . 
 just before the war I remember reading reviews of two 
 novels of his, praised to the skies; one called "The Dead 
 End," and the other "The Ratpit," and seeing a very 
 interesting portrait of him in one of the papers. He is 
 only twenty-four. We had a long talk and I found him 
 interesting, but a little grandy especially in his way of 
 talking. 
 
 I send you a book of W. W. Jacobs, called "The Lady 
 of the Barge," a bundle of short stories, some very funny, 
 some very weird. I hope some of them won't keep you 
 awake at night. I must go to hospital. . . . 
 
 Friday, November 12, 191 5 
 
 . . . Such a day! Tearing wind, driving rain — and 
 chimneys trying to smoke: not quite succeeding, because 
 every French fireplace has a thin sheet of iron to draw 
 down in front of the fire, and one can leave it half down 
 if the chimney is trying to smoke. 
 
 I went to see F. again and found him a shade better, 
 but so weak that in the hour I stayed by his side he
 
 340 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 hardly spoke a dozen words. He asked after you and 
 wished he could write to you: he really is fond of you, 
 though he never saw you. I thought he seemed very 
 sad, though very quiet. He said to me, "It would be 
 less trouble to die once for all, on the field of battle, than 
 bit by bit Hke this." 
 
 While I was there, Madame de Montebello came to 
 see him, but only stayed in his room a moment. She is 
 head of all the Croix Rouge of France, and is going on a 
 tour of inspection of hospitals: on her return I am to 
 lunch with her. 
 
 I went on my return to Versailles to tea with Comtesse 
 de Sercey at the Hotel des Reservoirs here; she had with 
 her a Comte de Luz and his daughter: all three very 
 nice, and particularly cordial and friendly. They had 
 come out from Paris on purpose to give me this tea. 
 
 Monday, November 15, 191 5 
 
 . . . The very stormy weather in the Channel has 
 disorganised our mails and I daresay you will be getting 
 my letters irregularly. On Saturday we had no mail, 
 yesterday we got Saturday's: and to-day I have just 
 received your letter dated Thursday which ought to 
 have arrived yesterday — i.e., we are still a day behind- 
 hand, and to-day's has not yet come in. 
 
 After Mass yesterday I had hospital work to occupy 
 me till it was time to rush off to the train for Paris, 
 where I was lunching with Lady Austin-Lee. So I 
 could only send you a word to say I had no time to write. 
 The party at Lady A.-L.'s consisted of herself, Sir Henry, 
 and three Scotts, a Mr. and Mrs. S. and a young Mr. 
 Alex. Scott. They were all three Americans and very 
 nice ones. 
 
 After luncheon I read aloud the instalment of " French 
 and English" in the Month (of November) and the ladies 
 wept.
 
 John Ay s cough'' s Letters to his Mother 341 
 
 I will get you the crochet stuff in Paris on Thursday 
 when I am lunching there with the Scotts. 
 
 I am going to a tea-fight at the Huntingtons to-day: 
 to-morrow I am invited to go to Mile, de Missiessy's 
 wedding, and am giving tea to Lady Austin-Lee and Mr. 
 Scott: and so with another lunch in Paris on Thursday 
 you see I am quite gay. I am so sorry to hear of Dr. 
 Allan's illness; poor old man, he has not had a very 
 joyful life since we have known him: and I always liked 
 him, if only because he was so old-fashioned and so really 
 a gentleman. Mrs. K.'s cake is excellent and I must 
 write and tell her so. But I have seemed to have so 
 very little time for letters lately. 
 
 I really must stop and go round to hospital. 
 
 November 19, 191 5 
 ... I WENT into Paris yesterday to lunch with the 
 Scotts {i.e. Mrs. Scott, and her son Alexander). It 
 was a regular London yellow fog, and we lunched by 
 electric light: very cold too: but the Scotts' rooms were 
 too hot, heated with "central heating," as they call it 
 here, i.e. no visible fire, hot puffs of hot air from some- 
 where — detestable, I think. They have very handsome 
 rooms in the Langhorn Hotel, Rue de Boccador, and the 
 luncheon was Ai. Mrs. Scott is really charming, 
 extraordinarily young-looking to be mother of a son of 
 Alexander's age (about twenty) and with a charming 
 face. Lady Austin-Lee was the only other guest. 
 
 To-day is cold and foggy too, but here the fog isn't 
 miich. I expect it is nearly dark in Paris. 
 
 Do you remember how often I have mentioned the 
 long border here.'' It was really magnificent, over a 
 thousand good geraniums, many beautiful fuchsias 
 (say fifty or sixty), many abutilons and other good plants 
 — and they have left all those plants out to be destroyed 
 and they now are destroyed, all black and hideous from 
 the hard frosts, and black and hideous they will stay
 
 342 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 there all through the winter. It makes me sad and 
 would make you frantic! The soldiers who were always 
 working for Beranek would have got them all in to the 
 greenhouses in an hour or two. 
 
 Your letter of Tuesday has duly arrived. I am always 
 so grateful for your cheery, pleasant letters; they are a 
 daily relief to my mind. I don't care sixpence whether 
 they contain news or not; all I want is to see your writing 
 and know you are well and cheery. Never bother making 
 out a long letter if you feel indisposed to it — three lines 
 would do for me, but for those three lines I look out 
 eagerly. 
 
 I must go forth to hospital. 
 
 Saturday, November 20, 191 5 
 
 ... I RECEIVED to-day your letter of Wednesday, 
 in which you mention having received the mantilla from 
 Miss Maria Pringle. I have at once sent on your letter 
 to her. The mantilla is entirely her own gift to you, 
 but I believe it was pinned up into Spanish form by the 
 Duchess of San Carlos's maid exactly as she does her 
 mistress's when the Duchess is in waiting (she is lady- 
 in-waiting to the Queen of Spain: and at court all ladies 
 must wear the mantilla). I am so glad you like it, and 
 I know Miss Pringle liked sending it. 
 
 Yesterday I went to see F. and found him much better 
 and in very good spirits — of course still confined strictly 
 to bed. While I was there Lady Austin-Lee came over 
 from Paris to see him and so he had plenty of company. 
 
 On getting back to Versailles I went to tea with a 
 Madame Guyon, whom I don't think I ever mentioned 
 to you, but whom I used to meet constantly at the 
 Pringles: and they begged me to cultivate her. She is 
 clever and pleasant; her mother was there, too (they 
 do not live together), as a guest like myself: the mother 
 is called Madame de Salette; she is also clever and lets
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 343 
 
 you know it. I enjoyed my visit; they both have heaps 
 to say and not a word of gossip: the rooms are very 
 comfortable, hke EngHsh rooms in a really good house 
 belonging to well-born and well-bred people, and the tea 
 was just like an English tea. Madame Guyon has 
 beautiful things — miniatures, furniture, china, old fans, 
 etc., and Madame de Salette paints in oils extremely well 
 — portraits chiefly. 
 
 I am reading a very good (new) life of Lord Lyons, 
 whom I used to know well. He was the brother of my 
 old Duchess of Norfolk and our Ambassador in Wash- 
 ington, Paris, etc. 
 
 The book interests me immensely, and as it is my own 
 I will send it to you as soon as I have finished it. 
 
 Monday, November 22, 191 5 
 
 . . . To-day is the least gloomy-looking we have had 
 for quite a long time: there is actually a pallid attempt 
 at sunshine: whereas yesterday was black and bitter, 
 a most ferocious east wind that seemed to search for one's 
 bones — it did not find mine, owing to my "British 
 Warm," and a thick, woolly waistcoat I wear under my 
 tunic. The knitted comforter to go under the collar 
 of the coat that you made me has arrived and I will wear 
 it if I can, but there is not much room under my collar; 
 what with crossbelt, "British Warm," etc., I have so 
 much on. 
 
 I went to see F. yesterday after a hurried luncheon, 
 and found him really much better; he had got up at 
 eleven and remained up till 1.30 (after his luncheon), 
 but was then tired and glad enough to go back to bed. 
 They are going to operate on him again! ! ! Though it 
 is only a slight operation, I think it lamentable: certain 
 nerves have to be operated upon in his legs. 
 
 I cannot tell you how cold it was waiting at Chaville 
 station for my train home after leaving him. I never
 
 344 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 felt a worse east wind; however, I was thoroughly 
 warmly clad, and the train as warm as a toast when it 
 arrived. Chaville is two stations from here on the road 
 to Paris; the forest (largely birch) is very pretty there. 
 After my evening service at the hospital I came home 
 and sat by my cosey fire reading Lord Newton's "Life of 
 Lord Lyons" — very comfortable, and I thoroughly 
 enjoyed it. The only interruption was letting Wilcox read 
 aloud to me for half an hour — this he does for his stam- 
 mering, and it makes a wonderful difference. What 
 do you think he reads aloud? Mrs. Markham's "His- 
 tory of England": it carries me back nearly fifty years, 
 to when you used to read it aloud to Pierce and me when 
 we lived in Scotland Street at Ellesmere. I remember 
 the pictures so well, and love to look at them. This 
 morning I got two letters from you, one written on 
 Thursday afternoon and one on Friday morning — en- 
 closing one from Aunt Agnes. 
 
 Most of all I am glad that you are not fretting about 
 my absence at Christmas. I would much rather not go 
 home on leave: To go home for Christmas only would 
 upset us both and would almost certainly lead to 
 my losing Versailles, which certainly suits me in many 
 ways. I must dry up; so good-bye for the moment. . . . 
 My Christmas dinner shall come from you — duck and 
 plum pudding! 
 
 Tuesday, November 23, 191 5 
 
 . . . We live in the clouds here: for quite a long 
 time it has been unbroken fog, and a very cold fog, pene- 
 trating to the bones and the marrow of the bones. I 
 lived six years in London, and never experienced so much 
 fog during all that time as I have already seen this winter 
 at Versailles. However, you need not pity me, for I 
 keep up an excellent fire in my room from 6.30 a.m. to 
 II P.M., and I am warmly clad and well fed. Last night
 
 John Ayscoiigh^s Letters to his Mother 345 
 
 there was a hard frost with the fog, and the combination 
 was pretty stiff. 
 
 Yesterday afternoon I went to Paris to pay a round 
 of visits, and as everyone was out I got through a good 
 many. While I was there the Annexe to the Bon Marche 
 was on fire and if I had known it I should have gone to 
 see it; but only learned it from the New York Herald 
 this morning. A million francs' worth of damage was 
 done — and as the Annexe was used as a military hospital, 
 I wonder if it was set on fire by Germans. Within the 
 last few days the following notice has made its appear- 
 ance everywhere, in railway carriages, trams, libraries, 
 cafes, etc. (emanating from the Government) : 
 
 *' Taisez-vous! Oreilles ennemies vous ecoutent: des espions 
 partout." 
 
 When I got back I cozed up to my fire, and finished the 
 first volume of the "Life of Lord Lyons," which now I 
 send on to you. I daresay it will not interest you as 
 much as it does me, for you did not know Lord Lyons: 
 and you are not so much interested in this sort of diplo- 
 matic history — or history from the inside: and the book 
 is quite empty of anecdotes and social sidelights: Lord 
 L. was, like the Duchess, physically incapable of either 
 gossiping or listening to gossip. Still the period is ab- 
 sorbingly interesting (the American war of North and 
 South while Lord L. was ambassador at Washington; 
 and the Franco-Prussian war while he was Ambassador 
 here). 
 
 Your letter of Saturday arrived this morning: I will 
 certainly order the turkey and tell Hart to be sure and 
 send a nice young bird. I shall order sausages to go 
 with it. And as I have for years sent the same to Aunt 
 Agnes I will not fail this year. I think I should like 
 Mrs. K. to send her a plum pudding too. If you do make 
 me any crochet, let it be narrow, not too fine, not too 
 minute or niggly a pattern, about seven feet long, for the 
 altar cloth in my chapel here.
 
 346 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 There is a small short alb in one of the drawers in my 
 bedroom with thick heavy Venetian point lace (made for 
 me long ago by old Mrs. Huthwaite), a lace rather like 
 sea-weed; the alb is not resplendent, but I should like 
 it to use while the one I wear here every day is being 
 washed for Christmas. Tell Mary, please, and dont 
 send anything else with it. It will travel much better 
 for being light and having nothing else in the parcel: 
 oh, by the way, she may send with it three silk girdles 
 (green, red and purplish) that are in the same place: they 
 weigh almost nothing. 
 
 Wednesday, November 24, 191 5 
 
 . . . For days we have had nothing but hard frost, fog 
 and east wind: to-day the wind has gone south, the frost 
 has disappeared, it is almost warm, and the morning 
 began soft and wet, a mild rain that soon stopped; and 
 now, though the sun is not shining it is light and almost 
 cheerful: till to-day twilight has been the most brilliant 
 light we have had even at noon. 
 
 I went to Chaville again yesterday to see F. and found 
 him up, and hobbling about, and in very good spirits, 
 though tired and weak. I stayed till four, then had to 
 fly off" to catch my train back to Versailles: on the way 
 I met Madame M., who was (as she always is) very 
 pessimistic about F.'s health. He had been talking to 
 me as to how he would earn his living after leaving 
 the army. "Poor boy," she said, "there will never be 
 any need." 
 
 She thinks his days will be very few: but I do not. 
 He has an amazing vitality, and that with his pluck 
 and the desire to live will carry him far. 
 
 She does not talk in this lachrymose way to him: 
 only to me. I came in and read Lord Lyons all evening 
 — and "Land and Water," which you will receive on 
 Sunday morning.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 347 
 
 I send you to-day's New Tork Herald: in the back page 
 is an account by Camilla Flammarion, the veteran astrono- 
 mer, of a wonderful meteorite that is supposed to have 
 fallen near Rambouillet, the light of which was visible 
 here (and it was audible here). Flammarion says it 
 came from so distant a star that it must have taken at 
 least seven million years on its way! No wonder it 
 burst: / should if I had to go on a journey of that length. 
 
 Reading the "Life of Lord Lyons" one realises that 
 without a shadow of doubt Germany began getting ready 
 for this war the moment the Franco-Prussian war was 
 over: and to me it seems lamentable that we did not 
 help France then, in 1870. If we had, this war would 
 never have been and the German Empire would probably 
 have never been. But the English always had an idea 
 that there was a natural friendship between us and the 
 Germans, and that the Germans were good moral people, 
 who read the Bible and went to Sunday-school, whereas 
 the French were naughty, fond of flirting, and not to be 
 encouraged. I'm sure that was Queen Victoria's view, 
 too. 
 
 I have made a little discovery on my own hook; if 
 water is very hard (it is terribly so here) you can soften 
 it and prevent the soap curdling in it by putting a pinch 
 of carbonate of soda into it before washing in it: and 
 this also prevents one's skin chapping, quite wonder- 
 fully. . . . 
 
 Saturday, November 27, 191 5 
 
 ... It is Christmas card sort of weather, very cold, 
 very dry, very frosty, with glittering white bushes catch- 
 ing the sunlight, but very snowy-looking clouds almost 
 hiding the sun. What is called very healthy weather. 
 It was extraordinarily warm yesterday and as I walked 
 from Chaville station to F.'s hospital the forest looked 
 lovely — a wintry sunshine was shining through it,
 
 348 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 undergrowth and atmosphere had the same purple- 
 rose tint, the birch-trees were hke rods of poHshed silver, 
 and one could see, through the tree-tops, pale forget- 
 me-not peeps of sky. The odd thing was that at four 
 o'clock, in spite of its having been so warm all day, 
 it began snowing, and down it came, a fierce, thick 
 snow-storm. I walked to the station through snow, 
 and soon one could see nothing but snow out of the 
 carriage windows, all else blotted out. The cold to-day 
 is piercing, and if it is like this with you I hope you are 
 stopping in bed. I shouldn't at all object to stopping 
 there myself. 
 
 I wrote to Miss Maria Pringle last night and repeated 
 all you said about the mantilla, which will please her. 
 
 As to young , I am not on your side: I think he 
 
 is just the sort of young man who should enlist. He has 
 three or four brothers, his mother is in no way dependent 
 on him — exactly the contrary — and though he is quite 
 strong enough to go and fight, he is not the sort of man 
 whose children England particularly wants! And then 
 his life in civilian occupation is a perpetual anxiety and 
 struggle. It is sheer sluggishness that keeps him back. 
 
 Sunday y Novemher 28, 191 5 
 
 . . . When I wrote to you yesterday morning the 
 English mail had not come in: when it did it brought 
 me two letters from you, one written on Wednesday and 
 one on Thursday. So the latter only took forty-eight 
 hours to come. 
 
 It is terribly cold still: hard, bitter frost, but not 
 gloomy: there is blue sky and sunshine, and at night 
 brilliant moonlight. I keep up a fine fire in my room 
 and am uncommonly comfortable by it. There I finished 
 the Lord Lyons book last night, and was very sorry to do 
 so. It is not so much Lord Lyons that interests 
 me, but all the diplomatic history. The book is like
 
 John Ayscouglfs Letters to his Mother 349 
 
 himself, solid, excellent; without anecdote or meander- 
 ings: but I doubt if you will care much for it: though 
 Lord L. knew every important personage of his time, 
 there is scarcely an anecdote about anyone of them: 
 and so the book has not what is generally the special 
 attraction of such Memoirs. And it stops abruptly 
 with Lord L.'s death, just as England is about to make 
 her occupation of Egypt permanent. At the end is 
 a short "Lord Lyons in private life" by Mrs. Wilfred 
 Ward, Lady O'Conor's sister, and Herbert's mother, 
 who, of course, was Lord Lyons' grandniece; more 
 interesting than the book itself. 
 
 I cannot thank you enough for your daily letter: no 
 matter if it were only half a page; it is just to know 
 that you are well and comfortable — that makes all the 
 difference to me. Winifred wrote also saying I might 
 like to hear from an outside source how well she thought 
 you, but begging me not to let you go out in the bitter 
 winds you have been having. 
 
 Excuse this short scribble. I've no time for more. 
 
 Monday, November 29, 191 5 
 
 ... I AM taking a leaf out of your book and having a 
 day's rest-cure in bed! It is a beastly day and I began 
 with an attack of neuralgia: so I am doing the lazy. 
 The neuralgia, however, has departed, unlamented. I 
 send you a Pearson s Weekly not because it is your line, 
 but because of a rather remarkable article on the Kaiser's 
 madness. 
 
 The hard frost and bright sun have disappeared, and 
 it is muggy and pouring rain and very dark, and very 
 gloomy. But I am uncommonly cosey in my room here, 
 and thoroughly enjoying my "off" day, which I am the 
 better enabled to take that the hospital is nearly empty. 
 
 Every night when I undress and go to bed in this 
 excellent room by an excellent fire, I think of the
 
 350 'John Ayscough*s Letters to his Mother 
 
 millions of poor lads freezing in the trenches and ask 
 God to forgive me for any spirit of grumbling. . . . 
 
 Have no post-cards about deceased priests come 
 within the last few months? I am bound to say Mass for 
 each, under pain of mortal sin, and I have had none for 
 ages — surely some priests must have died! Please 
 see that these cards are forwarded at once. If any have 
 not been, but are still in the house, send me the names 
 on them. ... If not, I shall have to write to the Car- 
 dinal about it, and ask him for a list of all priests deceased 
 in England since I left home. 
 
 Tuesday y November 30, 191 5 
 
 . . . Again no mail from England to-day, though I 
 daresay they will crop up before evening: so I have no 
 letter of yours to acknowledge. 
 
 To-day is very fine; blue sky, soft air and sunshine — 
 certainly the climate of Northern France is as versatile 
 as that of England. I feel very lively to-day after my 
 rest-cure yesterday. Of course I did not sleeps though 
 I stayed in bed, but read all day: a life of Sir Robert 
 Morier, who was, like Lord Lyons, a British Ambassador: 
 but like him in nothing else: the book, I think, may turn 
 out more amusing than Lord L.'s life, because it is gossipy 
 and deals with all sorts of people in a light and rather 
 flippant fashion, but so far I do not think Sir Robert 
 Morier compares particularly well with Lord Lyons, the 
 former full of himself, flighty, full of moods and ups and 
 downs, and, as it seems to me, feather-headed. Still one 
 learns a lot from both of these books. I send you a 
 New York Herald with a very scathing but very tragic 
 cartoon in it, representing the "Lusitania" children's 
 shades saying to the shades of "Ancona's" children, 
 "Never mind; you'll soon be forgotten." 
 
 As no mails have come to-day I have not yet received 
 either the alb or the pretty thing you made for Miss
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 351 
 
 Pringle, which I will send on directly it arrives. Don't 
 be excited if a large parcel arrives from me; it is 
 only my big motor coat which I cannot use here, 
 it not being uniform; in one of the pockets I shall stuff 
 eucalpytus leaves. 
 
 I must dry up and go to hospital. 
 
 Tuesday Evening, November 30, 191 5 
 
 . , . When I wrote to you this morning no English 
 mail had come in, but since then one has arrived bring- 
 ing me two letters from you for me and one for F., which 
 I will take him to-morrow. I went to see him this 
 afternoon and found him well and very cheerful. He 
 was in uniform, the first time since he was opere, and we 
 went out for a little walk in the forest. How I wished 
 you were there; it was so lovely and you could have 
 made exquisite sketches of it — like two we have framed 
 in the drawing-room, leafless woods with wonderful 
 lights among the trees. I had no idea at all till I came 
 to live at Versailles how beautiful the near neighbourhood 
 of Paris was; the forests run quite close up to it on this, 
 the western side: and it is not fiat forest, but a country 
 of narrow valleys between ridges of hill, all clothed in 
 woodland. The road to Versailles from Paris twists 
 along one of these valleys, and there are houses the 
 whole way, so that going by tram it is like one long, 
 interminable street — but at the back of the houses the 
 forest runs close down to their gardens. Even in Louis 
 XIV's time the forest between Versailles and Paris was 
 so wild and untrodden that it was full of game and the 
 fiercer animals of the chase, — wolves, wild boars and they 
 say even bears. 
 
 We climbed by a woodland road up to the flat top of 
 one of the narrow ridges, and through the trees got a 
 brief view, across one valley, across the corner of another 
 to Sevres, and beyond, about five miles away, lay Paris,
 
 352 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 pearly-white, shining through a sunny haze. One could 
 plainly see the huge tall dome of the Pantheon, On the 
 other side was another deep valley, filled with leafless 
 trees, and in the bottom the etangs, or pools of Ville 
 d'Avrage, like immense pearls caught in an opal net. 
 Where we were the trees were all birches, and their 
 leafless tops, all pink rose, were lovelier than if they 
 were covered with foliage. Their boles, smooth and 
 shining, were like rods of polished silver. On a tree- 
 trunk I was interested to see a little board on which was 
 painted "To Morte Fontaine," which was the country 
 home of Joseph, the eldest of Napoleon's brothers, King 
 of Spain, and husband of Queen Juhe Clary, my old 
 friend's Aunt Julie; she was much fonder of her quiet 
 life there than of court life, and hated leaving it, which 
 she only did for a very short time. 
 
 Reading Lord Lyons' life makes me more than ever 
 ashamed of our monstrous disregard of propriety in 
 letting the Prince Imperial go to Zululand, and our letting 
 him go with such carelessness as to the conditions of his 
 safety that he was killed for nothing — not in battle, but 
 by sheer disregard of the precautions we ought to have 
 insisted upon. Even the Republicans here were scanda- 
 lised and indignant when the news of his being killed 
 thus arrived: and there is hardly any doubt he would 
 have been Emperor had we taken proper care of him: and 
 if he had many things would have followed a different 
 course here. 
 
 When we were in the wood F. said "Oh, Francois, 
 I have something to tell you. They are going to operate 
 on me again." Poor boy: I wonder there is any of him 
 left! However, he takes it all with his unfailing cheerful- 
 ness and courage. 
 
 I enjoyed our little stroll: I always feel tons better 
 for a walk in fields or woods: the town cobwebs clear 
 away and I feel more manly and cheerful. You do not 
 know how hard it is to keep my temper, so to speak,
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 353 
 
 and I often rail against "destiny," which is all very rot- 
 ten, for there is no such thing, only the great Will of 
 God, who is kinder than any plan of our own, and who 
 has done so much for me, and for you, too. Certainly 
 for a man on Active Service, I have nothing to grumble 
 at: and if I am parted from you, alas, how many of my 
 friends have had to make the greatest parting of all. 
 
 Wednesday Evenings December i, 191 5 
 
 . . . This morning when I opened the windows there 
 was the soft smell of the south wind, really sweet as if 
 blowing from scented woods and flowered fields: it was 
 quite warm, and the sky was almost without clouds, 
 but I said "just the sort of day that turns to rain," and 
 so it did. When I went to Chaville to see F. the rain 
 was pelting down, and there was no walk in the forest 
 for us to-day: and it was still pouring when I came back 
 to Versailles. 
 
 I found F. not quite so well, but I think it was only 
 the influence of the (to him) melancholy weather — I, 
 who must have some wild duck's blood in my veins 
 (not a monkey's, I'm sure), am never depressed by rain, 
 but quite the reverse. This morning when I went 
 round to hospital, I found all the men drawn up in a 
 double line, and thought Lord Kitchener must have 
 dropped down upon us. But it was the young King 
 Manuel of Portugal: and the Colonel immediately 
 sent for me to be introduced to him. He was very 
 civil and very simple, and looks almost a boy still. C. 
 will tell you he is an awful person, but the real truth is 
 that Portuguese anarchists conducted a villainous cam- 
 paign of slander against him, and their horrible slanders 
 were eagerly snapped up by the gossip-mongers. As 
 a matter of fact, he was less than eighteen at the time he 
 was supposed to be so "awful," and he had only been 
 a King in any sense his own master for about a year
 
 354 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 and five months. He has very far from a bad counte- 
 nance: he is pale, hke all Portuguese, and will be stout 
 like his father, but he is not yet by any means fat. His 
 manner is good and quiet, without pretensions or pose, 
 simply like a well-bred, simple gentleman who does not 
 want to "figure." He spoke to each of the wounded 
 men, not "condescendingly" at all, but with a gentle, 
 unassuming sympathy: and I noticed that they did not 
 feel shy or embarrassed with him, as they would have 
 done had he been patronizing. When he talked to them 
 it was in a low voice to them only. When he smiles 
 his face is very pleasant and kindly, and indeed I should 
 say that kindness was the most noticeable trait in him. 
 
 . . . During such a war there should be no such names 
 as Liberal and Conservative, it should be "Englishman" 
 only: and he is a poor Englishman who helps foreign 
 countries to believe that the Enghsh Government is 
 rotten. The simple question every Englishman should 
 ask himself is, "Whom does this agitation against our 
 Rulers serve .^ If it tends to strengthen our enemy, and to 
 ourselves, can it be English policy?" 
 
 Now I will dry up. . . . 
 
 Don't let "down" you with waggings of the head 
 
 about poor King Manuel. He is the victim of a very 
 mean and dastardly series of Hbels, which he had no 
 means of disproving, since the anarchist press of Portugal 
 was beyond the reach of anyont. 
 
 Friday Mornings December 3, 191 5 
 
 ... I WROTE you a long letter the night before last 
 to post yesterday, and to-day shall not be able to write 
 you another long one, (i), because I have nothing to 
 say — and (2), because I have not much time. This 
 morning and yesterday morning began like Wednesday, 
 fine, very warm, with a sort of clear darkness, and a
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 355 
 
 wonderful, indefinably sweet air: and both days turned 
 to rain almost as soon as it was really light. To-day it is 
 ■pouring, but still extraordinarily warm. 
 
 The alb arrived from Mary this morning; she was 
 so stingy over brown paper that it got wet and grubby 
 on the way. It is always hard to induce servants to 
 use enough packing paper, and our house is crammed 
 with it, kept precisely to be used on these occasions. 
 Fortunately, the silk girdles were rolled up inside the 
 alb and so they were not wet or injured, I daresay 
 she thought that by using a very little paper she would 
 save postage, but it only causes me to have to spend 
 I franc 50 to get the alb washed, which it need not have 
 been if it had not got dirty on the way. 
 
 I got one letter from you yesterday and to-day two 
 letters, very chatty, cheery and pleasant and I thank you 
 heartily for them. I send you a New York Herald with 
 an excellent letter from Roosevelt. 
 
 To-morrow I am going to Paris to luncheon with the 
 Marquise de Montebello and I know I shall enjoy it; 
 she is so pleasant, such excellent company, and cheery 
 and amusing. I shall go to one of the big shops and get 
 you some more Christmas cards: there is no choice here 
 at Versailles: and everything here costs more than in 
 Paris. I must dry up, though the day won't hear of it. 
 
 Friday Night, December 3, 191 5 
 
 ... It is rather late, and the heavy, almost hot 
 weather makes me feel sleepy, so I shall not write either 
 a long or a brilliant letter, but I want to get one ready 
 for to-morrow's mail. I go in to Paris early to-morrow, 
 as Madame de Montebello's luncheon is at twelve, 
 and from door to door (from mine to hers) takes over 
 an hour, and I have several things to do first. 
 
 Your parcel containing the kettle-holder for me, and 
 the very pretty gift for Miss Maria Pringle, came this
 
 356 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 evening. I will send it on to her on Sunday, and I 
 am sure she will be delighted: it is really pretty and 
 artistic, and extremely well made; and, as made by you, 
 she will value it much more. 
 
 The kettle-holder is just what I wanted, and will be 
 very useful. The little razor pad is not nearly worn out 
 yet, and will last for a long while still. I sent off the 
 second volume of Lord Lyons to-day, and I hope it will 
 interest you. As I have said before, it lacks the sort of 
 entertaining chit-chat that is often the particular at- 
 traction of reminiscences, but it is exactly characteristic 
 of the man — truthful, thorough, and giving an exact idea 
 of the work and difficulties a great diplomatist has to do 
 and struggle against. He did not know the meaning of 
 intrigue, and he was a standing contradiction of the 
 witty saying that a great diplomatist is a man who "lies 
 abroad for the good of his country." He was the in- 
 carnation of discretion, and that is why there is so little 
 tittle-tattle in the book. Lord Newton is the head of 
 the very ancient family of Legh of Lyme Hall (they 
 were not peers when you and I visited Lyme nearly, if 
 not quite, fifty years ago). He earned his peerage by 
 being a very good diplomatist himself. 
 
 Mrs. Wilfred Ward's short account of her great-uncle 
 in private life is excellent; it was impossible to give an 
 "intimate" picture of him, because even in private life 
 he was not intimate; his shyness was more noticeable 
 in private than in pubhc, and I think he used it as a weapon 
 against possible indiscretions of people who might think 
 they knew him well enough to ask questions. She 
 speaks of his extraordinary habit of talking sheer non- 
 sense in private life — another trick to avoid the traps 
 and pitfalls of "serious" conversations. As the book 
 has to end with his death it leaves one rather tantalised 
 as to the final occupation of Egypt by ourselves, and the 
 good relations that grew up at last between us and 
 France — after that occupation, which the French had
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 357 
 
 been so long fearing, had become ?ifait accompli that they 
 had to make the best of. Lord Lyons was shrewdly 
 alive to French faults, and especially to the faults of the 
 French politicians (always the worst class in France) 
 with whom he had most to do: and he was always the 
 reverse of gushing and always utterly British. But it 
 is evident that he liked France and the French all the 
 same, and sincerely wished England and her nearest 
 neighbour to pull together: also it is perfectly plain that 
 he understood, as few English politicians did, how per- 
 sistently Bismarck worked to breed bad blood between 
 the English and the French: and that he fully understood 
 why, mainly because he fathomed from the start the 
 whole Prussian programme of universal mastery in 
 Europe and the world. 
 
 Also Lord Lyons does justice to the Empress Eugenie 
 and shows the injustice of the fable that the war of 1870 
 was forced by her. 
 
 On the whole the book is much better than amusing, 
 a worthy monument to a simple and great man, of a 
 sort that hardly exists now, whose whole idea was silent 
 service and duty, efficiency, and the sinking of himself in 
 the interests of England: he had no axe of his own to 
 grind and was not out for his own name and fame. 
 
 After this long essay I will go to bed. 
 
 So good-night and may only happy dreams visit you. 
 
 Sunday, December 5, 191 5 
 
 ... I DARESAY you are getting my letters rather 
 irregularly just now, and so, on some days, none. I have 
 written each day, but the boats often do not cross now. 
 To-day I had a double mail with two letters from you, 
 written on Wednesday and Thursday. I will get the 
 drinking chocolate and send it you to-morrow: I am so 
 glad you Hke it: why not let Kearney make your cocoa of 
 this only, and not use the Salisbury stuff at all: it is
 
 358 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 quite cheap and I could easily send you two or three 
 dozen of the small packets at a time; it comes from the 
 French Colonies and they prepare everything so care- 
 fully and well. 
 
 Yesterday I went to luncheon with the Marquise de 
 Montebello, and had a very nice time. We were six : herself, 
 myself, her husband's eldest brother, the Duke de Monte- 
 bello, and his younger brother the Count, her sister 
 (Mrs. Hope Vere), and Madame Beyens, the wife of the 
 Belgian Minister for Foreign Affairs: all interesting, 
 clever people, and very pleasant indeed. The house is 
 charming, too, and the luncheon was excellent. Mrs. 
 Hope Vere wants to go to England, but though she has 
 her passports, etc., she can't get across. They warn 
 her that the boats are running very irregularly and 
 often are not able to run at all, because the storms have 
 filled the Channel with drifting mines that have broken 
 loose and are wandering about vaguely. So you see that 
 if I were going over I should have a certain amount of 
 difficulty and now you need not picture me being sent to 
 the bottom by a wandering mine. The Duke de Monte- 
 bello is very nice, but he has just lost his wife, and he 
 looks very sad. The Count is a great joker and excellent 
 company. Of course one had heard plenty of M. Beyens, 
 the Belgian Foreign Secretary, and I found his wife 
 very interesting, cordial, and agreeable. She is young, 
 about eight and twenty, I should say. It was quite 
 hot yesterday and so it is to-day, but not a bit healthy. 
 
 I must dash off to hospital. 
 
 Monday Evening, December 6, 191 5 
 
 . . . The weather is still the same — wild, windy, 
 ever raining, and still warm. But to-day we had a mail, 
 and I got your letter of Friday, not at all delayed. 
 
 I enclose now the stuff I bought you for putting on the 
 pretty things you make: this sort of *'galoon" adds a
 
 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 359 
 
 wonderful finish and cachet to them. I also enclose 
 eighteen more Christmas cards for you to send off to 
 whomsoever you will: some rather pretty, but nothing 
 wonderful: the truth is there was not much choice even 
 in Paris, for the Christmas card custom has not, I sup- 
 pose, caught on here very much. Even in the enormous 
 "Louvre," where there were thousands of people buying 
 things, there was no large assortment of Christmas 
 cards (of picture post-cards, millions). Also I send the 
 various short lengths of passementerie meant to make 
 belts of, or to trim hats or to trim evening gowns. I have 
 put the names of the people I meant them for, but if 
 you think well these names may be shuffled. I told you 
 I was reading another Ambassador's life (Sir Robert 
 Morier's), but I don't think I shall send it on to you: 
 it is instructive, but he was a specialist on Germany 
 and the book is stuffed with regular essays on German 
 politics and developments, and it wants a very detached 
 mind to be able to enter into that just now: / can't 
 enter into it sympathetically. It is true that Morier 
 loathed Bismarck and was loathed by him, and that 
 Morier hated the Bismarckian policy of iron and blood: 
 but he was hand in glove with Baron Stockmar and the 
 Prince Consort, and earnestly desired the unification of 
 Germany (out of the hotch-potch of independent States 
 of which it consisted before 1870 and the Franco-Prussian 
 war); he hated Napoleon III and was, above all things, 
 eager to keep England apart from France. Whereas 
 it was the policy of Russia to prevent German unification, 
 as Russia all along had the sense to see that a militant 
 German Empire would be the greatest menace to Europe, 
 and that a Germany united under Prussian emperors, 
 would inevitably be militant. Our desire to see France 
 terrorised by a very strong German neighbour, was, as 
 I have thought since boyhood (since 1870), our terrible 
 mistake, and it is the mistake we are paying for now. 
 Thus, it seems to me, all the while I am reading of Morier's
 
 360 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 energetic efforts to make England sympathise with and 
 help the efforts for German unity, that he was simply 
 mistaken and that we ought to have been helping France 
 and Russia instead. The other states of Germany, 
 except Baden, by no means wanted to range themselves 
 under Prussia: and as long as they remained separate 
 and half of them looked to Austria as their chieftain, 
 there was no chance of a European menace from Ger- 
 many. But Morier was besotted with the idea that 
 the Germans and English were cousins, and should be 
 dear friends, and for that friendship he worked tooth 
 and nail. Queen Victoria herself was much less Ger- 
 manophile than Morier, and it was from him she received 
 instruction as to Germany and its politics. So far as 
 I have got (before 1870) it does not seem to occur to him 
 that in Germany was to arise the implacable rival of 
 England. It is fair to say that even already I can see 
 how he hated and feared Bismarck; and how he built 
 everything on the chance of what would happen when the 
 Crown Prince (the Emperor Frederick) should succeed: 
 whereas the Emperor Frederick only assumed the crown 
 to die, and his son, the present Emperor, was a worse 
 Bismarck than B. himself. I thought that lurid article 
 on his madness would interest you. His son, the Crown 
 Prince, is still madder, and a hopeless degenerate. 
 Now I must stop and pack up my parcel. 
 
 Thursday Evening, December 9, 191 5 
 
 . . . This morning I received your two letters, one of 
 which enclosed a letter for Miss Maria Pringle that I 
 posted at once: she will receive it to-morrow. Also I 
 received the parcel containing the foot-warmer, which 
 is splendid, just what I shall find delightfully comfortable 
 when this spell of warm wet weather is past. 
 ' I fired off the Joan of Arc to Winifred Gater, and a 
 large bottle of eau de cologne to Mrs. Gater. I duly
 
 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 361 
 
 received the eighteen mortuary cards a few days ago and 
 have started saying the Masses. F. came this morning 
 and I took him to luncheon at the Hotel des Reservoirs: 
 it joins the chateau and is a palace itself, the quasiroyal 
 abode of Madame de Pompadour, with her arms still 
 on the front of it, carved in stone. It stands in such a 
 striking position, and in such an intimate neighbourhood 
 to the chateau that it seems to challenge remark and 
 comment. To have had, as Madame du Barry had 
 afterwards, her own suite of apartments in the chateau 
 would have been far less challenging to public comment. 
 The interior is fine, and the rooms quite palatial. While 
 we were at luncheon I said to F., "There is a party of 
 ladies in the corner there whom I can't quite make out: 
 one looks quite a lady, the other four very 'ordinary' 
 and I'm wondering if they are English." A few minutes 
 afterwards one of the ladies got up and came over to me 
 saying, "The Duchess of Vendome hopes you will come 
 and talk to her as soon as you have finished your lunch- 
 eon." We went to her table and she was most friendly; 
 made me sit down, offered us coffee and cigarettes, and 
 kept us talking for over a quarter of an hour. She is 
 tall, fair, with blue eyes, light hair and a very aquiline 
 nose, rather like her brother. King Albert. She has small 
 and pretty hands, and her manners are very simple and 
 nice (not nearly so royal as our own royalties). She 
 seems an excellent woman, much given to good works. 
 I don't know the names of any of her ladies. Then we 
 went (in the rain) to look at the Salle de Menus Plaisirs 
 where the National Assembly sat which inaugurated the 
 Revolution. 
 
 Finally I splashed home through the wind and rain 
 and that is the end of my day's doings. I am always 
 delighted if I have anything to put into a letter, and I 
 daresay the Princess would be surprised if she knew 
 that all the time I was saying to myself, "You'll go 
 well into my letter to-night."
 
 362 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 
 
 Monday y December 13, 191 5 
 
 ... I HAVE been toiling through letters till I'm dizzy; 
 and now I am too stupid and too hurried to write you 
 more than a "bulletin." 
 
 It is now bitterly cold again, and I am taking great 
 comfort out of the foot-muff, as Wilcox calls it, which 
 you made me. I had not intended to begin using it 
 till Christmas; but perhaps it will be ever so warm then, 
 and it is certainly cold enough now. So I thought it 
 more sensible to take advantage of it. You could not 
 have made or bought me anything which would have 
 given me so many hours of comfort. Last Christmas 
 you gave me a pair of wool-lined gloves (I'm wearing 
 them now, every day) and I should like a new pair for 
 New Tear's Day but not before. 
 
 I had a nice letter from Bessie in which she says your 
 courage and cheerfulness make her ashamed. I do think 
 you are splendid and it just prevents my heart breaking. 
 
 Yesterday our mail only came in about two in the 
 afternoon and to-day it has not come in at all: not 
 yet, at least. 
 
 Your letter dated Saturday came yesterday, acknowl- 
 edging my parcel of parcels. I'm so glad you think 
 the gold galoon pretty — / did! 
 
 F., after lunching with the Duke and Duchess of 
 Trevise, came here, and was very nice: then we sallied 
 forth to give tea to Lady Austin-Lee. F. and I are 
 lunching with her on Saturday. She evidently likes her 
 little tea-parties with us, and certainly we owe her them. 
 
 Monday Night, December 13, 191 5 
 
 ... I TOLD you we had no mails this morning, but one 
 cropped up to-night. It brought your letter of Friday 
 saying you had heard of Mary's safe arrival at Hereford. 
 I think Hill is a good sort.
 
 John Ays cough's Letters to his Mother 363 
 
 F. came after luncheon to-day and we went to tea with 
 his nuns, i.e. those who "soigner" his hospital: they are 
 very nice, and simple, warm-hearted creatures, like 
 Irish nuns. There were some other nuns there of another 
 Order, who had just arrived, after twenty-four years in 
 Turkey, whence they have been kicked out. They 
 looked rather cowed, and as if they had seen ghosts : but 
 gentle, amiable creatures. Anyway, they're in uncom- 
 monly good quarters now. I met a young soldier (French) 
 yesterday who was reported dead for eight months. 
 He said, "After being dead officially for so long it was 
 rather hard to persuade the authorities I was 'alive.'" 
 "We shall have to inform your parents," they said. 
 *'0h, they won't mind : I've been corresponding with them 
 since three days after I was wounded." 
 
 Wednesday Night, December 15, 191 5 
 
 ... I HAD your letter of Sunday last this evening 
 and I am glad to hear poor Mary got safe back to you. 
 Her long journey in such weather could have been no 
 catch. Also I am glad you liked the things I sent for 
 you to see and send on. 
 
 I went to call on the Marquise de Montebello to-day 
 but she was out, and I found a letter from her when I 
 got back, saying she is coming on Friday and wants me 
 to give her tea. F. takes very kindly to our English tea 
 and makes a square meal of it. 
 
 I enclose another letter from D. R., with some very odd 
 spelling mistakes; he "new" Aunt Matilda, who lived 
 "alonside" him. Grandpapa's testimonial would have 
 been rather inflated for the Admirable Crichton. No 
 wonder he (the doctor) thinks highly of his judgment, etc. 
 
 I sent Christie the "classeur, " as they call the thing 
 for letter paper. If I see any other pretty thing for her 
 I will send it, as she does not want the black lace veil. 
 
 Miss Stewart in her letter told me this yarn: Two men 
 went into a restaurant:
 
 364 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 Mr. A.: I want Turkey — without Greece. 
 Waitress: O dear! I suppose you're Germany? 
 Mr. A. No, I'm only Hungary. 
 Mr. B. Don't Russia (rush her) or she won't Servia. 
 
 (serve yer). 
 Mr. A.: If she won't I shan't Roumania (remain 
 
 'ere). 
 
 It is now Thursday morning (I don't mean to imply 
 that I've been writing all night) and a very disagreeable, 
 slushy, dirty-looking morning, too. I've seen more 
 weather at Versailles than during all the rest of my life, 
 I think. 
 
 I am sorry this is such a rotten letter, but I have 
 nothing to tell you except that I wish I could come and 
 give you a little hug and see how you were looking. 
 
 I was quite uefeated by the life of Sir Robert Morier 
 and really had to give it up. He belauds and glorifies 
 the Germans chapter after chapter, and spends his life 
 working for an alliance between us and Prussia, and I 
 can only regret that he succeeded even to the extent 
 he did: and his raptures at the defeat of France by 
 Prussia in 1870 are very little to my taste, as you can 
 imagine. 
 
 I must dry up, so with best love to Christie. 
 
 Saturday Evening, December 18, 191 5 
 
 . . . To-day I had your dear little letter of Wednes- 
 day and one from Christie too, full of affection. Mrs. 
 Gater wrote and announced the dispatch of a brace of 
 pheasants: they also have not yet arrived — if the 
 post office delays them very long I should think they 
 would get out and walk and arrive in a long procession! 
 It was very good of her to send so nice a present, and 
 pheasants will be a treat. One never sees game here, 
 even in the shops.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 365 
 
 Though the manor house plum pudding has not yet 
 cropped up, a plum pudding has arrived from the Prioress 
 of the Atherstone Benedictine nuns; whose name in the 
 world was Drew. It is a chumping big one, and even 
 Wilcox could not eat it at one go. Bessie sent to-day 
 two very nice silk handkerchiefs, but they do not clash 
 with Christie's, for hers are white and these are khaki- 
 green, so now I am at Hberty to have a cold in my head. 
 
 This morning F. and I went to luncheon with the 
 Austin-Lees and they were both 7nost amiable. F. finds 
 his god-mamma more and more trying at close quarters, 
 and she is evidently not in the sweetest of tempers. 
 She lectures him on manners and social ways, of which 
 she knows no more than a kangaroo. I believe if they 
 go on together much longer they will come to blows! 
 She is sugary outside, but so are pills. 
 
 Sunday 
 
 I have just received two very nice silk handkerchiefs 
 from Alice and a very affectionate letter with them. 
 I also received your cheery little letter of Thursday. 
 But I must dry up and can write no more till this evening. 
 
 Wednesday Morning, December 22, 191 5 
 
 ... I BEGIN with wishing you a Happy Christmas, 
 for this letter can't reach you before Christmas Eve, 
 and perhaps will only reach you on Christmas Day. 
 So I do wish it you: that we cannot be together is the 
 great blot on our Christmas, but it is not our fault, 
 and as it is a sacrifice to duty it ought to bring a recom- 
 pense and blessing. I confess that / shall be ten times 
 lighter-hearted when Christmas is past, and especially 
 when 1916 has arrived. 
 
 To-day is a day of ghastly weather; through a sky like 
 skim milk and warm water, a drizzling rain oozes down.
 
 366 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 It is muggy, warm, mild, and reeky; the walls are sweat- 
 ing like Malta in a sirocco — I don't mean the walls 
 of my rooms, for a good fire keeps them dry. It is so 
 dark in the chapel of the convent while I say Mass that 
 my eyes get quite strained reading — though they have 
 gas lighting, it seems as if the rain got into the gas-pipes. 
 Yesterday was just the same, and though Lady Austin- 
 Lee and Marquise de Montebello were engaged to come 
 to tea with F. and me I did not expect them to turn up: 
 however, they did, and it was very good fun. I must 
 say that I think it was very nice of them to come all the 
 way from Paris, in pouring rain, for a cup of tea in a 
 tea-shop. No mail has arrived from England to-day — 
 as yet, at all events — and I am trembling for the fate 
 of the Gaterian pheasants. 
 
 . . . For the last hour and a half I have been writing 
 letters in French to a number of rather neglected cor- 
 respondents, who have all reminded me of their existence 
 by writing to me very kindly letters, full of Christmas 
 wishes. 
 
 If I spent the whole twenty-four hours of each day 
 letter-writing I could not do more than keep abreast 
 of my enormous correspondence, and you know how far 
 I am from being able to do this, so that I never can 
 keep abreast of it. 
 
 I can write in French quite as quickly as in English, 
 and perhaps nearly as correctly. In English, I fear, 
 my spelling is rather running to seed, because so many 
 words are nearly the same in both languages, but in 
 one with two f's or I's or s's and in the other with 
 only one. 
 
 Talking French is very different and I cannot talk it 
 nearly so quickly as English nor nearly so correctly.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 367 
 
 Christmas Eve^ 191 5 
 
 ... I WISH I was able to go and sit by your side and 
 tell you how happy a day I wish to-morrow may be for 
 you. As it is I can only pray for you, and ask Our 
 Lord Himself to be close to you. 
 
 By the time you get this, which will be Monday or 
 Tuesday, Christmas Day will have passed, and I confess 
 I shall be glad. I don't think you quite understand my 
 feeling, and perhaps I cannot explain it very intelligently: 
 but it comes from the contrast between the sense that 
 Christmas should be a time of such immense joy, and 
 the unutterable suffering in which all Europe lies bleeding. 
 To simply ignore all that pain and anguish is beyond me 
 and so there is a sort of horror in the background of any 
 Christmas thought I try to house in my mind. 
 
 I have suddenly developed another abscess at the root 
 of one of my teeth. It is very worrying and painful, 
 and has made the cheek swell and I cannot bite even 
 bread. I was to have gone to a concert for the patients 
 this afternoon, but my face is too swollen to display in 
 public. The Gaterian pheasants have still not turned 
 up and I now look forward to their arrival with dread! 
 
 F. and I went to Madame de Montebello's Christmas 
 Tree yesterday and I think he expected it to be quite 
 exciting, and it certainly was notl I don't think a French 
 Christmas tree is half so jolly as an English one. The 
 tree, very pretty, was cocked up on a stage and the hall 
 was entirely filled with chairs on which the guests sat 
 as if for a concert. So there was no moving about and 
 chatting. There were songs, and finally each soldier 
 received one prize duly numbered — all very proper and 
 dull. Then F. and I went to do some shopping, and 
 I bought a souvenir for Mrs. Kearney and another for 
 Bert: and I also bought some bits of stuff for wristbands, 
 collar, etc., for you, which I put in a general parcel 
 containing things for Bert, Mary, and Kearney.
 
 368 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 Christmas Day 
 
 . . . Though the abscess in my jaw is not gone nor 
 the outward swelling disappeared, both are distinctly 
 better, and I am by no means in the extreme discomfort 
 of yesterday morning and Thursday night. I slept well 
 last night, whereas the previous night I did not sleep 
 at all. 
 
 It is what is called an open Christmas, mild, soft, 
 warm, quite warm, but dark and still, with a sort of brood- 
 ing quietness. I said my three Masses all in a row at 
 the hospital, beginning at 7.30. 
 
 Our post has not come in yet: it was sure to be late 
 on Christmas Day. 
 
 F. came round to see me yesterday and had tea; he 
 gave me a very pretty little card-case with the Count's 
 coronet on it in silver. Two Pringles sent me a pretty 
 match-box to wear on the chain, made of Spanish black 
 and gold inlay work — really charming. 
 
 As I am better I shall go and lunch with the Austin- 
 Lees and give F. dinner in the evening at the Hotel 
 Edouard VII. Wilcox is dining with friends, and it 
 would be a little gloomy all alone in this Spy House! 
 (Not that I really think so. It was my idea if I were not 
 better to go to bed about two in the afternoon and read 
 there in great comfort.) 
 
 I hope that you received my humble offerings this 
 morning and that they will have amused and interested 
 you. 
 
 And I hope very, very earnestly that this day may pass 
 not uncheerfully with you, and that you may have 
 happy thoughts for company. 
 
 Don't be discouraged because public men like Asquith 
 talk of the war lasting two years more — • all that is said 
 to make Germany understand that the Allies are ready 
 to fight on and so to make her collapse the sooner. The 
 more she thinks the Allies are ready for a twenty years'
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 369 
 
 War if necessary the less heart will she have to go on: 
 for she knows she cannot face a long war. Her men are 
 nearly used up and her money is all gone. 
 
 I must stop now. God bless you, dearest darling, 
 to-day and all days, and send you three hundred and 
 sixty-six happy days in 1916. 
 
 Ever, with best love to Christie. 
 
 Hotel Edouard VII, Paris 
 Christmas Day Evening, 6.20 p.m. 
 
 ... I AM giving F. dinner here to-night, and he has 
 not yet turned up, so I am beginning a letter to you, 
 though I daresay I shall not get very far with it. 
 
 I wrote you a scrubby letter just before leaving Ver- 
 sailles this morning, and then was off to catch the train. 
 I was rather lucky, for though it poured in torrents while 
 I was in the train, it was only trying to rain as I went to 
 the station, and had given up trying as I walked from the 
 Invalides Station here to the Austin-Lees. Then again 
 it poured in tropical torrents while we were at luncheon 
 and grew beautifully fine and bright just as I left. The 
 party consisted of themselves, myself, a pretty little 
 Miss Wood, who does something at the Embassy, and 
 a young Mr. Gwynnes, I think: I know it isn't either 
 Grimm or Gwynn: Irish, of good family, and a grandson 
 of Lord Fitzgerald — and of such is the Kingdom of 
 Heaven. I have met him there before: and never 
 mastered his name. 
 
 Lady Austin-Lee was delighted with a tiny Venetian 
 glass vase I found for her Christmas present at Versailles, 
 I got another for Madame de Montebello and a third for 
 the Duchess of Wellington; they are real Venice glass, 
 of exquisite colour. She had tons of glorious flowers 
 from various friends; her drawing-room was crammed 
 with them. 
 
 She was very amiable and invited me to luncheon again
 
 370 John AyscougV s Letters to his Mother 
 
 on Wednesday to meet our friend Vicomtesse D'Osmoy 
 (pronounced "Daumois"), who is coming up from her 
 chateau for two or three days. I am also lunching with 
 the Austin-Lees on the following Wednesday. Are they 
 not hospitable.? 
 
 On Monday I am lunching with Madame de Monte- 
 bello, and giving tea here, to Lady Austin-Lee and Mme. 
 D'Osmoy. Here is F. very ready for dinner, so I must 
 dry up. 
 
 . . . When I got back from Paris last night I found 
 my table covered with letters — two days' mails. Two 
 from you, one from Helen, one from Lady Glenconner 
 one from Lord G., both very affectionate and friendly, 
 and a dozen others: also a stack of parcels: 
 
 1. The PHEASANTS high but not impossible. 
 
 2. A plum-pudding from the Darlington nuns. 
 
 3. A box of Bayonne sweetmeats from Maria Pringle. 
 
 4. A box of excellent chocolates made by herself from 
 
 Dora Hardy. 
 
 5. A large and excellent plum-cake from the same, 
 
 about five pounds weight! 
 
 6. A box of cigarettes from Helen. 
 
 7. A Calendar and Engagement Tablets from young 
 
 Prideaux of Lichfield School. 
 
 All these Mr. Wilcox had had to carry round from 
 hospital under his arm! It took me till midnight to 
 read my letters: and then I went to bed. 
 
 Tuesday^ December 28, 191 5 
 
 . . . No mails yet to-day, but one expected in the 
 course of the day. Meanwhile I have only time to say 
 "how do you do?" as, being away so long yesterday, 
 I must go early to hospital and get through some work. 
 
 Yesterday I lunched with Madame de Montebello; 
 her cook is a genius, and the company was charming:
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 371 
 
 besides ourselves the Duke (of Montebello) and a Count 
 and Countess and Mademoiselle de Cernay — all really 
 nice people, "top hole"! 
 
 I enclose a very nice letter from the Duchess de San 
 Carlos, who, as you see, is a great admirer of my books. 
 I do not want her letter back. I had a nice letter from 
 Helen to-day — rather hard to read! thanking me for my 
 Christmas gifts. Also I had your own letter of Monday 
 and an excellent one from Mary, thanking me for her 
 presents. She really writes a first-rate letter, full of 
 devotion to you, and of heart. She speaks so heartily 
 and nicely of her wish for my return, and her regret for 
 your having to be so long without me. I like her way 
 of speaking of it — worth a hundred stilted phrases. 
 
 ... It is quite true, Colonel S. is off to-night — to 
 be A.D.M.S. to the 27th Division and our "unit" moves 
 to Boulogne in February. Of course I regret leaving 
 my very kind friends in Paris, but I am glad otherwise: 
 I have had enough of Versailles, and Boulogne is so very 
 near England. Possibly, too, the move may make the 
 further move to England a little easier. 
 
 We are to have a fine Jesuit College outside the town, 
 on high ground, where there is good air and drainage — 
 and where England can be seen! 
 
 ... I only wrote so far and then stopped. I had had 
 to write a lot of other letters, intending to write yours 
 last when the others should have been polished off, 
 but I suddenly felt too tired to write more and had a 
 sort of palpitation. The queer muggy weather before 
 Christmas didn't suit me (it was heavy and hot) and my 
 liver suflFered. And also some stuff one of our doctors gave 
 me for a cough has upset my stomach, rather. We have 
 not yet received our English mail and I had none yester- 
 day: so I do not yet know how you got through Christ- 
 mas. 
 
 Yesterday afternoon I gave tea (always at my little
 
 372 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 "Ceylon Tea Rooms") to Lady Austin-Lee, Vicomtesse 
 d'Osmoy, and F. The last still in the grip, the other 
 two very amiable and nice. 
 
 I am going to luncheon with Lady Austin-Lee to- 
 morrow, where Madame d'Osmoy will be again, and also 
 a Miss Tennyson, niece or great-niece of the poet, who 
 writes a lot and is an industrious reader of John Ayscough. 
 
 I am getting very anxious about . He has been 
 
 so amiable lately to me that I find it hard not to say, 
 "Take care, you'll overstrain yourself." 
 
 I have just received a New Year's visit of compliment 
 from the Mother Superior of the Auxiliatrices (the nuns 
 at whose convent I say Mass daily) and one of the Sisters. 
 I was very busy and wished them at Jericho, but they 
 were cordial and pleasant. I presented them with a 
 magnificent box of Spanish sweets just received from 
 Susan Pringle: and they seemed quite enchanted with 
 them, though I have no doubt they will only give them 
 away again. The Reverend Mother is a clever, very 
 capable woman, who was a Mademoiselle de Samale, 
 one of the most aristocratic of French names. The con- 
 vent, with its beautiful park, was her inheritance and 
 she (having no brothers) became a nun, and changed her 
 old home into a convent: her mother lives in a nice 
 house just outside the convent boundaries. Vicomtesse 
 de Samale is a dear old lady (eighty-two) and comes to my 
 Mass every day. She and the nuns are always praying 
 for you. I must stop now. So with best love to Christie 
 and every good wish for your Happy New Year.
 
 Ill 
 
 New Year s Day, lo a.m., January i, 1916 
 
 Though I wrote you a very long letter last night — 
 the last letter I wrote in 191 5 — which has not yet left 
 Versailles, I must first write a few words to wish you 
 every blessing and every happiness in the new-born 
 Year, so that my first letter of 1916 may be to you. 
 
 Please wish Christie all possible good luck from me, 
 too. 
 
 Saturday Evening, 6 p.m., January i, 1916 
 
 I HAVE just come in after Benediction, before which I 
 had been giving Lady Austin-Lee tea in the usual tea- 
 rooms of the Rue Hoche. Someone had told her that 
 our move to Boulogne is coming off sooner than I was 
 told the day before yesterday: if her informant is correct 
 we shall move there in about a fortnight. I shall not be 
 sorry to go earlier than I expected so much nearer Eng- 
 land. It will make no diflPerence to the addressing of 
 your letters to me, as the address will still be No. 4 
 General Hospital, British Expeditionary Force. 
 
 At seven o'clock we {i.e., all the officers) are giving a 
 dinner party at the Hotel de France here, to the nursing 
 staff: and I shall then be able to find out if Lady Austin- 
 Lee was right about our move being so soon. 
 
 She, Lady Austin-Lee, will miss our hospital; twice 
 every week for fourteen months she has visited it, and 
 the work has interested her very much. She spoke 
 most regretfully of how much she will miss me: and I 
 think she really will. I certainly shall also miss her and 
 all her very kind hospitality. 
 
 373
 
 374 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Still I can't help looking upon the move to Boulogne 
 as a very long stride on the way home. No place in 
 France is nearer England than Boulogne — Calais, per- 
 haps? 
 
 To-day, New Year's Day, is the great day for calling 
 in France, and I have paid duty visits to Madame Muttin, 
 in; Madame Galloo Feron, out; the Bishop of Versailles, 
 in; the Huntington family, in, but not visible — it seems 
 that Mrs. H.'s son-in-law, Mr. Wilson, died the night 
 before last: he has been very ill a long time. I had not 
 met him, though I knew his wife. 
 
 Madame M amused me by begging me to apologise 
 
 to Lady Austin-Lee, Madame de Montebello, and the 
 Pringles for not having called upon them — she being in 
 mourning (her last husband only died ten years ago!). 
 
 F. telegraphed to tell me he had arrived safely after a 
 good journey, and the telegram arrived just as I was 
 going to bed last night: it rather frightened me for a 
 moment (for I have received hardly any telegrams here), 
 as I dreaded lest it might be to say you were ill. 
 
 New Year's Day has been slushy and dismal here: 
 rather sad for all the holiday-makers. I must get ready 
 to go out to my dinner-party: I sincerely hope I shall 
 not have to make a speech! 
 
 May this year bring you all happiness, and may it 
 see you at its end in as good health as now, and while it 
 is still young may it see us together in our quiet home. 
 
 Wednesday, January 5, 1916 
 
 I HAD no English mail yesterday, but your letter of 
 Sunday has just come. You seem to think I shall not 
 like going to Boulogne, but I do. It has always been 
 "on my chest" how far from you Versailles is, and no 
 place in France is so near to you, or so accessible, as 
 Boulogne. Whenever I do get home you need not fear 
 my finding it dull: the less society, the more and the
 
 John AyscougWs Letters to his Mother 375 
 
 better I can write: I would fifty times rather be sitting at 
 my writing-table working than sitting in a drawing-room 
 hearing society people talk. It is true that we have very 
 few neighbours, but it is my home I care for, not neigh- 
 bours. 
 
 I have to go in to Paris early, as I am lunching with 
 Lady Austin-Lee at twelve (it takes quite an hour and a 
 half to get from door to door). We lunch early to suit 
 Abbe Dimnet, who is coming in from the country on 
 purpose to meet J. A. _^ 
 
 I really must dash oflF or I shall miss the only train 
 that will get me in in time. 
 
 With best love to Christie. 
 
 Very many thanks for the specially pretty little card 
 of New Year wishes. 
 
 Epiphany Day, Thursday y January 6, 1916 
 
 It is an Ai wet day! Being Epiphany I said my 
 Mass at the hospital instead of at the convent, and on 
 the way back the rain was so fierce that I got quite wet 
 — in twelve minutes or so. However, it is not like being 
 at the front: I came in, changed into dry clothes, and 
 put the wet ones to the fire to dry. 
 
 Then I had breakfast, then sat by the same fire reading 
 your letter written on New Year's Day. 
 
 Yesterday I lunched with the Austin-Lees, and stayed 
 a long time. The only other guest was Abbe Dimnet, 
 the writer, a very nice as well as clever man. He is 
 forty-nine and looks about thirty-two, and he is very 
 cheerful and bright, though he has plenty to make him 
 depressed: he comes from the north (of France, I mean) 
 and the Germans not only occupy his town, but they 
 have taken everything he possessed, his money, clothes, 
 books, furniture, everything. He and his mother escaped 
 with a small hand-bag between them, but the German 
 scouts took that also, and almost all his family are
 
 376 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 prisoners. After Sir Henry had gone back to his work at 
 the Embassy, and Abbe Dimnet had gone, too, I stayed 
 on nearly two hours chatting. 
 
 Looking up from my writing I just saw a sea-gull in 
 the garden, a rare sight here: Paris is very far from the 
 sea, and at Versailles we are four miles from the Seine. 
 
 ... I have no patients in hospital; there are only 
 twenty patients altogether, as we are in the thick of 
 packing up. Lots of doctors and nurses are gone on 
 leave, and of course it would be a good opportunity for 
 me to go: but I think it much safer to stick where I am: 
 I want to go to Boulogne with the unit, and feel sure that 
 it will be much easier to get home altogether then: 
 whereas if I applied for leave they would very likely send 
 me to some other place altogether, far from the coast, 
 and, beginning again there (at perhaps Marseilles), they 
 would not let me go again soon. 
 
 Sir Henry Austin-Lee was telling me yesterday of some 
 "neutral" friend of his who had just come from Berlin, 
 where he also was this time last year. He said everything 
 is so changed: the Germans were then cock-a-whoop, 
 now in the deepest depression; a universal gloom every- 
 where, and in all the towns, except Berlin, downright 
 want and famine: everybody with only one thought — 
 to end the war. 
 
 You seem to be having as bad (though certainly not 
 worse) weather with you as we are getting here. How 
 ghastly it must be in the trenches! Are you not glad I 
 am not now at the front? I must set the weather a 
 good example and dry up. 
 
 Thursday Evening, January 6, 1916 
 
 Just now Wilcox came in and brought me a sort of 
 supplementary mail; for one came this morning; a 
 letter wishing me a Happy New Year from the Duchess 
 of Wellington: a parcel containing a present of envelopes
 
 John Ayscouglos Letters to his Mother 377 
 
 from the two Agneses: and your own letter of Monday 
 — the one this morning was dated New Year's Day — 
 last Saturday. The Duchess of Wellington says her 
 husband, Colonel Wellesley, is exactly of my opinion 
 that the German collapse is nearer than most people 
 fancy. 
 
 I must tell you that the instant the Gaterian pheasants 
 arrived I carted them into Paris, and gave one to the 
 Austin-Lees and one to Madame de Montebello. Wilcox 
 could neither have plucked nor trussed them, and as it 
 was / ate them beautifully cooked! And my friends were 
 delighted, as no shooting, except of Germans, is allowed 
 in France during the War. Madame de Montebello 
 served hers cold, surrounded with pate de foie gras, and 
 it was scrumptious. She is, as I told you, at present at 
 Biarritz: that was the day before she started. 
 
 The Marquesa de San Carlos de Pedroso, whose letter 
 I sent you (she is not the Duchess, that is her husband's 
 sister-in-law) sent me a very pretty book of lyrics in 
 Spanish, illuminated, in a vellum cover. 
 
 Yes, Cardinal Merry del Val is Spanish — at least 
 half so. His father was Spanish Ambassador to the 
 Holy See, his mother was half French, half English, and 
 he speaks four languages as if they were his mother 
 tongue, English (for he was educated in England), 
 Spanish, French, and Italian. When he was Secretary 
 of State to the late Pope, he was always very civil and 
 kind to me. 
 
 After Mass yesterday the Reverend Mother's mother, 
 Vicomtesse de Samale, came to thank me for a little 
 New Year's gift I had sent her. She is a dear old lady, 
 of eighty-two, very pretty, and with sweet, gracious, 
 old-lady manners. We talked much of you, and she 
 says she is often praying for you. 
 
 She is terribly grieved at all our soldiers leaving Ver- 
 sailles, and says, "I do love them" and then, with a funny 
 little face, "Before the war I couldn't bear them!"
 
 378 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Of course I laughed, and she said, "That comes of not 
 knowing people. We had never seen the good English 
 then, and only had an old tradition of their enmity to 
 us. 
 
 The little present I gave pleased her so much. It 
 was a very little vase of real Venetian glass I had picked 
 up, of brilliant and exquisite colours, laced with gold. 
 I found four, all different, and all four have been im- 
 mensely appreciated. One I gave to the Marquise de 
 Montebello, one I gave to Lady Austin-Lee, one I gave 
 to Madame de Samale, and the fourth I sent to the 
 Duchess of Wellington; it arrived quite safely, and she 
 
 thinks it lovely — as it was! I showed them to , 
 
 but he had not enough taste in such things to admire 
 them, or to know how good they were. . . . 
 
 What matches all those Tennants make! The fact is 
 they are all very good-looking and all clever. . . . Lord 
 Glenconner's own children are naturally both clever and 
 handsome, for he is a handsome and clever man, and 
 they have also the Wyndham beauty and extraordinary 
 cleverness and brilliancy to draw upon. The only 
 Wyndham I ever met who was less than brilliant was poor 
 young Percy, who was killed at the beginning of this war, 
 and he was wonderfully handsome. Lady Glenconner's 
 parents were both brilliantly clever and singularly good- 
 looking. Old Mrs. Percy Wyndham inherited the good 
 looks of her grandmother "Pamela" (Lady Edward 
 Fitzgerald, daughter of the Due d'Orleans, or else not, as 
 the Scotch say.) 
 
 Saturday^ January 8, 1916 
 
 My last two letters have been long, so you must not 
 mind if this is a short one. 
 
 The latest news I have heard about our move is that 
 we leave here on Monday week, or Tuesday week, i.e.y 
 the seventeenth or eighteenth. 
 
 And further that we do not go to Boulogne itself, but
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 379 
 
 to a place called Dannes-Camier, near Boulogne: which 
 being quite in the country, fifteen or eighteen miles from 
 B., is supposed to be more suitable for a hospital. It is 
 on the sea and very healthy, whereas B. is supposed to be 
 rather drainy, i.e., undrainedy. 
 
 ... I like the idea of this quiet, secluded spot on the 
 sea, and do not regret not going to B. itself. I have 
 been there several times and have seen all there is to be 
 seen. 
 
 I overslept this morning, and instead of getting up at 
 5.30 only got up at 7.15. So I am behind-hand with 
 everything. 
 
 This afternoon I am to give tea to Lady Austin-Lee. 
 
 I am feeling better: just before and after Christmas I 
 was out of sorts: the truth is that that season always 
 makes me melancholy: it is all wrong, I know, but it is 
 so. 
 
 Tuesday, January 11, 19 16 
 
 No letter from you by to-day's mail, but I think it is 
 only a ^<2//-mail, for there were no letters from anyone in 
 England, only newspapers and some letters from France: 
 so very likely I shall have a letter from you later in the 
 day. 
 
 Yesterday I was not well, and 1 stayed in bed all day. 
 The malady I told you of is really bothering me and 
 very painful. In bed I was very comfortable, but I got 
 up at 5.30 to-day and said Mass as usual. 
 
 F. turned up yesterday, and came round here at once 
 on arrival from home. He had been travelling the whole 
 night and looked quite worn out: and, poor boy, he was 
 terribly sad; he tried to speak of what he should lose by 
 my going but could not, and could only cry. I do feel 
 very much for him, for really there is no one here whom 
 he cares for except me, and no one of his own sort whom 
 he knows except the Duke and Duchess of Trevise, who 
 are quite new friends. I fancy his visit home was very
 
 380 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 dismal: his father kind, but sad and aloof, and his poor 
 old grandmother dying and childish; quite cheerful and 
 quite unconscious of her state, singing nursery songs, 
 laughing much, and altogether in a state in which it 
 pained him to see her, for he has always been devoted 
 to her. He is sure he will never see her again, and he 
 said it pained him so much that when he went to say 
 good-bye, before going to the station, she would only 
 laugh and sing. However, I think laughing imbecility 
 rather less dismal than weeping imbecility, 
 
 I must now go round to hospital and dismantle my 
 chapel there and pack up the things that are my own and 
 send back those I borrowed nine months ago from the 
 nuns, I am glad to go nearer to England, but the actual 
 packing up is rather melancholy, I am sure I shall 
 feel much more cheerful myself once the move is over 
 and done. I daresay you can find the place we are going 
 to on the map of France in the big green Atlas: Dannes- 
 Camier, near Etaples (between Etaples and Boulogne). 
 It will (I believe) prove to consist chiefly of a big hotel, 
 turned into a hospital, with scarcely any town or village. 
 However, we shall see. 
 
 Wilcox is really very philosophical: he loses a tremen- 
 dous lot by going, but he takes it very resignedly, saying, 
 "Well, I've had a grand time, and I shall always have it 
 to look back on all my days. It couldn't last for always." 
 
 It really shows a good as well as a sensible mind to be 
 so much more alive to having had many comforts than to 
 the grievance of having them no longer. 
 
 I must stop now, 
 
 Wednesday, January 12, 1916 
 
 No mail to-day, and none yesterday! I hate these 
 irregularities, because I always think that in the course 
 of them some letters are lost altogether. But I have 
 no doubt it is no one's fault (except the Germans') and
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 381 
 
 on the whole our war-post is wonderful, and an immense 
 boon and comfort never known in any previous war. 
 
 The result of no mail yesterday or to-day is that I 
 have nothing, literally nothing, to tell you; the hospital 
 has discharged all its patients, and will take in no new 
 ones till we are installed in our new quarters. 
 
 The sun is feebly trying to push his frosty nose through 
 a curtain of clouds, and I must say I hope he will succeed: 
 but he hasn't succeeded yet. I am going in to Paris 
 to lunch with the Austin-Lees, and I think it will be 
 my last trip there. It will be odd being out of reach 
 of it. I have got to know it far better than I know 
 London. 
 
 Lady Austin-Lee is really sorry at my departure. . . . 
 Even the Pringles write in desolation from Biarritz, 
 though I can't see that it can make much difference to 
 them whether I am in Versailles or the Pas de Calais. 
 
 I am sending you a New York Herald — is not the 
 cheek of the Austrian Government sublime? It seems 
 that a party of Austrians interned in India are being 
 sent back to Europe in a ship called the "Golconda," 
 and the Austrian Foreign Office demands the most 
 precise information as to the ship's appearance, date of 
 sailing, etc., lest her submarines should torpedo it in 
 mistake for an ordinary English ship with only English 
 passengers! Now I must get ready for Paris. 
 
 January 13, 1916 
 
 Last evening, when I came in from Paris, I found 
 two letters from you dated Saturday and Sunday, but 
 to-day there is again no mail up to now. In one of the 
 two letters received yesterday you announce the departure 
 out of this life of poor old Togo. 
 
 Our days at Versailles are drawing rapidly to a close: 
 this is Thursday and on Sunday morning we depart; 
 in fact the advance party left yesterday.
 
 382 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 I lunched with the Austin-Lees yesterday, en petite 
 comite, only themselves, myself, and the Abbe Dimnet, 
 of whom I told you last week. Lady Austin-Lee was 
 quite depressed at its being my last visit, and Sir Henry 
 was very cordial and nice. 
 
 We hear that the new place is very muddy; if so I 
 shall send for my gum-boots again, but don't send them 
 till I write and ask for them. 
 
 It is another of the sour dismal days we have had so 
 many of, and really they depress me: my present malady 
 is also depressing: the loss of blood, of course, weakens 
 one, though I have plenty to spare! If I were at home 
 I would try a week's complete rest in bed, but it is not 
 possible here just as we are on the move. After walking 
 even a little I am so much worse that I am sure a week's 
 rest in bed would, on the contrary, do wonders: and 
 when we get to Dannes-Camier perhaps I shall try it. 
 The hospital won't be organised again for a week or two. 
 
 Friday y January 14, 191 6 
 
 No mail again, to-day either! It came late yesterday, 
 and perhaps will come late to-day, but it is a nuisance its 
 being so irregular of late. It was your letter of Monday 
 that I received yesterday afternoon, the letter in which 
 you announce poor Togo's funeral. One thing which 
 always strikes me about your letters during many months 
 now, is the excellence, clearness, and firmness of the 
 handwriting. Your writing is younger than it was seven 
 years ago, distinctly so, both as to its vigorous firmness, 
 and as to the shaping of the letters: there is not a shaky 
 line or stroke in it; and one would say, now, it was the 
 writing of a woman of forty: this was not so ten, or 
 even six, years ago; and it was not so even at the begin- 
 ning of the war. I do believe that God, to make up for 
 all that you have had to lose since the war began, has 
 given you a new lease of life.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 383 
 
 You say the morning was fine and bright, and so is 
 this morning here. There is plenty of sun, and a clear 
 sky, though it is cold. 
 
 To-day I read a very interesting short book (about 
 sixty-five pages) by Balzac, called the "Cure of Tours," 
 extraordinarily grim, bitterly clever, and morosely sad. 
 
 I must stop and go and finish the packing of the things 
 at the "church" (I mean the little chapel in the hos- 
 pital). 
 
 Friday Nighty 7 p.m., January 14, 1916 
 
 On Sunday we push oflP: I don't know, no one knows, 
 at what hour: nor, of course, do we know in the least 
 when we reach our journey's end; but not, I suppose, 
 till Monday morning. All trains go very slowly in 
 France during the war; though we shall not have the 
 worry of changing, even at Paris, as our train is for our- 
 selves only; for ourselves, the officers, nurses, men, and 
 all the enormous baggage of our enormous hospital, 
 many hundreds of beds and their bedding, tables, cup- 
 boards, crockery, and all the medical and surgical equip- 
 ment: besides the immense store of linen, hospital 
 clothing, etc., scores and scores of tons of stores, cooking 
 ranges, and a countless list of things. 
 
 You may be a <lay or two without letters from me: 
 I can post this to-morrow (Saturday), but whether I can 
 post another on Sunday, or one on Monday, I don't yet 
 know, only too probably not. 
 
 You seem to think that at Dannes-Camier I shall be 
 able to walk into the German lines — it would be rather 
 a long walk. We are sixteen miles from Boulogne there, 
 (on the side away from the front), and of course Boulogne 
 is far behind St. Omer, which is itself a good way back 
 from the front. 
 
 Nor am I Hkely even to walk in to the sea! because it is 
 not like Dieppe, with high, precipitous cliffs, but a low
 
 384 John Ayscough' s Letters to his Mother 
 
 flat shore with sand-dunes, a sort of place where I shall 
 like walking, and which fascinates me. It is only three 
 miles from Etaples, where, I believe, there are decent 
 shops, so I can still buy a boot-lace, or a piece of note- 
 paper. 
 
 I am not well yet, but better to-day and suffering less. 
 
 The German Emperor seems to be dying. Wretched 
 man: if he is really dying, what a miserable end, to die 
 with all the world in anguish caused by himself, with the 
 spectres of millions of slain men accusing him. Alas, 
 an emperor even in death has so many flatterers! They 
 will do their best to prevent his repentance: they will 
 repeat the old lie of its being his enemies who forced the 
 war on him. I can only pray that God may show him 
 the stern and naked truth, so that his death may tend to 
 end the miseries he has caused: I mean that he may not 
 die encouraging those who will fill his vacant place, but 
 warning them. If he should indeed die, how terribly it 
 must affect that other emperor, himself so feeble, Francis 
 Joseph of Austria! For a long time the younger, more 
 forceful man, has been his evil genius, and he has all 
 these months been reaping the whirlwind his tempter 
 made him sow. 
 
 Of course the German Crown Prince is as war-like, or 
 more so, than the present emperor, and the rest of the 
 War Party will be as bellicose as ever: but the Crown 
 Prince has none of his father's power, or force of char- 
 acter, or capacity for insisting on his will. // the Emperor 
 dies, things in Germany will soon be at sixes and sevens: 
 and the people will probably be no longer kept in order. 
 All this calculation about a man's death is rather macabre^ 
 but it is inevitable. 
 
 I received the gloves yesterday, and they are uncom- 
 monly warm and comfortable, and will no doubt keep 
 my hands nice and warm where we are going. Ever so 
 many thanks, dear, for them. 
 
 I must dry up.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 385 
 
 Monday, January 17, 1916 
 
 We left Versailles yesterday at two o'clock, and at 
 one this morning, i.e., in the middle of the night, arrived 
 here. They did not drag us out of the train, but left us 
 in peace in a siding till eight o'clock. 
 
 The journey was, of course, slowish: but quite com- 
 fortable. I had half a railway carriage to myself, i.e.,. 
 there were two officers to each carriage, so I had all one 
 side to lie down on. About four o'clock we stopped in a 
 siding, and the Sisters made tea and treated us all to it. 
 At nine we stopped for half an hour at Amiens, and I got 
 some dinner or supper. I slept quite well, though it 
 was terribly cold. 
 
 This is a big camp consisting of several hospitals 
 (field hospitals, only tents), situated in a queer sort of 
 natural amphitheatre formed by a semi-circle of low 
 clay hills, then the sand-dunes, then the sea. 
 
 (I have a diabolical pen and can hardly make it write.) 
 
 There are big Portland Cement works here and there, 
 which do not improve the landscape. As soon as I ar- 
 rived a mail was put into my hands, which was a very 
 pleasant surprise, for usually after a change of quarters 
 it is some time before one begins to get letters again. 
 
 Thursday, January 20, 191 6 
 
 Strange to say the sun is shining, and it is cold and 
 bright. Yesterday afternoon a violent wind arose and 
 blew all night, so fiercely that I thought my tent would 
 blow away to England. It flapped, and banged, and 
 rattled, like an angry virago. And the rain smacked at 
 it, and it was as wild as you like. 
 
 I got quite a fat mail at 4.30 in the afternoon, which is 
 when the English post comes in. Wilcox has been in- 
 valuable, both on the journey and since I arrived. When 
 I got here on Monday in the bitter cold there was not a
 
 386 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 place for the sole of my foot to rest on and be dry, out of 
 the universal mud. Wilcox bit by bit has rigged me up 
 quite a little home in the following order: (i) a tent: 
 at first this and three rugs were all my furniture and 
 housing. And I had neither bed, bedstead, mattress, 
 chair, table, basin, anything. (2) He found me two half 
 mattresses so that I did not have to lie flat on the ground. 
 (3) He found me on the third day an oil-stove which 
 warms the tent thoroughly. (4) Last night he found me 
 a camp bedstead, so that now I am raised from the 
 ground. (5) He found me a bucket to wash in. (6) He 
 got for me three blankets, so that I am very warm in bed 
 now, and don't get chilled: before it was miserable. 
 
 I don't think I should dislike this place if I were well, 
 but the truth is I can hardly walk at all, cannot walk at 
 all without great pain, and the camp is scattered about: 
 it is quite a long way to the "church tent," where I say 
 Mass, and by the time I get there I am scarcely able to 
 say Mass, because every movement hurts, especially 
 genuflexion. And you see I am not keen to "go sick": 
 because I don't want to be invalided home, but to obtain 
 re-appointment to Salisbury Plain: if I were simply 
 invalided home I should not be re-appointed anywhere. 
 So you see I have to proceed very cautiously. 
 
 I am sending home some parcels of things addressed 
 to "John Ayscough." They are all useless here, and 
 only in my way: but tell Mary to throw none of them 
 away, as she loves to do. There are some old clothes, 
 boots, slippers, etc., really deserving throwing away, but 
 I want them kept because I used them at the front. 
 
 One of the parcels to be opened contains a small brown 
 paper parcel addressed to me in Italian, it comes from 
 Rome, and contains some silk for making stocks with: 
 so you can take possession of that. 
 
 I must stop now.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 387 
 
 Thursday Evenings January 20, 1916 
 
 I WROTE to you this morning, and instead of writing 
 again to-morrow morning, I am doing so now. It was 
 sunshiny when I wrote, then it turned to sleet; it is 
 now a cold bright moonlight, with a strong and very sharp 
 wind: but quite fine, and the wind, I hope, will dry up 
 some of our mud. 
 
 I wanted to buy some necessaries for my tent — an 
 enamel washing-basin, tooth-mug, jug for water, etc., 
 and went to Etaples to buy them. A young fellow called 
 Considine took me in in a motor-car, and it took very little 
 time that way. He is a gentleman, of good Catholic 
 family, very lame and so unable to be a soldier, but he 
 is out here with his car to make himself useful, and so 
 help. There is an excellent huge hut here, run by some 
 Catholic ladies, of the Catholic Women's League, as a 
 sort of club for the men, and it is immensely appreciated. 
 Mr. Considine helps them, and he had to go to Etaples 
 to bring out the day's stock of cakes, buns, bread, etc., 
 for the men. 
 
 The short drive in is pretty: on one side the downs, 
 exactly like our Wiltshire downs, so like as to make me 
 very homesick. Then a belt of low dunes covered with 
 stunted Scotch-firs, then the open dunes, behind which is 
 the sea. 
 
 Etaples is a spread-out sort of little town of endless 
 mean streets, all slums, no good houses, and nothing old 
 or picturesque: I suppose the inhabitants are fisher-folk. 
 
 I made my purchases, and then took shelter from the 
 sleet in the small shop where Mr. Considine's cakes were 
 being baked. There were the baker, his wife, and two 
 mothers-in-law: his own and his wife's. And of course 
 I talked to them all. They seemed much impressed by 
 my French, whence I conclude that most of the English 
 they have seen talk it very badly indeed. It was my 
 first occasion of talking French since I came here, except
 
 388 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 to a few wounded Canadians in the hospital. But I am 
 reading plenty of it: especially the "Memorial de Ste 
 Helene" which is intensely interesting. It is the Journal 
 of Count de Las Cases, who accompanied the Emperor 
 to St. Helena, and was his Boswell. It notes down the 
 Emperor's talk each day, and Napoleon talked very 
 well, ranging in his subjects all over his life, his various 
 campaigns, his domestic life, his imperial life and so on. 
 I am never uncomfortable ^ when I have books to read, 
 and am thankful I brought some here. 
 
 But also I get much more talk here than I used to get 
 at Versailles. I told you that the officers whose mess 
 we're using for meals are more "conversible" than our 
 own lot, and they seem to like to talk about books, places, 
 history, etc. 
 
 One of the most friendly, and most clever is a Jew 
 called Green. His father was an English Jew, his mother 
 an Italian, and he was brought up in Italy, and talks 
 beautiful Italian. 
 
 There are some nice Scotsmen, Highlanders, and I 
 generally get on well with Scotch people: there is a very 
 rough Belfast man, with an appalling accent, who is, 
 however, both friendly and intelligent. He himself is 
 an Orangeman by birth and breeding, but he admires 
 Mr. Redmond much more than he does Sir E. Carson. 
 Of course all these people are doctors, and mostly not 
 really army doctors, but volunteers serving during the 
 war. 
 
 . . . There is one young Indian doctor, a native; not, 
 I should say, of at all high caste, but very meek and 
 inoffensive. 
 
 So you see we are rather a menagerie. So far as I 
 have discovered none of them are Catholics, except 
 Father Ryan, whom I am relieving, very nice and 
 friendly. He knows heaps of people I know, especially 
 
 1 At this time and for many weeks before, he was and had been very ill, 
 suffering tortures of pain. [EdJ
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 389 
 
 a whole lot of Galway folk whom I used to meet long ago 
 when I stayed with the Redingtons at Kilcornan. 
 
 The Church of England chaplain, called Symons 
 (or Simmons), is a man about thirty-three, a gentleman, 
 and very amiable. He comes from Bristol and knows 
 people I know there. I don't think I've much more to 
 tell you, and it's rather clever of me to have found even 
 so much: for, I think, if you were shot down among all 
 these men, you would say they were all the same, and 
 that one name would do for the lot. 
 
 The Colonel of this lot is called Hassard, an Irishman. 
 He called out to me the first day "Hi! Come here! "and 
 asked if I had not gone to India in the "Euphrates" in 
 1888; and I said, "Yes," and that I remembered him. 
 He said, "No, you can't." "Oh, yes, I can; and you are 
 one of the Hassards of whom there is a whole clan round 
 Waterford and Kilkenny." He soon found I knew all 
 about his people, and was convinced. Whereupon he 
 gave a grunt; and there our intercourse began and 
 ended. 
 
 I must shut up. 
 
 Friday Midday^ January 21, 1916 
 
 I CAN only write you a very short note, because in a 
 few minutes I am starting for Etaples, where I am going 
 into the Officers' Hospital. I did not "go sick," but 
 was sent sick: one of our Majors came into my tent and 
 asked all about my malady, and then said, "We are 
 going to send you to hospital to-day, and no doubt from 
 there they will send you home." I tried not to go sick, 
 but I am glad, now all is settled, that I am to have the 
 rest. Of course I do not know when I shall be sent 
 home, but certainly not before ten days or so. 
 
 You can address your next letter No. 4 General Hos- 
 pital and Wilcox will bring it over: as soon as I know 
 the correct hospital address there I will let you know. 
 Major Rahilly said that he thinks it certain I shall be
 
 390 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 sent home, and very unlikely that I shall be sent out 
 again. I am very sorry for Wilcox, for he is truly devoted, 
 and will miss me: of course an officer's servant has many 
 little exemptions and privileges. But the poor fellow is 
 only unfeignedly glad, for my sake, because he knows 
 how out of sorts I have been. 
 
 The motor is there to take me to Etaples, so I must 
 stop. 
 
 I cannot at all realize that probably I shall soon be in 
 England: though not at once at home, as I should first 
 go to some hospital there, and then be "boarded" i.e., 
 be examined by a board as to fitness for service out 
 here. 
 
 I'm sorry I can't tell you anything more definite, but 
 I cannot. 
 
 Liverpool Merchants' Hospital, B. E. F. 
 Friday Afternoon, about 3 o'clock, January 21, 1916 
 
 I WROTE to you about two and a half hours ago, just 
 as I was leaving the camp at Dannes-Camier to come 
 here: and I told you I would send you my new address 
 as soon as I could. 
 
 At I.I 5 a car drew up at my tent door and into it I 
 got, with my baggage, and the ever-faithful Wilcox, 
 who was determined to stick to me to the last moment 
 to save me all possible trouble. 
 
 It is no distance in to Etaples and only took about 
 a quarter of an hour. I was instantly allotted my bed 
 (14 B. Ward) and then / instantly demanded a bath. 
 It was the first of any sort for a long time, the first hot 
 lie-down hath for ages. So I enjoyed it, I can tell you. 
 
 My bed is very comfortable, and the Sister in charge 
 a very attentive, kindly person; but of course I have 
 hardly exchanged half a dozen words with her yet. 
 
 There are about fifteen beds in the ward, and about 
 ten of them are occupied. I don't know how many 
 other wards there are. I have just been given a thump- 
 
 I
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 391 
 
 ing dose of castor oil in brandy, so strong of brandy I 
 could hardly taste the oil. 
 
 I imagine this is called Liverpool Merchants' Hospital 
 because the money for it is found by the merchant 
 princes of Liverpool, but I don't know. 
 
 The address is as I put it at the head of this letter, 
 i.e., the name of the hospital and A, P. O. S 11. (S 
 eleven). I don't know how long I shall be here. Perhaps 
 two weeks, perhaps a good deal less. If they discover 
 that I require an operation I may go to England for it: 
 if they cure me here I don't know at all what they will do. 
 So I hope they wont! I should certainly be glad to 
 suffer less, but I would rather be cured at home. 
 
 I must stop. It is a great treat to be so comfortable 
 and I can tell you I appreciate it. 
 
 With best love to Christie. 
 
 You can tell Christie or anyone, that I am in hospital, 
 and may very likely be sent home, but you don't know 
 yet, nor do I; and that if I have to be operated, I shall 
 be sent home certainly, before or after. 
 
 Friday Evening, 7.30 p.m. 
 
 Poor old Wilcox has just walked down from our camp 
 at Dannes-Camier (four miles each way) to bring me 
 down my mail. Poor man, he could only look at me 
 like a devoted dog; he could not speak, his eyes were 
 pouring down tears. I think he is quite broken-hearted 
 at losing me, and he suffers the more for being so silent.^ 
 
 The doctor has just examined me (the doctors 
 here are charming) and he said, "What horrors of pain 
 you must have suffered for weeks!" and it is true. He 
 said, "Tons of young officers come down from the front, 
 who have not suffered a hundredth part of what you 
 must. . . ." 
 
 ^ He was fully aware of his master's dangerous condition. [Ed.]
 
 392 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 To-morrow they are going to put me under an anaes- 
 thetic, and examine more fully. 
 
 The hospital is very comfortable, and I do appreciate 
 it after Dannes-Camier. I am so glad to know that they 
 are working away well at the well. 
 
 Christie writes in high feather and says Alice is coming 
 to see her on Monday; and so I hope she will be well 
 cheered up. There is no such person as "Lord de 
 Courcy." The de Courcy title is Kinsale; and Lord 
 Kinsale is premier Baron of Ireland, and has the odd 
 privilege of being able to "remain covered" (keep his 
 hat on) in the presence of the sovereign. 
 
 The man who came to Malta and dined with me and 
 told flaring stories was Lord Muskerry, not de Courcy. 
 
 I hope you won't build too much on my getting home: 
 I hope to, but it is all "in the lap of the gods," and the 
 gods won't let on at once what they are going to do. 
 I feel easier in mind and body since I came in to hospital. 
 For weeks and weeks I knew I should be in hospital, 
 and that lots of the patients I visited in our own hospital 
 were not nearly so ill as I was myself, but I tried to 
 "stick it" and did. The journey to Dannes-Camier 
 was a trial, and the rough conditions there. Now it is 
 all settled and I am comfortable in mind and body. 
 The struggle is over, and it is not a defeat, as I did not 
 "go sick," but was sent. 
 
 I will shut up."^ 
 
 Monday i January 24, 19 16 
 
 I HAVE had a very good night, and am doing very well. 
 I had some food this morning, for the first time since 
 Friday — I mean solid food, i.e.., an egg and a piece of 
 
 ' Next morning Ayscough was " operated ": he felt so nearly sure of dying 
 that from daylight he was writing off farewell and business letters concern- 
 ing his affairs, to be posted after his death. I have constantly heard him 
 laugh at himself for this, and say, " So much for the value of presenti- 
 ment." [Ed.]
 
 'John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 393 
 
 toast. Before that only tea, and (yesterday night) 
 custard. They seem to think I have picked up very 
 promptly, for I don't really feel very weak. I suffer 
 still, of course, and must till the wounds are healed, 
 but I suffer less than I expected. 
 
 Still I can't sit up much and you must excuse this 
 short scribble. 
 
 I received your letter of Thursday last night — Alice 
 will be going to you to-day. I think it will do you 
 good. . . . 
 
 Tuesday Morning, January 25, 1916 
 
 I CAN only write you a line or two to tell you I'm 
 getting on all right. Yesterday I wrote too many notes 
 and knocked myself up. I am getting on all right, but 
 I suffer a good deal still, and I didn't have a very good 
 night last night. Father Ryan came down from Dannes- 
 Camier to see me yesterday morning, and one of the 
 Sisters in the afternoon. Of course Wilcox came. His 
 grief over my illness is quite pathetic. I had your letter 
 written on Saturday last night. I can't write more 
 because I am lying down: yesterday I sat up and tired 
 myself out. With best love to Christie and Alice. 
 
 Wedgies day, January 26, 1916 
 
 I HAD a very good night, and feel much more comfort- 
 able. Of course I still suffer a good bit, sometimes 
 miserably, but they say that, after the first week, it will 
 be much better. You must not mind my only writing 
 these brief bulletins at present. It tires me sitting up 
 and tires me writing. I hear nothing yet about my 
 return, but then I am of course quite incapable of travel- 
 ling yet, and there will be no talk of it till I am (capable). 
 Wilcox comes every day, and is as devoted as ever. I 
 will give him your note to-morrow. I slept the whole 
 night last night.
 
 394 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 The Director-General of Medical Services (Sir Arthur 
 Sloggett) is coming round this morning and they are 
 busy getting ready for him. I can't write more, it makes 
 my back ache. 
 
 Thursday, January 27, 1916 
 
 Your letter of Monday afternoon arrived last night, 
 Wednesday; I daresay if it had caught the early post at 
 Winterbourne it would have arrived here on the following 
 evening. I am getting on well, and had a hath this 
 morning, the first since the operation. It was very nice, 
 and nothing relieves the discomfort and pain more. 
 
 Yesterday I received enclosed from the Cardinal: 
 you will see that it is very kind and cordial in tone, and I 
 feel now sure that he will take up my case vigorously. 
 The Bishop of Clifton, too, will keep on at it. 
 
 The Bishop's letter was written before he had heard 
 from me from this place. Now he knows of my opera- 
 tion, etc. 
 
 No, you did not tell me before of Lady Glenconner's 
 visit. . . . 
 
 Two officers that used to belong to my old unit at the 
 front came to see me, and were very pleasant. 
 
 I must stop now. I hope Alice is livening you up. 
 I am not feeling very weak, but the pain is often harassing 
 still, and will be till the wounds of the operation are 
 healed and the stitches come out. 
 
 Best love to Christie and Alice. 
 
 Friday, January 28, 1916 
 
 I AM tired and can write you but a word to say I'm 
 doing well. 
 
 Last night I had an enormous mail — letters from 
 you, Christie, Alice, the Bishop, his Secretary, W. Gater, 
 the Cardinal, the Duchess of Wellington, Lord Glen-
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 395 
 
 Conner, Marquise de Montebello, Lady Austin-Lee, F. 
 Keating {The Month) y and I am nearly worn out answering 
 them. The actual writing does not fatigue me: it is the 
 position in which I have to do it. 
 
 I can't conceive why AHce should not have slept as 
 usual in my old room over the kitchen: and it worries 
 me. I suppose you thought / might swoop down! But 
 there will be no swooping. I am not likely to be out of 
 this hospital for some little while: and should probably 
 be then transferred to an English one till out of doctors' 
 hands. You say, "Why not come home and let civilian 
 doctors do it all?" I don't think! There is no point 
 in being ill at one's own expense, when one falls ill in 
 service. 
 
 Winifred said she found you so well, and so pretty, 
 with a nice, healthy colour. 
 
 January 29, 1916 
 
 I HAD a good night, but am feeling "poorish" this 
 morning. I suppose it must be so for a time: but I 
 suffer so at times that I feel quite collapsed afterwards. 
 I shall not write many letters this morning, but rest. 
 I meant to have written to Christie and Alice, but am not 
 quite up to it. Give them my love. 
 
 One of the volunteer nurses here is a Miss Bibby. 
 Do you remember the name in Shropshire long ago.'' 
 The Bibbys live near Baschurch (the home of the Jebbs 
 of the School) at a place called Hardwicke Hall (not the 
 Kynastons' Hardwicke, of course), and she used to hunt 
 round Ellesmere and our neighbourhood. We have 
 great talks and she is now eager to read "Gracechurch." 
 She is very good to me and brings me all sorts of things. 
 
 The reason I changed to pencil in writing this letter is 
 that the ink in the fountain pen I was using gave out. 
 
 I must stop.
 
 396 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 Sunday, January 30, 1916 
 
 I FEEL better to-day than any day since the operation. 
 And the doctor examined the place yesterday, and told 
 the Sister after that I was doing very well, that it was 
 healing well, and he was very well pleased with it. As I 
 suffer a good deal still I was beginning to feel uneasy, 
 wondering if it was all right: and so I am glad to hear 
 this.i 
 
 It has turned very cold: and I'm glad not to be in 
 that tent at Dannes-Camier. 
 
 Our mail comes in about six p.m. Last night there 
 was none, and we were told the boat had put out but 
 had to return to England owing to enemy craft. 
 
 Wilcox walks down each evening, and looks at me, 
 (tearfully!) and goes away again. He looks so lonely, 
 poor man. 
 
 Best love to C. and A. 
 
 Monday, January 31, 19 16 
 
 It is terribly cold; if I sit up in bed I get frozen. I 
 shall therefore only write you a word to say I'm im- 
 proving steadily, if not as quickly as I should like. 
 
 I had very nice letters from Mr. and W. Gater. Please 
 thank them. Also excellent letters from Bert and Mary: 
 I like their letters; there is no convention and filling out 
 
 with phrases. Poor writes ever so lovingly, but 
 
 simply clatters 'the Lord" around my head like a set of 
 castanets. 
 
 Of course I do not get up yet, but am always in bed, 
 and while one is ill I think it the best place. 
 
 We seem to be always having a meal or meal-let. 
 
 7 A.M. tea I P.M. luncheon 
 
 8 A.M. breakfast 4 p.m. tea 
 
 II A.M. lunch 7 P.M. dinner 
 
 I must stop. God bless you and with love to Christie. 
 
 * It had been uncertain whether the conditions were cancerous. [Ed.]
 
 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 397 
 
 February i, 19 16 
 
 When I awoke this morning, after a very good night, 
 I found a bundle of letters by my side which had arrived 
 in the night, and among them your letter of Saturday. 
 
 It is beastly cold this morning, and sitting up I get my 
 hands frozen. You know how cracked nurses and 
 doctors are about open windows, and it is a hard black 
 frost. 
 
 There is an "evacuation" this morning, i.e., a lot of 
 patients sent home, three out of ten officers in this ward 
 gone. I wonder when my turn will come: but, as I 
 told you, I would rather complete my cure here, where 
 it costs me nothing: after that the sooner the better. 
 I don't envy them to-day, for it will be a bitter cold 
 journey. 
 
 Poor Mary and Bert seem so really delighted at the 
 prospect of my getting home. I hope whenever you do 
 see me walk in you won't be sick at me as you were at 
 Mrs. Taylor!! 
 
 I must stop. 
 
 February 2, 1916 
 
 The "Major" (he is really a civiHan doctor, a very 
 eminent surgeon and specialist from Liverpool, who is 
 serving here as a volunteer) has just examined me again, 
 and he says it is getting on very well; there is, however, 
 still inflammation, and the wounds are not yet healed up. 
 I told him that I did not want to go home till I was at 
 least very nearly cured, and he quite understood. He is 
 very nice, and so is the Colonel-Commandant here . . . 
 very kind and sympathetic. To-day's was my first 
 chance of a good plain talk with the Major and as it all 
 now rests with the doctors, I am very much relieved in 
 my mind to have had it. I had been watching for the 
 opportunity a long time.
 
 398 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 Three of our officer-patients went out (to England) 
 yesterday, but three more came in. They are all wounded 
 but not at the front! One in a game of football, one in a 
 motor-accident, one while doing gymnastics. Very dull, 
 isn't it? 
 
 I suffer very little pain now, and am really enjoying 
 the rest and comfort in hospital. 
 
 You speak of its being a "house," but it isn't. It is a 
 collection of huts, built in Liverpool and sent out here 
 all ready to put up. 
 
 I must dry up. 
 
 Thursday y February 3, 1916 
 
 I HAVE been longing to begin my letter for the last 
 two hours (for it is nearly twelve o'clock, and at twelve 
 o'clock our post goes out), but another officer has been 
 sitting on my bed telling me all about British Guiana, 
 and I thought he never would stop. It was quite in- 
 teresting if I had not wanted to be writing. He was a 
 planter out there and doing very well, but threw it all 
 up and came home to Europe to fight England's enemies. 
 I know now all about a planter's life in British Guiana 
 — the sort of houses they live in, their pretty gardens, 
 the snakes, alligators, "tigers" {i.e.y pumas), dances, 
 niggers, natives, Indians (all different) and so on. 
 
 I told you this was a hut, but it is a very nice one: 
 this ward about one hundred feet long and twenty broad, 
 a good height, and very well built. 
 
 I must stop. I'm doing very well. 
 
 February 4, 19 16 
 
 I HAVE just come back to bed after a trip to the bath- 
 room; after the first week I began to have a bath each 
 day, and it really does me more good than the fomen- 
 tations used to do, as both doctors and nurses had the 
 sense to recognise at once. I always feel much easier 
 after it, though a little tired.
 
 John Ayscouglfs Letters to bis Mother 399 
 
 You will be glad to hear that I am notably better, 
 better each day. Presently, in another day or two, 
 they will let me up. Then the next stage will be trans- 
 ference to some hospital in England; and the next after 
 that, I hope, a board which will allot me sick leave, so 
 that I can go home. 
 
 Another man here had an operation for the same 
 thing as I the day before yesterday, but in his case 
 the trouble was slight, and he suffered scarcely anything 
 either before or after the operation. 
 
 We have had English game several times — pheasant, 
 and jolly good ones. The Liverpool people send us fresh 
 eggs, vegetables, grapes, oranges, bananas, and all sorts 
 of little luxuries. I must say it's very good of them. 
 I keep my fruit to give to Wilcox, because he adores it 
 and I don't: the rest I gobble up myself. 
 
 Miss Bibby makes us excellent sandwiches for tea. 
 She is very good but I can see that she is tired out ("fed 
 up," as the soldiers say). She has been nursing ever 
 since the war started, and it's very hard work, especially 
 the being on your feet for over twelve hours each day. 
 
 Saturday, February 5, 191 6 
 
 It is a fortnight to-day since the operation, and I am 
 almost quite well: at first I seemed to myself to make no 
 progress at all, but for the last five days I have steadily 
 improved daily. 
 
 The doctor (the Major) is going to examine me again 
 this morning, and I believe I shall then be given my 
 "ticket" for England. That is, a sort of label will be 
 put up over my bed saying I am for the next lot who go 
 over to England. One would probably remain here four 
 or five days after that. 
 
 Whenever I do go I shall, as soon as I get to England, 
 send you a telegram to let you know I am there: but 
 you must not expect to see me for some time after that,
 
 400 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 as I shall have to go first to some hospital for some short 
 time. 
 
 I write every day to you: I did not even miss the day 
 of the operation, but it seems to me that you get my 
 letters very irregularly: I am so sorry. 
 
 With best love to Christie and Alice. 
 
 Sunday 
 
 Postscript: The Major has just examined me again 
 and I am to have my "ticket." That means I shall go 
 over with the next convoy, possibly to-morrow, possibly 
 Tuesday or Wednesday. So I don't think there is any 
 use in your writing to me till you hear where I am — 
 it will probably be London. 
 
 Monday^ February 7, 1916 
 
 It is pouring down in a fierce rattling deluge, and 
 poor Wilcox arrived from Dannes-Camier in the thick of 
 it — drenched. But it is the sort of passionate rain 
 that doesn't last, and already there is a wild gleam shin- 
 ing through it, so I hope he will have it dry and warm 
 to walk back. 
 
 You see I am still here; and here I may be for days, 
 just as I may be oflF at any moment. You would not 
 like that, would >ou? The uncertainty, I mean. 
 
 You cannot think how nice Colonel Peake and Major 
 Littler-Jones are here, how kind and cordial: and the 
 nurses, too. 
 
 Tuesday y February 8, 1916 
 
 I BELIEVE it was on this day last year (and at about 
 this hour) that I received the War Office letter telling 
 me that I was to come out here again at once, and it 
 seems a great deal more than a year. 
 
 No convoy yet, so you see I am still here; however
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 401 
 
 I am in very good quarters, and as I am not cured yet, 
 I might as well be in one hospital as another. 
 
 Friday is my birthday; by then I expect I shall be in 
 London. 
 
 Yesterday afternoon I had a long visit from Captain 
 McDonald, one of the officers of my own "unit" — No. 
 4 General Hospital. He stayed over two hours and had 
 tea, and was very amiable. It seems they have received 
 no patients yet since coming from Versailles. 
 
 I wish Alice could stay on till I get back: I should so 
 much like to tell her the history of the last year. 
 
 Wednesday, February 9, 1916 
 
 You see I am still here; but I expect there will be a 
 convoy very soon, and then I shall be off: one never 
 knows long beforehand when there is to be a convoy. 
 However, I have my things all ready. 
 
 Last night I had your letter written on Sunday and 
 a lot of other letters same time: a very kind one from 
 Lady Portsmouth. During the war they live almost 
 entirely in London, or, she says, she would have gone over 
 to see you. 
 
 It is very cold here to-day, but bright. Yesterday 
 we had thunder, hail, black storms of rain, and wind. 
 Wilcox said the sea was very rough, so I was not sorry 
 that I was not crossing. 
 
 I hated writing the article in the Month, but I felt it 
 a sort of duty; English people 7iever realise what France 
 suffers from the war. 
 
 I have been nearly three weeks in this bed — three 
 weeks the day after to-morrow, and now I sometimes 
 get the fidgets, just as you do. All the same it is far 
 more comfortable in bed than hanging about in the 
 draughts of the ward. Miss Bibby is off duty with a 
 bad cold, and it's a judgment on her for her passion for 
 opening windows in all directions.
 
 402 John Ayscough' s Letters to his Mother 
 
 I must stop. I've a pain in ''me'' back from sitting 
 up in rather a crunchy position. 
 
 February lo, 191 6 
 
 I HAVE an idea that this will be my last letter from 
 France. The Colonel told me last night that he did not 
 think there would be any convoy to-day, but that there 
 would be to-morrow, and the convoys usually leave 
 here early in the morning so as to catch the boat that 
 leaves Boulogne or Calais about 11.30. 
 
 So, if that is so, and all goes well, I shall be in London 
 by the afternoon of my birthday. 
 
 Last night, just as I was settling down to sleep, the 
 mail came, and two letters from you dated Saturday 
 and Monday. 
 
 I am writing with the most abominable pen I ever 
 suffered from, like a bent pin, and it is almost impossible 
 to make it write at all. 
 
 Yesterday afternoon I had a long visit from Colonel 
 Butler, one of my former brother officers of No. 15 
 Field Ambulance; he has for a long time now been 
 commandant of a hospital at Boulogne. He had plenty 
 to tell me of our old lot: and he declared that I look 
 much better now than when I was up at the front. / 
 don't think so. 
 
 Friday y February 11, 191 6 
 
 I EXPECT you will be getting very impatient — it is 
 so many days since I told you I should be going over 
 with the next convoy : and still I am here. 
 
 I really thought I should be going to-day, for yesterday 
 they brought my luggage into the ward, where no luggage 
 is allowed till patients are leaving. When the night- 
 Sisters came on duty last night, I said good-bye to the 
 day-Sisters, not expecting to see them again. But they 
 are all back again and I am still here.
 
 John Ayscouglo s Letters to his Mother 403 
 
 It is a beastly day, so in that way I do not lose much 
 by not having to travel — a dismal persistent rain, and 
 very bleak and cold, too. So bed is not a bad place to 
 be in, after all. It is three weeks to-day since I came 
 into hospital and I certainly had expected to be in Eng- 
 land long before this. However, one must be patient 
 and I must be off soon now, as it is more than a week 
 since there was a convoy. 
 
 This is my fifty-eighth birthday and the second I have 
 spent in France: not that it feels Hke France here, for 
 one never sees a French person or hears a word of French. 
 
 I have read about twenty books since I was in here, 
 and am now reading again "Feats on the Fiords" by 
 Harriet Martineau, which you read aloud to me about 
 (almost exactly) fifty years ago. It is worth a hundred 
 of the books written now. 
 
 Mrs. Arnoldis Hospital for Officers , London 
 
 Sunday, February 13, 1916 
 
 I ARRIVED here just now (and it is jolly comfortable). 
 
 We left the Liverpool Merchants' about ten-thirty 
 yesterday morning: and I was carried on a stretcher 
 (fearful humbug) to the motor, thence in an ambulance 
 motor to the train: I was carried into the train, after 
 which I flatly refused to be carried any more and walked 
 on board at Calais. 
 
 We reached Calais at three, but did not sail till 6.30 
 this morning, and got to Dover at 8.30 after a hateful 
 crossing — I wasn't sick, but very nearly. 
 
 I hope to be given sick leave in a very few days; pos- 
 sibly on Tuesday or Wednesday. 
 
 Monday 
 
 There is no chance of my getting a board or getting 
 home for a few days. 
 
 This morning I was examined by the house doctor
 
 404 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 (Dr. Menzies) and the consulting surgeon (Dr. Swinford 
 Edwards), and they immediately decided that a very 
 trifling further operation was necessary, and I went 
 straight up to the operating theatre and it was done, 
 without any anaesthetic. The surgeon shook me warmly 
 by the hand and said, "You are plucky, splendidly 
 plucky." 
 
 I am quite all right, and able to eat a most excellent 
 luncheon and dinner: and this afternoon I had two 
 very pleasant visits — Cardinal Bourne for an hour and 
 a half, and Lady O'Conor for two hours; but was not 
 in the least tired. 
 
 The Cardinal was ever so nice, so simple and friendly 
 and kind. 
 
 But of course I shall have to stop in bed a day or two. 
 
 This operation is a mere nothing. It hurt a little but 
 not much. 
 
 Both the Cardinal and Lady O'Conor thought me look- 
 ing very well! 
 
 Tuesday y February 15, 19 16 
 
 I RECEIVED your letter of yesterday afternoon this 
 morning. 
 
 I fear you won't get mine of yesterday afternoon till 
 this afternoon: for London post goes out at five o'clock, 
 and if you miss that, country letters don't get delivered 
 till afternoon post of next day. 
 
 I couldn't catch the five o'clock general mail, because 
 Cardinal Bourne came the moment I had finished lunch- 
 eon, and stayed till nearly four, when Lady O'Conor 
 came, who stayed till after six. The Cardinal was so 
 nice, cordial, kind and simple. 
 
 Both he and Lady O'Conor said I looked so well, in 
 spite of having had another httle operation in the morning. 
 
 This afternoon Lady Portsmouth is coming, she has 
 just telephoned to say so.
 
 John AyscougFs Letters to his Mother 405 
 
 It is comfortable here, and I have a large room all to 
 myself. 
 
 Here's luncheon! 
 
 I have written seven longish letters and am tired! 
 I hope to get my board about Friday and then will come 
 home: but meanwhile I'm in bed. I wonder why you 
 only got my wire on Monday; it was sent off from Dover 
 about 8.30 A.M. on Sunday. 
 
 While I am writing a man is photographing me (in 
 bed), despatched by the Press Photographic Agency. 
 Isn't it funny? He is to send you down a copy to-night. 
 He is a queer little hunchback, with a clever, witty face, 
 and he says, "That War Office! it won't take me, and 
 all my friends are at the front." 
 
 I told him he'd much better stay at home, for he looks 
 terribly sickly and delicate, but he said, "Better chaps 
 than me have to take their chance; why shouldn't I 
 take mine?" 
 
 The Daily Graphic telephones that it wants to interview 
 me! So as soon as I've got rid of the Press Agency man 
 I shall have them on my hands. 
 
 I'm doing very well and am very comfortable, but still 
 in bed; the wound of the new operation is not quite 
 healed, and I shan't be allowed up till it is, I expect. 
 
 Yesterday Lady Portsmouth came and spent a couple 
 of hours, and had tea here. She was very nice and we 
 had great talks. She brought me beautiful flowers 
 from Hurstbourne. My room is full of flowers sent or 
 brought by diff"erent people — camellias, snowdrops, 
 violets, azaleas, daffodils. 
 
 Lady O'Conor telephones asking for leave to come 
 again this afternoon. 
 
 I got your letter written yesterday afternoon this 
 morning.
 
 4o6 John Ayscough^s Letters to his Mother 
 
 Wednesday 
 
 I HEAR that the doctors do not wish me to leave here 
 before Monday. They are very cautious, and Hke to 
 keep any case under observation till they are sure it is 
 all right. 
 
 As I am getting the best doctors in England for noth- 
 ing I think it much better to take advantage of it. Dr. 
 Donald Hood, the King's Physician, is to see me before 
 I go. It is odd that staying in bed four weeks has not 
 weakened me at all, but only rested me. That no doubt 
 is partly due to the fact that they have fed me up like 
 a little pig ever since I came in hospital. 
 
 I am so glad Cyril Gater has been promoted. Please 
 congratulate them for me. 
 
 Thursday y February ly^ 1916 
 
 Yesterday I wrote to you twice, so I have all the less 
 to say to-day. 
 
 I had a visit from a representative of the Daily Graphic^ 
 then a short one from the Marchioness of Ormonde; 
 then I was overhauled by the King's Physician, Dr. 
 Donald Hood; finally Mrs. Arnoldi (who runs this 
 hospital) came and talked. 
 
 There are very many and excellent nurses here, and 
 the hospital is viost comfortable, the food first rate and 
 the drink too (the latter all combes from the King). 
 
 I'm very comfortable here, and as long as doctoring, 
 etc., is needed I may as well get it for nothing. 
 
 Friday, February 18, 1916 
 
 After luncheon yesterday Lady O'Conor came and 
 stayed a long time. She is a staunch and devoted old 
 friend, and we talked over dozens of other old friends. 
 Her sister is in terrible trouble; Wilfrid Ward, her hus-
 
 John Ayscough' s Letters to his Mother 407 
 
 band, and Herbert's father, has had a bad operation, 
 and they now say he has consumption of the tissues and 
 must die, perhaps in a few weeks. 
 
 I had a very cheery letter from the Bishop (CHfton) 
 to-day; he says that the chaplain at Tidworth bolted 
 to Ireland last week without saying "nothing to nobody," 
 and the sacristan wrote to the Bishop that the enormous 
 congregation there had no Mass or anything on Sunday. 
 
 I received enclosed last night; I don't remember the 
 female at all, and am not attracted by her letter. I wish 
 so many people would not want to come and see me. 
 I think of telephoning to this one that I can only give her 
 half an hour, and perhaps she won't care to come for 
 that. 
 
 The Medical Board is coming to sit on me here, on 
 Monday at 2.30. I am not decided yet whether I shall 
 go down that evening or wait till a morning train on 
 Tuesday. 
 
 The only train I could catch on Monday, after the 
 board, would be the 5.50 from Waterloo, and that would 
 reach Salisbury after eight, so I. could not reach you till 
 nearly nine. 
 
 However, I will think it over and let you know in good 
 time. 
 
 Saturday, February 19, 1916 
 
 Besides myself there are five other officers to be 
 "boarded" on Monday afternoon, so the board will 
 probably take some time, and I think I had better give 
 up the idea of getting off on Monday, and make up my 
 mind to go down by daylight on Tuesday. Lady O'Conor 
 telephones that she wants to come again to see me this 
 afternoon; she is very good and sends me quantities of 
 books, flowers, etc. 
 
 Yesterday I had a long visit from a priest I had not 
 met for thirty years — Father Coventry. He saw my 
 portrait in the newspaper and came to look me up.
 
 4o8 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 
 
 He had much to tell me of my fame, etc., and how many 
 people were forever talking to him about my writings! 
 
 I haven't been allowed up yet, but I just told the 
 doctor that I intended to go out and say Mass to-morrow 
 morning, and he said "all right." I shall go to the 
 **Servites," a priory in Fulham Road ten minutes from 
 here, where Father Coventry belongs; I shall not walk, 
 but go in a taxi. 
 
 I have been very lucky in both my hospitals, the nurs- 
 ing and doctoring being first-rate in both: Littler- Jones 
 operated me so well at Etaples that Dr. Swinford Ed- 
 wards here (who is the specialist surgeon for my disease) 
 said after examining me that he could not even feel the 
 scar of the fissure. 
 
 Of course it's a great advantage to have the very best 
 surgeons and physicians in England for nothing at all. 
 
 To-day began sunny, but has turned very dark and 
 lowering; in five minutes it will pelt. 
 
 Sunday^ February 20, 191 6 
 
 I AM writing this at a table, the first letter I have 
 written out of bed for just a month, 
 
 I got up at 7.15 this morning, dressed, and went In a 
 taxi to the Servite Priory in Fulham Road, and said 
 Mass there. The monks gave me breakfast, and then 
 I walked home. It is no distance, only about ten minutes 
 walking slowly, but I found it quite enough. 
 
 It is now nearly twelve, and at twelve I am going for 
 a short motor-drive with Captain Neale, one of the other 
 officer-patients here. He and I came together from 
 Etaples. Then I shall have luncheon and go back to bed 
 for the remainder of the day. 
 
 I shall go home on Tuesday; unless you hear to the 
 contrary, by the train reaching Salisbury at five, which 
 should bring me home a little before six. Yesterday 
 I had three visitors.
 
 John Ayscough's Letters to his Mother 409 
 
 First Lady O'Conor, who was very nice, as she always 
 is; but her accounts of poor Wilfrid Ward, her brother- 
 in-law, Herbert's father, very bad. I fear he cannot 
 last long. 
 
 Then Miss Fanny Charlton, who looked amazingly 
 well and young; she was in very good form, and fired 
 off a series of anecdotes. . . . 
 
 I have been out for the motor-drive, and am delighted 
 to get in again. It was an open car and there was a 
 shrewd east wind. We drove round the park, which was 
 full of people showing themselves after church, 
 
 I must stop now and go back to my bed and my hot 
 bottle! 
 
 Monday Afternoon 
 
 Just a line to tell you that the board has passed me 
 fit, after a month's leave, for home service per- 
 manently unfit for Foreign Service. 
 
 I could have had six months* leave if I had wanted it, 
 but I said, "No, one month." 
 
 Here's the Editor of the Weekly Dispatch. 
 
 THE END
 
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