What was sorrow to me
    Then, when the young life free
      Thirsted for joys of earth
    Far from the desolate sea?

    What was Sleep but a rest,
    Giving to youth the best
      Dreams from the ivory gate,
    Visions of God manifest?

    What was Death but a tale
    Told to faces grown pale,
      Worn and wasted with years—­
    A meaningless thing to the bale?

    Death and Sorrow and Sleep: 
    Now their sad message I keep,
      Tossed on the wet wind’s breath,
    The chant of the measureless deep.

When Marthe Chenal Sang the “Marseillaise”

By Wythe Williams

[From THE NEW YORK TIMES, Feb. 14, 1915.]

I went to the Opera Comique the other day to hear Marthe Chenal sing the “Marseillaise.”  For several weeks previous I had heard a story going the rounds of what is left of Paris life to the effect that if one wanted a regular old-fashioned thrill he really should go to the Opera Comique on a day when Mlle. Chenal closed the performance by singing the French national hymn.  I was told there would be difficulty in securing a seat.

I was rather skeptical.  I also considered that I had had sufficient thrills since the beginning of the war, both old fashioned and new.  I believed also that I had already heard the “Marseillaise” sung under the best possible circumstances to produce thrills.  One of the first nights after mobilization 10,000 Frenchmen filled the street beneath the windows of THE NEW YORK TIMES office, where I was at work.  They sang the “Marseillaise” for two hours, with a solemn hatred of their national enemy sounding in every note.  The solemnity changed to a wild passion as the night wore on.  Finally, cuirassiers of the guard rode through the street to disperse the mob.  It was a terrific scene.

So I was willing to admit that the “Marseillaise” is probably the most thrilling and most martial national song ever written, but I was just not keen on the subject of thrills.

Then one day a sedate friend went to the Opera Comique and came away in a raving condition.  It was a week before his ardor subsided.  He declared that this rendition of a song was something that will be referred to in future years.  “Why,” he said, “when the war is over the French will talk about it in the way Americans still talk concerning Jenny Lind at Castle Garden, or De Wolf Hopper reciting ‘Casey at the Bat.’”

This induced me to go.  I was convinced that whether I got a thrill or not the singing of the “Marseillaise” by Chenal had become a distinct feature of Paris life during the war.

I never want to go again.  To go again might deepen my impression—­might better register the thrill.  But then it might not be just the same.  I would be keyed to such expectancy that I might be disappointed.  Persons in the seats behind me might whisper.  And just as Chenal got to the “Amour sacre de la patrie” some one might cough.  I am confident that something of the sort would surely happen.  I want always to remember that ten minutes while Chenal was on the stage just as I remember it now.  So I will not go again.