In the sweltering August of 1914, Edith Wharton crossed from England into France and found a country suspended between serenity and catastrophe. This dispatch from the edge of the apocalypse captures the French Western Front in its earliest, most surreal moments: the cafes of Paris still full of tourists, the railway stations swelling with reservists, the rolling countryside north and east toward Dunkirk and Belfort that would soon become a scarred moonscape of trenches and corpse-laden fields. Wharton's eye, so famously attuned to Gilded Age Newport and fin-de-siècle drawing rooms, turns here to ruined farmhouses, endless columns of refugees, and the strange, stilted cheerfulness of soldiers who do not yet know what awaits them. She documents the war's opening months with the precision of a novelist and the urgency of someone who understands she is witnessing the end of a world. The result is neither propaganda nor melodrama, but something more valuable: a firsthand account from the moment when France still believed the war would be short, and the dawning realization that it would not end for four brutal years.
