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Excel Formulas
®

& Functions
6th Edition

by Ken Bluttman
Excel® Formulas & Functions For Dummies®, 6th Edition
Published by: John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 111 River Street, Hoboken, NJ 07030-5774, www.wiley.com

Copyright © 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey

Published simultaneously in Canada

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2021948499

ISBN 978-1-119-83911-8 (pbk); ISBN 978-1-119-83912-5 (ebk); ISBN 978-1-119-83913-2 (ebk)

Contents at a Glance
Introduction. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Part 1: Getting Started with Excel Formulas

and Functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
CHAPTER 1: Tapping Into Formula and Function Fundamentals. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
CHAPTER 2: Saving Time with Function Tools. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
CHAPTER 3: Saying “Array!” for Formulas and Functions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
CHAPTER 4: Fixing Formula Boo-Boos. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65

Part 2: Doing the Math. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83

CHAPTER 5: Calculating Loan Payments and Interest Rates. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85
CHAPTER 6: Appreciating What You’ll Get, Depreciating What You’ve Got. . . . . . . . 105
CHAPTER 7: Using Basic Math Functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
CHAPTER 8: Advancing Your Math. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139

Part 3: Solving with Statistics. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161

CHAPTER 9: Throwing Statistics a Curve. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163
CHAPTER 10: Using Significance Tests. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203
CHAPTER 11: Rolling the Dice on Predictions and Probability. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213

Part 4: Dancing with Data. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231

CHAPTER 12: Dressing Up for Date Functions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233
CHAPTER 13: Keeping Well-Timed Functions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251

CHAPTER 14: Using Lookup, Logical, and Reference Functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261

CHAPTER 15: Digging Up the Facts. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297
CHAPTER 16: Writing Home about Text Functions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 311
CHAPTER 17: Playing Records with Database Functions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 337

Part 5: The Part of Tens. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 353

CHAPTER 18: Ten Tips for Working with Formulas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 355
CHAPTER 19: Ten Ways to Get Fancy with Excel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 369

CHAPTER 20: Ten Really Cool Functions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 375

Index. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 383
Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
About This Book. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
Foolish Assumptions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
Icons Used in This Book. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
Beyond the Book. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
Where to Go from Here . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

PART 1: GETTING STARTED WITH EXCEL FORMULAS

AND FUNCTIONS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
CHAPTER 1: Tapping Into Formula and Function
Fundamentals. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Working with Excel Fundamentals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
Understanding workbooks and worksheets. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
Introducing the Formulas tab . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
Working with rows, columns, cells, ranges, and tables . . . . . . . . . . 13
Formatting your data . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
Getting help. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
Gaining the Upper Hand on Formulas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Entering your first formula. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Understanding references. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
Copying formulas with the fill handle. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Assembling formulas the right way . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
Using Functions in Formulas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
Looking at what goes into a function. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
Arguing with a function . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
Nesting functions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34

CHAPTER 2: Saving Time with Function Tools . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

Getting Familiar with the Insert Function Dialog Box. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .39
Finding the Correct Function. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
Entering Functions Using the Insert Function Dialog Box. . . . . . . . . . . 42
Selecting a function that takes no arguments. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
Selecting a function that uses arguments. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
Entering cells, ranges, named areas, and tables as
function arguments. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47
Getting help in the Insert Function dialog box . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
Using the Function Arguments dialog box to edit functions. . . . . . 50
Directly Entering Formulas and Functions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51
Entering formulas and functions in the Formula Bar. . . . . . . . . . . . 51
Entering formulas and functions directly in worksheet cells . . . . . 52

Table of Contents v
 CHAPTER 3: Saying “Array!” for Formulas and Functions. . . . . . . . . 55
Discovering Arrays. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
Using Arrays in Formulas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
Working with Functions That Return Arrays . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

CHAPTER 4: Fixing Formula Boo-Boos. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65

Catching Errors As You Enter Them . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
Getting parentheses to match. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66
Avoiding circular references . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
Mending broken links. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
Using the Formula Error Checker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
Auditing Formulas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
Watching the Watch Window. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
Evaluating and Checking Errors. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
Making an Error Behave the Way You Want. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81

PART 2: DOING THE MATH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83

CHAPTER 5: Calculating Loan Payments and Interest Rates. . . . . 85
Understanding How Excel Handles Money. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86
Going with the cash flow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86
Formatting for currency. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86
Choosing separators. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
Figuring Loan Calculations. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
Calculating the payment amount . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91
Calculating interest payments. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
Calculating payments toward principal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94
Calculating the number of payments. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
Calculating the number of payments with PDURATION . . . . . . . . . 98
Calculating the interest rate. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
Calculating the principal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101

CHAPTER 6: Appreciating What You’ll Get, Depreciating

What You’ve Got. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
Looking into the Future . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
Depreciating the Finer Things in Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
Calculating straight-line depreciation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110
Creating an accelerated depreciation schedule . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
Creating an even faster accelerated depreciation schedule. . . . . 113
Calculating a midyear depreciation schedule. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114
Measuring Your Internals. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116

vi Excel Formulas & Functions For Dummies

CHAPTER 7: Using Basic Math Functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
Adding It All Together with the SUM Function . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
Rounding Out Your Knowledge. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126
Just plain old rounding. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126
Rounding in one direction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128
Leaving All Decimals Behind with INT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133
Leaving Some Decimals Behind with TRUNC . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134
Looking for a Sign . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135
Ignoring Signs. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137

CHAPTER 8: Advancing Your Math. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139

Using PI to Calculate Circumference and Diameter. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140
Generating and Using Random Numbers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
The all-purpose RAND function. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
Precise randomness with RANDBETWEEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143
Ordering Items. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145
Combining . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
Raising Numbers to New Heights. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
Multiplying Multiple Numbers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149
Using What Remains with the MOD Function. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
Summing Things Up . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152
Using SUBTOTAL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152
Using SUMPRODUCT. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154
Using SUMIF and SUMIFS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156
Getting an Angle on Trigonometry. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159
Three basic trigonometry functions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159
Degrees and radians. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160

PART 3: SOLVING WITH STATISTICS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161

CHAPTER 9: Throwing Statistics a Curve. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163

Getting Stuck in the Middle with AVERAGE, MEDIAN, and MODE . . . 164
Deviating from the Middle. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169
Measuring variance. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 170
Analyzing deviations. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172
Looking for normal distribution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174
Skewing from the norm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179
Comparing data sets. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181
Analyzing Data with Percentiles and Bins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185
QUARTILE.INC and QUARTILE.EXC . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 186
PERCENTILE.INC and PERCENTILE.EXC. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187
RANK. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189
PERCENTRANK. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190
FREQUENCY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191

Table of Contents vii

 MIN and MAX. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195
LARGE and SMALL. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196
Going for the Count . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198
COUNT and COUNTA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198
COUNTIF. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198

CHAPTER 10: Using Significance Tests. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203

Testing to the T . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204
Comparing Results with an Estimate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 208

CHAPTER 11: Rolling the Dice on Predictions and Probability. . . 213

Modeling. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214
Linear model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214
Exponential model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214
Getting It Straight: Using SLOPE and INTERCEPT to
Describe Linear Data. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 215
What’s Ahead: Using FORECAST, TREND, and GROWTH
to Make Predictions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219
FORECAST. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219
TREND. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221
GROWTH. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223
Using NORM.DIST and POISSON.DIST to Determine
Probabilities. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225
NORM.DIST. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225
POISSON.DIST . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 227

PART 4: DANCING WITH DATA. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231

CHAPTER 12: Dressing Up for Date Functions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233

Understanding How Excel Handles Dates. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233
Formatting Dates. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 235
Making a Date with DATE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 236
Breaking a Date with DAY, MONTH, and YEAR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 238
Isolating the day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239
Isolating the month. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 240
Isolating the year. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241
Converting a Date from Text. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 242
Finding Out What TODAY Is. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 243
Counting the days until your birthday . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 244
Counting your age in days . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 244
Determining the Day of the Week. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 245
Working with Workdays . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 246
Determining workdays in a range of dates. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 246
Workdays in the future. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 248
Calculating Time Between Two Dates with the DATEDIF Function. . . 249

viii Excel Formulas & Functions For Dummies

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CHAPTER 13: Keeping Well-Timed Functions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251
Understanding How Excel Handles Time. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251
Formatting Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 252
Keeping TIME. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 254
Converting Text to Time with TIMEVALUE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 254
Deconstructing Time with HOUR, MINUTE, and SECOND. . . . . . . . . . 255
Isolating the hour . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 256
Isolating the minute . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 257
Isolating the second . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 258
Finding the Time NOW . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 258
Calculating Elapsed Time Over Days . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259

CHAPTER 14: Using Lookup, Logical, and Reference

Functions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261
Testing on One Condition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 262
Choosing the Right Value. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267
Let’s Be Logical. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 269
NOT. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 270
AND and OR. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 271
XOR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 273
Finding Where the Data Is . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275
ADDRESS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275
INDIRECT. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 279
ROW, ROWS, COLUMN, and COLUMNS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 279
OFFSET . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 282
Looking It Up . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 284
HLOOKUP and VLOOKUP. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 284
XLOOKUP . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 288
MATCH and INDEX. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289
FORMULATEXT. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 294
NUMBERVALUE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 295

CHAPTER 15: Digging Up the Facts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297

Getting Informed with the CELL Function . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297
Getting Information About Excel and Your Computer System. . . . . . 302
Finding What IS and What IS Not . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 304
ISERR, ISNA, and ISERROR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 304
ISBLANK, ISNONTEXT, ISTEXT, and ISNUMBER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 306
Getting to Know Your Type . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 308

Table of Contents ix
 CHAPTER 16: Writing Home about Text Functions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 311
Breaking Apart Text. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 311
Bearing to the LEFT. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 312
Swinging to the RIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 313
Staying in the MIDdle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 314
Finding the long of it with LEN. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 315
Putting Text Together with CONCATENATE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 316
Changing Text . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 318
Making money. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 318
Turning numbers into text. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 320
Repeating text . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323
Swapping text. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 324
Giving text a trim. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 328
Making a case. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 329
Comparing, Finding, and Measuring Text . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 330
Going for perfection with EXACT. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 331
Finding and searching. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 332

CHAPTER 17: Playing Records with Database Functions. . . . . . . . . 337

Putting Your Data into a Database Structure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 338
Working with Database Functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 339
Establishing your database . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 339
Establishing the criteria area. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 341
Fine-Tuning Criteria with AND and OR. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 343
Adding Only What Matters with DSUM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 345
Going for the Middle with DAVERAGE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 345
Counting Only What Matters with DCOUNT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 347
Finding Highest and Lowest with DMIN and DMAX. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 348
Finding Duplicate Values with DGET. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 349
Being Productive with DPRODUCT. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 350

PART 5: THE PART OF TENS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 353

CHAPTER 18: Ten Tips for Working with Formulas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 355

Master Operator Precedence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 355
Display Formulas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 356
Fix Formulas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 358
Use Absolute References. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 359
Turn Calc On/Turn Calc Off . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 359
Use Named Areas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 361
Use Formula Auditing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 362
Use Conditional Formatting. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 363
Use Data Validation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 364
Create Your Own Functions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 365

x Excel Formulas & Functions For Dummies

CHAPTER 19: Ten Ways to Get Fancy with Excel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 369
Calculating Data from Multiple Sheets. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 369
Getting Data from the Internet. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 370
Determining the Needed Number . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 370
Removing Duplicates . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 371
Getting to the Last Row of Your Data. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 372
Freezing Panes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 372
Splitting a Worksheet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 372
Filling Cells . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 373
Adding Notes to Cells . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 373
Getting More Information about a Workbook or Worksheet. . . . . . . 374

CHAPTER 20: Ten Really Cool Functions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 375

Work with Hexadecimal, Octal, Decimal, and Binary Numbers . . . . . 376
Convert Units of Measurement. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 377
Find the Greatest Common Divisor and the Least Common
Multiple. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 378
Easily Generate a Random Number. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 379
Convert to Roman Numerals. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 379
Factor in a Factorial. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 379
Determine Part of a Year with YEARFRAC . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 380
Find the Data TYPE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 380
Find the LENgth of Your Text. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 381
Just in CASE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 381

INDEX. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 383

Table of Contents xi
Introduction
E
xcel worksheets are used in many walks of life: business, education, home
finances, and even hobbies (such as keeping track of your baseball-card col-
lection). In my house, we use Excel for a lot, from our taxes (boring!) to our
ever-growing recipe collection (yummy!). Often, I use Excel in place of a calcula-
tor. After all, Excel is like a calculator on steroids!

In the workplace, Excel is one of the most commonly used analysis and reporting
tools. Financial statements, sales reports, inventory, project scheduling, customer
activity — so much of this stuff is kept in Excel. The program’s capability to
manipulate and give feedback about the data makes it attractive. Excel’s flexibility
in storing and presenting data is like magic.

About This Book

This book is about the number-crunching side of Excel. Formulas are the keystone
to analyzing data — that is, digging out nuggets of important information. What
is the average sale? How many times did we do better than average? How many
days are left on the project? How much progress have we made? That sort of thing.

Formulas calculate answers, straight and to the point. But that’s not all. Excel has
dozens of built-in functions that calculate everything from a simple average to a
useful analysis of your investments to complex inferential statistics. But you don’t
have to know it all or use it all; just use the parts that are relevant to your work.

This book discusses more than 150 of these functions. But rather than just show
their syntax and list them alphabetically, I assemble them by category and provide
real-world examples of how to use them alone, and in formulas, along with
step-by-step instructions and illustrations of the results.

Within this book, you may note that some web addresses break across two lines of
text. If you’re reading this book in print and want to visit one of these web pages,
simply key in the web address exactly as it’s noted in the text, pretending as
though the line break doesn’t exist. If you’re reading this as an e-book, you’ve got
it easy — just click the web address to be taken directly to the web page.

Introduction 1
Foolish Assumptions
I assume that you have a PC with Excel loaded. That’s a no-brainer! Nearly all the
material is relevant for use with earlier versions of Excel as well. I also assume
that you know how to navigate with a keyboard and mouse. Last, I assume that
you have used Excel before, even just once. I do discuss basics in Chapter 1 but not
all of them. If you really need to start from scratch, I suggest that you read the
excellent Excel All-in-One For Dummies, by Paul McFedries and Greg Harvey (Wiley).

Other than that, this book is written for the Office 2021 version of Excel, but just
between you and me, it works fine with older versions of Excel. There could be a
function or two that isn’t in an older version or works slightly differently. But
Microsoft has done an excellent job of maintaining compatibility between ver-
sions of Excel, so when it comes to formulas and functions, you can be confident
that what works in one version works in another.

Icons Used in This Book

This book uses icons in the margins to grab your attention. Here’s a guide to what
the icons mean:

The Tip icon highlights information that’ll make your life easier — at least when
it comes to Excel.

The Remember icon marks some basic concept that you’ll want to keep tucked
away somewhere in your brain.

As it implies, the Warning icon is used for serious stuff. This icon tells you to be
careful — usually because you can accidentally erase your data or some such hor-
rible event.

Once in a while, some tidbit is interesting to the tech-head types but not to any-
one else. I mark these paragraphs with the Technical Stuff icon. You can read
these items or ignore them as you see fit.

2 Excel Formulas & Functions For Dummies

Beyond the Book
In addition to the material in the print or e-book you’re reading right now, this
product also comes with some access-anywhere goodies on the web. Be sure to
check out the free online Cheat Sheet to find the Excel order of operations, Excel
cell references worth remembering, common Excel error messages, and more. To
get the Cheat Sheet, simply go to www.dummies.com and type Excel Formulas &
Functions For Dummies Cheat Sheet in the Search box.

Where to Go from Here

Roll up your sleeves, take a deep breath, and then forget all that preparing-for-a-
hard-task stuff. Using Excel is easy. You can hardly make a mistake without
Excel’s catching it. If you need to brush up on the basics, go to Chapter 1. This
chapter is also the best place to get your first taste of formulas and functions.
After that, it’s up to you. The book is organized more by area of focus than any-
thing else. If finance is what you do, go to Part 2. If working with dates is what you
do, go to Part 4. Seek, and you will find.

Introduction 3
1
Getting Started
with Excel
Formulas and
Functions
IN THIS PART . . .

Get to know formula and function fundamentals.

Discover the different ways to enter functions.

Understand array-based formulas and functions.

Find out about formula errors and how to fix them.

Visit https://ebookmass.com today to explore
a vast collection of ebooks across various
genres, available in popular formats like
PDF, EPUB, and MOBI, fully compatible with
all devices. Enjoy a seamless reading
experience and effortlessly download high-
quality materials in just a few simple steps.
Plus, don’t miss out on exciting offers that
let you access a wealth of knowledge at the
best prices!
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
Confused and frightened, the old women, burdened with the
children, had lost their way in the darkness and wandered back into
the German lines. They were now prisoners in Carignan (near the
frontier); they managed to smuggle a letter through. The baby was
dead. There was no milk to be had, so it died of starvation. Madame
Breda had been offered freedom. If she wished she would be sent
back into France through Switzerland. But the children's names were
not on the list of those selected for repatriation.
"Could they go with her?"
"No."
"Eh bien, j'y reste."
The shutter snapped down again, the veil enclosed them, and
Madame resigned herself to the long, weary waiting.
Was it any wonder that such stories as this—and there were all too
many of them—filled us with hatred of everything German? In those
first months of personal contact with war we were always at white
heat, consumed with rage and indignation, and for my own part, at
least, desirous of nothing less than the extermination of kultur and
every exponent of it. As I walked home through the quiet afternoon,
dark thoughts filled my mind. What a monster one can be! What
longing for vengeance even the mildest of us can cherish! I thought
of another village not far from that of Madame Lassanne's home,
from which three hundred people had been driven into virtual
slavery. Nearly all were old—over sixty, some few were boys and
girls of fourteen, sixteen, eighteen, and of the old, eighty died in the
first six months.
It was a long time now since any news had come through, and those
who waited had almost given up hope of seeing their loved ones
again.
And we were impotent. With an effort I shook off despondency. I
would go and see Madame Leblan and rest a while in her garden.
She was lonely and loved a little visit. It would amuse her to hear
about the Curé and our visit to N.; any gossip would serve to drive
away her memories. "Ça change les idées," she would say. "It is not
well to sit and brood."
Neither is it well to walk and brood; yet here was I, foolish virgin
that I was, brooding like a moulting hen. Taking myself firmly in
hand, I turned down the rue de L'Étoile and opened the garden
gate.
III
Madame was only a poor peasant woman, but she had once been
very beautiful, and the old face was handsome still. The aquiline
features are well-modelled, the large blue eyes clear and steady,
flashing now with a fine pride, now with delicious humour; the head
is well poised, she is essentially dignified; there are times when she
has the air of a queen.
Her husband is tall and thin, with a drooping moustache, and in
accordance with prevailing custom he keeps his hat on in the house,
and he is seventy-two and she is seventy, and when I saw her first
she was in her quaint little garden sitting under the shade of a
mirabelle tree with an ancient dame to whom only Rembrandt could
have done justice. Like Madame, she was short and broad, and
without being handsome, she was just bonny. She had jolly little
eyes and a chubby, dimpled face, and wore a spotlessly white and
befrilled cap with strings that tied under her chin and made you
rather want to kiss her. She was just a little coquette in her
appearance, and she must have been born in prehistoric times, for
she was "la tante de Madame Leblan." She didn't live in the little
cottage, she had a room just across the way, and there I would see
her sitting in the sun on a fine day as I turned in at the garden gate.
Of course we went down before her, and gave her of our best, for
she was an irresistible old thing, who could coax you into cyclonic
generosity. She would come trotting over to see us with a small
basket on her arm, and having waited till the crowd that besieged
our morning hours had melted away, would come upstairs looking so
innocent and so picturesque our hearts were as water before her.
And then out of the basket would come apples, or pears, or walnuts,
with a honeyed phrase, the little vivid eyes searching our own.
Refusal was out of the question, we were in the toils, knowing that
for Madame we were the sun in the heavens, the down on the wings
of the Angel of Life; knowing, too, that surely as she turned away
would come the tactful hint, the murmured need. And though
periodically we swore that she should have no more, she rarely went
empty away.
At last, because of the equality of things, we hardened our hearts.
She returned with walnuts. Our thanks being meticulously verbal,
she retreated thoughtfully, to reappear a few days later with three
pears and a remote malaise that successfully defied diagnosis. We
knew she had her eyes on medical comforts, eggs, bons for meat,
etc., so the malaise deceived no one, while a cold gift of aspirin
tabloids nearly destroyed her faith in humanity.
And all the time she was "rich"! No wonder she was coquette, she
could afford to be, for she had small rentes, and money laid by, and
had saved all her papers and her bank-book. So Madame Leblan,
who had left home with exactly twenty-seven francs in her pocket,
told me, but not, loyally enough, until she was sure that our gifts to
La Tante had ceased.
She herself never asked for anything, save once, and that was for a
paletot for Monsieur. In spite of his three-score-years-and-twelve, in
spite of the severe attack of internal hæmorrhage from which he
was recovering, he went to work every morning at six, returning at
six at night. Hard manual toil it was, too, much too hard for a man
of his years. How Madame fretted over him! How she scraped and
saved to buy him little comforts. And he did need that coat badly. I
think I shall never forget her face when she saw the warm Cardigan
jacket the Society provided for him. Her eyes filled with tears, she
flushed like a girl, she looked radiantly beautiful and then, with the
most gracious diffidence in the world, "You will permit me?" she
said, and drew my face down to hers.
There was something about that old creature that made me feel
ashamed. What one did was so pitifully little, but she made it seem
like a gift of star-flowers bathed in the dews of heaven. It was her
unconquerable sense of humour that attracted me to her, I suppose.
French wit playing over the fields of life with an indomitable spirit
that would not be broken.
When she was a girl her father used to say to her, "You sing too
much, some day you will cry," but though the tears did come she
never lost her gaiety of heart. When she married she was very poor;
Monsieur's father had been foolish, loving wine, and they had to
make their own way in the world, but she held her head high and
did her best for her boys. It should never be said of them that they
were educated at the cow's tail (à la queue des bêtes). Her pride
came to her aid, and perhaps much of her instinctive good breeding
too. Le fils in the Garde Republicaine in Paris has much of his
mother's manner.
Leaving the cottage was a terrible wrench. They packed a few odds-
and-ends into a bundle, and she tidied everything, saying farewell to
the little treasures they had collected in forty-odd years. Silently they
locked the doors behind them, her eyes dry, the catastrophe too big
for tears. But in the garden Monsieur paused. "Les bêtes," he said;
"we mustn't leave them to starve. Open the cow-house door and let
them go free." As she turned to obey him her feet faltered, the
world swam in a mist of tears. She thrust the key blindly into his
hands and stumbled like a drunken woman down the road.
Then for six weeks they trudged together. They slept in fields, in the
woods, under carts, in barns, they were drenched with rain and with
dew, they were often hungry and thirsty and cold. But they
struggled on until they came to Vavincourt, and there the owner of
the little house in Bar met them, and seeing what manner of people
they were, lent it to them rent free on condition that they looked
after the garden. How grateful Madame was, but how intensely she
longed for home! How wistfully she turned her eyes northward
across the hills! How often the question, When? trembled half
spoken on her lips! What mattered it that home was a ruin and she
penniless? Just to be in the valley again, to see the sun gleaming on
the river.
To help the time to pass less sluggishly by we had invented a little
tale, a tale of which I was the unworthy heroine, and the hero an
unknown millionaire. The millionaire with gold jusqu'au plafond, who
was obligingly waiting for me beyond the sea, and who would come
some day and lay his heart, his hand, and his gold-mine at my feet.
And then a petit palais would spring miraculously from that much-
loved rubbish-heap at Véry, and one day as Madame and le patron
stood by the door, they would see a great aeroplane skimming
through the sky, it would swoop and settle, and from it would leap
the millionaire and his blushing bride. And Madame would lead them
in and give them wine and coffee and a salad and saucissons de
Lorraine, which are better and more delicious than any other
saucissons in all the wide world.
Only a foolish little story, but when one is old and one's heart is
weary it is good to be foolish at times, good to spin the sun-kissed
webs, good to leave the dark chamber of despair and stray with
timid feet over the gleaming meadows of hope.
Her greeting rarely varied. "Je vous croyais morte," a reproach for
the supposed infrequency of my visits. She cried it now, though
scarcely a week had sped since I saw her last, and then with
mysterious winks and nods she hobbled into the house, to return a
few minutes later with two or three bunches of grapes and some
fine pears. "Pendant la guerre tous les scellés sont levés,"[6] she
laughed, but I knew she had not robbed her benefactor. The fruit
she kept en cachette for us, she and M. Leblan deprived themselves
of, nor could any remonstrance on our part stay her.
"Where is your basket?" She had ordered me to bring one on my
next visit, yet here was I, most perplexingly without. But the fruit
must be carried home. She had no basket, no paper. Méchante that I
was, to come without that basket. Had not she, Madame,
commanded it? In vain I refused the gift. She was inexorable.
"Ah, I have it." She seized me with delighted hands, and it was then
that the uniform earned my bitterest reproach, for into its pockets,
whose size suggested that they were originally intended to hold the
guano and rabbits of agricultural relief, went the pears. One might
as well argue with a megatherium as with Madame when her mind
was made up. So I had to stand in the kitchen growing bulkier and
bulkier, with knobs and hillocks and boulders and tussocks sprouting
all over me, feeling like a fatted calf, and longing for kindly darkness
to swallow me up. Subsequently I slunk home by unfrequented
ways, every yard of which seemed to be adorned with a gendarme
taking notes. I am convinced that I escaped arrest and decapitation
only by a miracle, and that every dog in the town bayed at my heels.
My agonies, needless to say, met with scant sympathy from my
companions. They accused me of flirting with M. Leblan, even while
they dug greedy teeth into the pears, an accusation it was difficult to
refute when he called at the house one evening and, hearing that I
was out, refused to leave a message, but turned up later and
demanded an interview with such an air of mystery Madame came
to call me fluttering so we thought the President of the Republic
must be at the door.
Still more difficult was it to refute when Monsieur had gone away,
leaving me transfixed on the stairs with two huge bottles of
mirabelle plums in my hands. I never dared to tell the three villains
who made life such a happy thing on the Boulevard de la Rochelle
that Monsieur was wont to say that if only he were twenty years
younger he ... he.... Can you guess what he?...
Madame did. She knew, and used to tease me about it. She is one of
the few people in the world who know that I still can blush! Do you?
No? Ah, but then you have never seen Monsieur! You have never
heard him say what he ... what he ... well, you know what he....
There were no dark thoughts in my mind as I sped circuitously
homewards, skimming down a by-street every time a gendarme
loomed in view; I was thinking of Madame and of the twinkle in her
eyes when she talked of le patron, and of the long day spent at N.,
the story of which had helped to drive away for the moment the
most persistent of her idées noires.
 CHAPTER IX
IN WHICH WE BECOME EMISSARIES OF LE BON DIEU
Now the coming of M. le Curé was in this wise.
We were making up paquets in the Clothes-room, we were grimy,
dishevelled and hot, we were in no mood for visitors, we were pining
for tea, and yet Madame insinuated her head round the door and
announced, "M. le Curé de N." She would have announced the Czar
of Russia, or President Wilson, or General Joffre, or the dustman in
exactly the same emotionless tones, and with as little consideration
for our feelings.
"You go."
"No. You."
The tug of war ended, as such tugs generally do, in our going
together, smoothing hair that flew on end, flinging overalls into a
corner and praying hastily that the Curé might be an unobservant
man. He was. There was only one vision in the world for him; the
air, the atmosphere, life itself were but mirrors reflecting it; but
conceding that it was a large one, we found some excuse for his
egoism. Large? Massive. He was some inches over six feet in height
and his soutane described a wide arc in advance. His hands were
thick and cushiony, you felt yours sink into their pneumatic
fastnesses as you greeted him; he had a huge head, very little hair,
a long heavy jowl, small eyes, and he breathed fatly, thickly. His
voice was slightly smothered. Many years ago he had retired from
his ministry, living at N. because he owned property there, but the
war, which called all priests of military age and fitness to the colours,
drew him from his life of ease and put the two villages, N. and R.,
under his spiritual charge. His gestures were large and commanding,
he exuded benevolence—the benevolence of a despot. There would
be no divided authority in the Curé's kingdom. It was not a matter
for surprise to hear that he was not on speaking terms with his
mayor, it would have been a matter for surprise if, had he been
Pope, he had ever relinquished his temporal power.
He wasted little time on the usual preliminaries, plunging directly
into his subject. At N. and R. there were refugees, pauvres victimes
de la guerre dans la grande misère, sleeping on straw comme des
bêtes, cold, half-clothed, in need of every necessary. He had heard
of us, of our generosity (he called us "mes bonnes dames," with just
a hint of condescension in his manner), he wished us to visit his
people. Wished? He commanded. He implied, by an art I had not
thought him capable of, that we were yearning to visit them, that
our days would be storm-tossed, our nights sleepless unless we
brought them relief. From mendicant, he transformed himself into
benefactor, bestowing on us an opportunity which—it is due to our
reputation to suggest—we craved.
It was well that our inclination jumped with his desire, for he was
quite capable of picking us up, one under each arm, and marching
off with us to N., had we refused. But how refuse in face of such
splendid faith in our goodwill, and under a shower of compliments
that set us blushing to the tips of our toes? We punctuated the flood
or shower with murmurs of, "C'est un plaisir," or, "On ne demande
pas mieux." We felt like lumbering elephants as we tried to turn
aside his flattery, but he merely waved a benediction and swept on.
We would go to N. next Wednesday; he, Monsieur, would meet us,
and conduct us personally over the village. He would tell us who
were the good Catholics—not that he wished to deprive the careless
or sinful of our help; still, it would be as well for us to know. We
read "preferential treatment" on this sign-post, and carefully
reserved our opinion. When the visits were over, we would go to his
house and eat an œuf à la coque with him, and some confitures. His
modest establishment ... a gesture indicated an ascetic régime, the
bare necessities of life, but if we would accept?...
"With pleasure, if Monsieur was sure it would not inconvenience
him."
"Mes bonnes dames," he replied grandly, "rien ne me dérange dans
le service du bon Dieu."[7]
Of course it rained on Wednesday—rained quietly, hopelessly,
despairingly, but persistently. Nevertheless we set out, chiefly—so
great was Monsieur's faith in us—because it did not seem possible to
remain at home. We put on the oilskins which, with the uniform, we
had been led to understand would save our lives in France, but the
sou'westers we did not wear. There are limits. And when later on we
saw a worker clad in both, we did not know which to admire most,
the courage which enabled her to wear them, or the utter lack of
imagination which prevented her from realising their devastating
effect.
So we left the sou'westers on the pegs from which they were never
taken, and arrived at N. in black shiny oilskins that stood out stiffly
like boards from our figures, and were almost as comfortable to
wear. We were splashed with mud, and we dripped audibly on the
Curé's beautiful parquet floor.
We wished to begin at once? Bon. Allons. He, the Curé, had
prepared a list, the name of every refugee was inscribed on it. Oh,
yes, he understood parfaitement, that to make paquets we must
know the age and sex of every individual. All was prepared. We
would see how perfect the arrangements were.
No doubt from his point of view they were perfect, but from ours
chaotic. We climbed the village street, he like a frigate in full sail, his
wide cloak gathered about him, leading the way, we like two rather
disreputable punts towing along behind. You know what happened
at the first house—that illuminating episode of the seau hygiénique?
Worse, oh, much worse was to befall us later! He discussed the
possibilities of family crockery with a bluntness that was conducive
to apoplexy, he left nothing to the imagination; perhaps he thought
the Britishers had no imagination.
In fact, his methods were sheerly cyclonic. Never had we visited in
such a whirl. Carried along in his wake, we were tossed like small
boats upon a wind-tormented sea; we had no time to make notes,
we had no time to ask questions, and when we had finished we had
scarcely one clear idea in our minds as to the state, social position,
profession, income, or need of those we had visited. Not a personal
note (we who made copious personal notes), not a detail (we who
had a passion for detail), only a blurred memory of general misery,
or rooms behind cow-houses and stables, through the filthy,
manure-soddened straw of which we had to pick our way, or rooms
without glass in the window-frames, of dark, noisome holes where
human beings herded, of sacks of straw laid on the floor, of rags for
bedding, of human misery in its acutest, most wretched form. The
Curé talked of evil landlords who exploited these unfortunate people,
"Mais Dieu les punira," he added unctuously. We wondered if the
prophecy brought consolation to the refugees. And above all the
welter of swiftly-changing impressions, I can see even now, in a dark
room lighted only by or through the chimney-shaft, a room filled
with smoke that choked and blinded us, a small child, perhaps
eighteen, perhaps twenty-four months old, who doubled her fists
into her eyes and laid her head on her grandmother's shoulder,
refusing to look up.
"She has been like that since the bombardment," her mother
explained.
When the priest raised the little head the child wailed, a long, thin,
almost inhuman wail; when her grandmother put her down she lay
on the floor, her eyes crushed against her fists.
"She will not look at the light, nor open her eyes."
"How long has she been like this, Madame?"
"Since we left home. The village was shelled; it frightened her."
"We will ask our infirmière to look after her," we promised, knowing
that the nurse in question had successfully treated a boy in Sermaize
who had been unable to open his eyes since the bombardment of
the town. And some weeks later we heard that the baby was better.
Into every house the Curé made his way, much as Justice Shallow
might have done. In every house he reeled off a set piece about the
good English who had come to succour France in her distress, about
our devotion, our courage, our wealth, our generosity. He asked
every woman what she needed. "Trois couvertures? Bon. Mettons
trois. Un seau? Bon, mettons un seau. Sheets? Put down two pairs."
We put down everything except what we most desired to know, the
names and ages of the half-clothed children—that he gave us no
opportunity of doing, was there not always the list?—we saw the
Society being steered rapidly towards bankruptcy, but, mesmerised
by his twinkling eyes, we promised all he required. Then he, who
had been sitting on the only chair, would rise up, and having told the
pleased but bewildered lady of the house that we were emissaries of
Le bon Dieu, would stalk out, leaving us to wonder, as we followed
him, whether Madame ever asked why the good God chose such
strange-looking messengers. The oilskins were possessed of no
celestial grace—I subsequently gave mine to a refugee.
Luncheon! The good Curé stopped dead in his tracks. The œuf à la
coque was calling. Back we trailed, still dripping, still muddy, even
more earthly and less celestial than before, back to the house that
had such a delicious old garden, and where fat rabbits grew daily
fatter in their cages. The table was spread in a panelled room hung
with exquisite old potteries. Seated solemnly, the Curé trying to
conceal himself behind a vast napkin, the end of which he tucked
under his collar, to us entered the bonne carrying six boiled eggs in a
bowl. Being sufficiently hungry, we each ate two; they were more or
less liquid, so Monsieur tilted up the egg-shell and drank his down
with gulping noises, while we laboured unsatisfyingly with a spoon.
Then came the bonne with a dish of grilled rabbit (it was delicious);
we ate rabbit. Then came a large dish of beans; we ate beans. We
were sending out wireless messages by this, but no relief ship
appeared on the horizon. The priest groaned over the smallness of
our appetites, and shovelling large masses of beans into his mouth,
explained that it is sinful to drink too much because the effects are
demoralising, depraving, bringing ruin on others, but one may eat as
much or more than one wants or likes, as a superfluity of food does
no harm. A little physical discomfort, perhaps, but that passes.
Injury to the spirit? None.
Then he commented on the strides Roman Catholicism was making
in England, the most influential people were being converted—we
thought he must be apologising to himself for his country's alliance
with a people of heretical creed, but later on I realised that this idea
is very prevalent among the priests of the district. An old man at
Behonne congratulated me on the same good tendency. It had not
occurred to him that I was of another faith, so there was an
awkward moment when I—as in honour bound—admitted the error,
but he glided over it with characteristic politeness, and our interview
ended as amicably as it began.
At N. we volunteered the information that I was Irish, which shed
balm on the Curé's perturbed soul. Though not of the right way of
thinking, one of us came of a nation that was. That, at least, was
something, and a compliment to the evangelising Irish saints of
mediæval times—had not one of them settled in the district,
teaching the people and bringing the Gospel-light into paths
shadowed by infidelity?—steered us round what might have been an
awkward corner.
The beans finished, there came a cheese of the country, rich and
creamy and good. We ate cheese, but we no longer looked at each
other. The cheese finished, in came a massive cherry tart; we ate
tart, then we drank coffee, and then Monsieur, rising from the table,
opened the door, stood in the hall and said —— No. I think I had
better not tell you what he said, nor where he waved us to. If ever
you go to N. and have a meal with him you will find out for yourself.
During lunch one of us admired his really very beautiful plates. "You
shall have one," he said, and taking two from the wall, offered us
our choice. Of course we refused, and the relief we read in his eye
as he hung them up again in no way diminished our appreciation of
his action.
Then we paid more visits, and yet more, and more, and finally, the
rain having cleared, we walked home again in a balmy evening down
the wide road under the communal fruit trees, where the woods
which clothed the hill-side were to look like wonderful tapestry later
on, when autumn had woven her mantle of russet and red, and dull
dark crimson, and sober green, and browns of rich, light-haunted
shades and flung it over the trees. Walked home soberly, as befitted
those who had dined with a gourmand; walked home expectantly,
for was not the list, the careful, exhaustive, all-comprehensive list of
the Curé to follow on the morrow?
It was and it did, and with it came the following letter which we
perused with infinite delight. How, oh, how could he say that the
miry, inarticulate bipeds who trotted dog-like at his heels did their
work avec élicatesse? How, oh, how aver that we did it under his
"modest" guidance?
Yet he said it. Read and believe.

"Mesdames, et excellentes dames,

"J'ai l'honneur de vous offrir l'hommage de mes sentiments les
plus reconnaissantes et les plus devoués pour tout le bien que
vous faites autour de vous avec tant de délicatesse et de
générosité. Je prie Dieu de vous benir, vous et tous les membres
de vos chères families, de donner la victoire aux vaillantes
armées de l'Angleterre, de Russie, et de France et n'y avons
nous pas le droit car vous et nous nous representons bien la
civilisation, l'honneur et la vraie religion. Je vous envoie ci-joint
la liste (bien mal faite) des pauvres émigrés que vous avez
visités sous ma modeste direction. Il en est qui manque de linge
et pour les vieux qui out besoin de vêtements on pourra leur
 donner l'étoffe, ils se changeraient de la confection ce qui je
crois serait meilleur.
"Veuillez me croire votre tout devoué."

The list was by no means all comprehensive, it was not careful, it

was indeed bien mal faite, and it exhausted nothing but our
patience. Our own demented notes were the best we had to work
upon, and so it befell that one day some soldiers drove a vast wagon
to our door and in it we piled, not the neat paquets of our dreams,
but blankets, sheets, men's clothes, women's clothes, children's
clothes, seaux and other needful things and sent them off to N.,
where they were dumped in a room, and where an hour or two later,
under conditions that would have appalled the stoutest, we fitted
garments on some three hundred people, while M. le Curé smiled
wide approval and presented every émigré child in the village with a
cap, a bonnet or a hat filched from our scanty store.
And then because the sun was shining and several batteries of
soixante-quinze were en repos in the village, we went off to inspect
them. The guns were well hidden from questing Taubes under
orchard trees, the men were washing at the fountain, or eating a
savoury stew round the camp kitchen, or flirting desperately with the
women. They showed us how to load and how to train a gun, and
then the priest, whom they evidently liked, for he had a kindly "Hé,
mon brave, ça va bien?" or an affectionate fat-finger-tap on the
shoulder for them all, bore us off to visit an artillery officer who had
been doing wonderful things with a crapouillot. We found him in a
beautiful garden in which, on a small patch of grass, squatted the
crapouillot, a torpedo fired from a frame fixed in the ground.
Alluding to some special bomb under discussion, the lieutenant said,
"It isn't much, but this—oh, this has killed a lot of Boches."
He helped to perfect it, so he knew. We left him gazing
affectionately at it, a fine specimen of French manhood, tall and
slender, but strongly made, with clear humorous eyes, and breeding
in every line of him.
I often wonder whether he and his crapouillot are still killing "lots of
Boches," and whether he ever exclaims as did a woman who saw
them breaking over the frontier in 1914, "What a people! They are
like ants: the more of them you kill, the more there are."
We would have liked to linger in the sunny flower-encrusted garden,
but R. awaited us. There with consummate skill we evaded M. le
Curé, and did our visiting under no guidance but our own. A quaint
little village is R., deep enbosomed in swelling uplands, with woods
all about it, but, like N., stricken by neglect and poverty. The
inhabitants of both seemed rough and somewhat degraded, a much
lower type than the majority of our refugees, but perhaps they were
only poor and discouraged. The war has set so many strange seals
upon us, we may no longer judge by the old standards, no longer
draw conclusions with the light, careless assumption of infallibility of
old.
 CHAPTER X
PRIESTS AND PEOPLE
I
Having tasted the delights of a mild vagabondage, we now turned
our thoughts to other villages, modestly supposing that by degrees
we could "do" the Meuse. (Had we but known it the whole of France
lay before us, refugees everywhere, and every refugee in need).
Having requisitioned a motor-car we planned tours, but first we
investigated Behonne on foot. It lies on the hill above the aviation
ground, so let no man ask why it came first in our affections.
I suppose it would be impolitic to say how many sheds there were,
or how many aeroplanes we used to see squatting like great winged
beetles on the ground, and then rising so lightly, so delicately,
spiralling higher and higher, and then darting away with swift wing
far into the shimmering blue.
Although Behonne is at the top of a hill, it has managed to tuck itself
into a hollow—so many French villages have this burrowing tendency
—and all you can see of it as you approach is the top of the church
spire rising like a funny candle-extinguisher above the ridge of the
hill. The village itself is dull and uninteresting, but the surrounding
country beautiful beyond measure, especially when the corn is
ripening in the sun; the refugees for the most part not necessitous,
having driven from home in their farm carts, magnificently throned
on feather beds and duvets, with other household goods.
Two houses, however, made a lasting impression. In one, in a room
in the centre of which was a well (boarded over of course), lived a
woman, her two children, and an old man in no way related to them.
The walls were rotting, in many places straw had been stuffed in to
fill fissures and holes, the ceiling was broken, enterprising chunks of
it making occasional excursions to the floor below, and one window
was "glazed" with paper. The doors, through which rats gnawed an
occasional way, were ill-fitting; in bad weather the place was a
funnel through which the wind whistled and tore. The woman had
one blanket and some old clothes with which to cover herself and
her children at night, the old man had a strip of carpet given him by
the Curé, a kindly old man of peasant stock and very narrow means.
The room was exceedingly dirty, the children looked neglected, the
woman was ill.
In the other house was a cheery individual whose husband had been
a cripple since childhood. She told us she had four children, the
youngest being three years old. He came running in from the street,
a great fat lusty thing, demanding to be fed, and we learned to our
astonishment that he was not yet weaned. Eugenically interesting,
this habit of nursing children up to the age of two or even three
years of age is not uncommon, and it throws a strong light upon the
psychology of French Motherhood.
A few miles beyond Behonne lies Vavincourt, sacred to the omelette
of immortal memory—but oh, what a day it was that saw us there! A
fierce wind that seemed to tear all the clothes from our bodies blew
from the north, there were some inches of snow on the ground, light
powdery snow fell incessantly. We were frozen as we drove out, we
froze still harder as we made our way from house to house, slipping
and sliding on the treacherous snow, absorbing moisture through
our boots, staggering like wooden-legged icicles into rooms whose
temperature sensibly declined with our advent. A day of supreme
physical discomfort; a day that would surely have been our last had
not the Mayor's wife overtaken us in the street and swept us into her
kitchen, there to revive like flies in sunshine, under the mellifluous
influence of hot coffee and omelette, confitures and cheese.
It was in Vavincourt that we first saw women embroidering silk
gowns for the Paris shops. The panels in pale pink were stretched on
a frame (métier), at which they worked one on either side; a
common method, as we discovered during the winter. In Bar-le-Duc
we had come upon a few women who worked without a métier, but
as time went on more and more brodeuses of every description
came upon our books, and so an industry was started which lived at
first more or less by taking in its own washing, but later blossomed
out into more ambitious ways. Orders came to us from England, and
a consignment of dainty things was sent to America, but with what
result I cannot say, as I left Bar before its fate was decided.
The Verdun and Nancy districts appear to be the chief centres of the
broderie industry, the latter being so famous that girls are sent there
to be apprenticed to the trade, which, however, is wretchedly paid,
the rate being four sous, or rather less than twopence, an hour, the
women finding their own cotton. We gave six sous and cotton free—
gilded luxury in the workers' eyes, though sweating in ours, and
trusted to their honesty in the matter of time, a trust which was
amply repaid, as with one or two exceptions they were scrupulous to
a degree. The most amusing delinquent was a voluble lady from
Resson who glibly replied, "Oh, at least sixty hours, Mademoiselle,"
to every question.
"What, sixty hours to do THAT?" we would remonstrate, looking at a
small tray-cloth with a motif in each corner.
"Well, à peu près, one does not count exactly; but it was long, long,
vous savez." A steely eye searched ours, read incredulity, wavered;
"Six francs fifty? Eh, mon Dieu, on acceptera bien cela." And off she
would go, to come back in faith with the same outrageous story on
the next market day. Perhaps there is excuse for a debt of six francs
swelling to eighteen when one walks ten miles to collect it.
Quite a hundred women inscribed their names on our broderie
wages-sheet, the war having dislocated their connection with their
old markets. The trade itself was languishing, the workers scattered
and unable to get into touch with former employers, for Paris shops
do not deal direct as a rule, they work through entrepreneuses, or
middlewomen, who now being themselves refugees were unable to
carry on their old trade. It was almost pitiable to see how the
women snatched at an opportunity of working, only a very few, and
these chiefly métier workers, being still in receipt of orders from
Paris. Some whom we found difficulty in employing were only
festonneuses, earning at the best miserable pay and doing coarse,
rough work, quite unfit for our purpose—buttonholing round the
necks and arms of cheap chemises, for instance. Others were belles
brodeuses, turning out the most exquisitely dainty things, fairy
garments or house-linen of the most beautiful kind.
Of all ways of helping the refugees there was none better than this.
How they longed for work! The old people would come begging for
knitting or sewing. "Ça change les idées," they would say. Anything
rather than sit day after day brooding, thinking, going back over the
tragic past, looking out upon the uncertain future. Every franc
earned was a franc in the stocking, the bas de laine whose contents
were to help to make a home for them once more when the war was
over. And what could be better than working at one's own trade, at
the thing which one loved and which lay in one's fingers? When the
needle was busy the mind was at rest, and despair, that devourer of
endurance, slunk abashed out of sight. For they find the time of
waiting long, these refugees. Can you wonder? Wherever we went
we heard the same story; in village or town we were asked the same
question. Each stroke of good fortune, every "push," every fresh
batch of prisoners brought the sun through the low-hanging clouds;
every reverse, the forced inactivity of winter, drew darkness once
more across the sky. In the villages the people who owned horses
were fairly well off, they could earn their four francs a day, but the
others found little comfort. Work was scarce, their neighbours often
as poor as themselves. There are few, if any, big country houses
ruled by wealthy, kind-hearted despots in these districts of France.
In all our wanderings we found only one village basking in manorial
smiles, and enjoying the generosity of a "lady of the house." The
needy had to fend for themselves, and work out their own salvation
as best they might. The reception given to the Belgians in England
read to them like a fairy tale, and fostered wild ideas of England's
wealth in their minds. "All the English are rich," they would cry;
"have we not heard of les milords anglais?" They received accounts
of the poverty in our big cities with polite incredulity; if our own
people were starving or naked, why succour foreigners?
Sometimes they smiled a little pityingly. "The English gaspillent
tout." Spendthrifts. And they would nod sapient heads, murmuring
things it is not expedient to set down. It may even be indiscretion to
add that between the French and the Belgians no love is set, some
racial hatred having thrust its roots in deep.
It is in the winter that vitality and resistance-power run lowest,
especially in the villages, for though work may be found in the fields
during the summer, the long dark winter months drag heavily by.
Brodeuses would walk eight miles in and eight out again in the most
inclement weather to ask for work, others would come as many
weary miles to get a hank or two of wool with which to knit socks
and shawls. Sometimes one woman would take back work for half a
dozen, and always our field of operations spread as village after
village was visited and the Society became known.
They came in their tens, they came in their hundreds, I am tempted
to swear that they came in their thousands. Madame soon ceased to
announce them, they lined the hall, they blocked the staircase, they
swirled in the Common-room. There were days when all the
resources of the establishment failed, when broderie ran short and
wool ran short, when there were no more chemises or matinées
waiting to be made up, and when our hair, metaphorically speaking,
lay in tufts over the house, plucked from our heads by our distracted
fingers. They came for work, they came for clothes, they came for
medicine and medical attendance, they came for food—only the very
poorest these—they came for condensed milk for their babies, or for
farine lactée, or for orders for admission to the Society's hospitals at
Châlons and Sermaize, or to ask us to send their children to the
Colonies des Vacances, or for paper and packing to make up parcels
for husbands at the Front. They came to buy beds and pillows and
bolsters at reduced prices and on the instalment plan, paying so
much per month according to their means; they came for chairs and
cupboards, or for the "trousseau," a gift—it may be reckoned as
such, as they only contributed one franc fifty towards the entire cost
—of three sheets, four pillow-cases and six towels, each of which
had to be hand-stitched or hemmed, and marked or embroidered
with the owner's name. They came to ask for white dresses and veils
—which they did not get—for candidates for confirmation, they came
for sabots and boots, and sometimes they came for the whole lot.
"Well, Madame, ça va bien?" Thus we greeted a hardy old
campaigner in the street one day.
"Eh bien, ça va tout doucement." Then with an engaging smile, "I
am coming to see you to-morrow."
"Indeed? And what do you want now?" This looks crude, but we
laboured under no delusions where Madame Morge was concerned.
It was not for the sake of our beaux yeux that she visited us.
"Eh, ma fois, un peu de tout," she replied audaciously, and we shot
at her a mendacious, "Don't you know that distributions have
ceased?" which left her calling heaven and her gods to witness that
the earth was crumbling.
Villagers who lived too far away for personal visits wrote, or their
Mayor or their priest wrote for them. We had by this time organised
our system, and knew that the person who could supply us with a
complete and detailed list was the Mayor, or his secretary the
schoolmaster.
Sometimes these worthies were hard of heart, assuring us that no
one in the commune was necessitous, but we knew from experience
that the official mind is sometimes a superficial mind, judging by
externals only, so we persisted in our demand, and were invariably
satisfied in the end. Others, and they were in a large majority, met
us with open arms, cheerfully placed their time and their knowledge
at our disposal, were hospitable, helpful and kind, and careful to
draw our attention to specially deserving cases. Once when on a
tour of inquiry we stumbled into a village during the luncheon hour.
A regiment was resting there, and, as the first English who
presumably had set foot in it, we were immediately surrounded by
an admiring and critical crowd, some imaginative members of which
murmured the ominous word Spy. The Mayor's house indicated, we
rapped at the door, and in response to a gruff Entrez found
ourselves in a small and very crowded kitchen, where a good pot-au-
feu was being discussed at a large round table. The situation was
sufficiently embarrassing, especially as the Mayor, being deaf, heard
only a few words of our introductory speech, and promptly wished
all refugees at the devil. A list? He was weary of lists. Every one
wanted lists, the Préfet wanted lists, the Ministre de l'Intérieur
wanted lists. And now we came and demanded them. Who the—
well, who were we that he should set his quill a-driving on our
behalf?
"Shout 'Anglaises' at him." It was a ticklish moment. He was on the
point of throwing us out neck and crop. The advice was taken, the
roar might have been heard in Bar.
"English? You are English?"
Have you ever seen a raging lion suddenly transform itself into a
nice brown-eyed dog? We have, in that little kitchen in a remote
village of the Meuse. Our hands were grasped, the Mayor was
beaming. A list? He would give us twenty lists. English? Our hands
were shaken till our fingers nearly dropped off, and if we had eaten
up all the pot-au-feu Monsieur would have deemed it an honour.
However, we didn't eat it. Monsieur's family was gazing at it with
hungry eyes, and even the best of Ententes may be strained too far.
When we reached the street again the crowd had fraternised with
our chauffeur, and we drove away under a pyrotechnical display of
smiles.
Another day a soldier suddenly sprang off the pavement, jumped on
the step of the motor-car, thrust some freshly-roasted chestnuts into
my hand and was gone before I could cry, "Thank you."
We met many priests in these peripatetic adventures, the stout,
practical and pompous, the autocratic, the negligent (there was one
who regretted he could tell us nothing: "I have only been fifteen
months here, so I don't yet know the people"), the old—I remember
a visit to a presbytery in the Aube, and finding there a charming,
gentle, diffident creature, a lover of books, poor, spiritual, half-
detached from this world, very close to the next. He had a fine
church, pure Gothic, a joy to the eye of the connoisseur, but no
congregation. Only a wee handful of people who met each Sunday in
a side chapel, the great unfilled vault of the church telling its own
tale of changed thought and agnostic days.
But most intimately of all we came to know the Abbé B. who lived in
our own town of Bar, because, greatly daring, we rang one evening
at his door and asked him to teach us French.
We had heard of him from Eugénie, and knew that he taught at the
École St Louis, that he was a refugee—he escaped from M. on his
bicycle a few minutes before the Germans entered it—and that his
church and his village were in ruins. But we had never seen him, and
when, having rung his bell, escape was no longer possible, an awful
thought shattered us. Suppose he were fat and greasy and dull?
Could any ingenuity extract us from the situation into which we had
thrust ourselves? We felt sure it could not, so we followed Eugénie
with quaking hearts, followed her to the garden where we found a
short, dark man with a humorous mouth and an ugly, attractive face,
busily planting peas. We nodded our satisfaction to one another, and
before we left the arrangement was made.
Our first lesson was devastating. The Abbé credited us with the
intelligence of children, telling us how to make a plural, and how by
adding "e" a masculine word can be changed into a feminine; fort,
forte; grand, grande; and so on. Then he gave us a devoir (home
work), and we came away feeling like naughty children who have
been put into the corner. His parlour was stifling, and how we
rejoiced when the weather was fine, and we could hold our class in
the garden. I can see him now standing by the low wall under the
arbour, his gaze turned far away out across the hills. "It is there," he
pointed, "the village. Out there near St Mihiel."
For twenty-seven years he had ministered there, he had seen the
children he baptised grow to manhood and womanhood, and had
gathered their children, too, into the fold of Christ. He had beautified
and adorned the church—how he loved it!—year after year with
tireless energy and care, making it more and more perfect, more
and more fit for the service of the God he worshipped. And now it is
a ruin blown to fragments by the guns of friend and foe alike, and
his people are scattered, many of them dead. He came to Bar
penniless, owning just the clothes he stood up in, and he told me
once that his income, including his salary at the school and a grant
from some special fund, was just one hundred francs a month.
Scarcely a pound a week.
Once hearing me say that I was not rich, he asked me the amount
of my income, adding naïvely, "I do not ask out of curiosity," and I
felt mean as I dodged the question, for an income that is "not
riches" in England looks wonderfully like wealth in a refugee's
parlour in Bar.
All his dream, all his desire is to go back to M. and build his church
again. The church the central, the focussing point, then the
schoolhouse, then homes for the people, that is his plan; but he has
no money, his congregation is destitute—or nearly so—he cannot
look to the Government. Whence, then, will help come? So he would
question, filling us with intense desire to rush back to England and
plead for him and his cause in every market square in the land. He
would go back to M. now if they would allow him to, he will go back
with or without permission when the slaughter ends.
"The valley is so fertile," he would say; "watered by the Meuse, it is
one of the richest in France. Such grass, such a prairie. And after the
war we must cultivate, cultivate quickly; they cannot allow land like
ours to be idle, and so we shall go back at once."
"But," we said, "will you be able to cultivate? Surely heavy and
constant shell-fire makes the land unfit for the plough?"
We knew what the ground is like all along the blood-stained Front,
hundreds of miles of it fought over for four interminable years, its
soil enriched by the hallowed dead, torn and lacerated by shells,
incalculable tons of iron piercing its breast, and knew, too, that
Death lurks cunningly in many an unexploded bomb or mortar or
shell, and that prolonged and costly sanitation will be necessary
before man dare live on it again. Yes, the Abbé knew it too, but
knew that a strip of his richest land lay between two hills, the French
on one, the Germans on the other, and not a trench dug in all the
length between. No wonder hope rode gallantly in his breast, no
wonder he saw his people going quietly to their labour, and heard
his church bell ringing again its call to peaceful prayer. And then he
would revert again to the ever-present problem, the problem of
ways and means.
Ah, we in England do not know how that question tortures the heart
of stricken France. Shall I tell you of it, leaving the Abbé for the
moment to look out across the hills, the reverberant thunder in his
ear and infinite longing in his loyal heart?
II
A little poem of Padraic Colum's springs to my mind as I ask myself
how to make you realise, how bring the truth home to those who
have never seen the eternal question shadow the eyes of homeless
men. One verse of it runs—
I am praying to God on high,
I am praying Him night and day,
For a little home, a home of my own,
Out of the wind and the rain's way."
and it just sums up the refugee desire.
You—if you are a refugee—had a home once, you earned a
livelihood; but the home is laid waste and bare, your livelihood has
vanished, and in all probability your savings with it.
You buried what money you had in the cellar before you left,
because you thought you were only going away for a few weeks,
and now the Germans have found it. You know that they pour water
over cellar floors, watching carefully to see whether any percolates
through. If it does it is clear that the earth has recently been
disturbed, so away they go for shovels and dig; if it doesn't they try
elsewhere. There is the well, for instance. A carefully-made-up
packet might lie safely at the bottom for years, so what more
suitable as a hiding-place? What, indeed, says the wily Hun as he is
cautiously lowered into the darkness, there to probe and pry and
fish, and if he is lucky to drag treasure from the deeps. Or you may
have hidden your all under that white rock at the end of the garden.
The rock is overturned to-day, and a hole shows where the robber
has found your gold.
A gnarled tree-trunk, a post, a cross-road, anything that might serve
as a mark lures him as sugar lures the ant; he has dug and delved,
and searched the surface of France as an intensive culturist digs
over his patch of ground. He has cut down the communal forests,
the famous cherry and walnut trees of Les Éparges have all been
levelled and the timber sent into Germany; he has ripped up floors,
torn out window frames; he falls on copper and steel and iron with
shrieks of joy; he is the locust of war, with the digestion of an
ostrich; he literally "licks the platter clean," and what he cannot
gorge he destroys.
So if you are a refugee you ask yourself daily, "What shall we find
when we go back? How shall we start life afresh? Who will rebuild
our houses, restock our farms and our shops, and indemnify us for
all we have lost? France? She will have no money after the war, and
Germany will be bankrupt.
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