(Enthusiastically) She's beautiful, she's brilliant: she's good—she's everything a man could wish.
That's the spirit. Will you make your home over here?
No. We'll stay till the autumn. Then I must go back to America.But some day when all this fighting is over and people talkof something besides killing each other I want to have a home inIreland.
I suppose most of you Irishmen in America want to do that?
Indeed they do not. Once they get out to America and do well they stay there and become citizens. My father did. Do you think he'd live in Ireland now? Not he. He talks all the time about Ireland and the hated Sassenachs—that's what he calls you English—and he urges the fellows at home in the old country to fight for their rights. But since he made his fortune and became an American citizen the devil a foot has he ever put on Irish soil. He's always going, but he hasn't go there yet. And as for living there? Oh, no, America is good enough for him, because his interests are there. I want to live in Ireland because my heart is there. So was my poor mother's.
(Springing up) Now I'm off. You don't know how happy you make me by promising to be my best man.
My dear fellow—
And just wait until you see her. Eyes you lose yourself in. A voice soft as velvet. A brain so nimble that wit flows like music from her tongue. Poetry too. She dances like thistledown and sings like a thrush. And with all that she's in love with me.
I'm delighted.
I want her to meet you first. A snug little dinner before the wedding. She's heard so much against the English I want her to see the best specimen they've got.
(Dartrey laughs heartily) I tell you if you pass muster with her you have the passport to Kingdom come. (Laughing as well as he grips Dartrey's hand) Good-by.
(As they walk to the door) When will it be?
Next Tuesday. I'll ring you up and give you the full particulars.
In church?
Church! Cathedral! His Eminence will officiate.
Topping.
Well, you see, we Irish only marry once. So we make an occasion of it.
Splendid. I'll look forward to it.
(Looking at the bandage) Is your head getting all right?
Oh, dear, yes. It's quite healed up. I'll have this thing off in a day or two. (Touching the bandage) I expect to be back in a few weeks.
(Anxiously) Again?
Yes.
If ever a man had done his share, you have.
They need me. They need us all.
The third time.
There are many who have done the same.
(Shudders) How long will it last?
Until the Hun is beaten.
Years, eh?
It looks like it. We've hardly begun yet. It will take a year to really get the ball rolling. Then things will happen. Tell me. How do they feel in America? Frankly.
All the people who matter are pro-Ally.
Are you sure?
I'm positive.
Are you? Come, now.
Why, of course I am.
They may be pro-Ally, but they're not pro-English.
That's true. Many of them are not. But if ever the test comes, they will be.
(Shakes his head doubtfully) I wonder. It seems a pity not to bury all the Bunker-Hill and Boston-tea-chest prejudices.
You're right there.
Why your boys and girls are taught in their school-books to hate us.
In places they are. Now that I know the English a little I have been agitating to revisit them. It all seems so damned cheap and petty for a big country to belittle a great nation through the mouth of children.
There's no hatred like family hatred. After all we're cousins, speaking the same tongue and with pretty much the same outlook.
There's one race in America that holds back as strongly as it can any better understanding between the two countries, and that's my race—the Irish. And well I know it. I was brought up on it. There are men to-day, men of position too, in our big cities who have openly said they want to see England crushed in this war.
So I've heard. It would be a sorry day for the rest of civilization, and particularly America, if we were.
You can't convince them of that. They carry on the prejudices and hatred of generations. I have accused some of them of being actively pro-German; of tinkering with German money to foster revolution in Ireland.
Do you believe that?
I do. Thank God there are not many of them. I have accused them of taking German money and then urging the poor unfortunate poets and dreamers to do the revolting while they are safely three thousand miles away. I don't know of many who are willing to cross the water and do it themselves. Talking and writing seditious articles is safe. Take my own father. He says frankly that he doesn't want Germany to win because he hates Germans. Most Irishmen do. Besides they've done my father some very dirty tricks. But all the same he wants to see England lose. All the doubtful ones I know, who don't dare come out in the open, speak highly of the French and are silent when English is mentioned. I blame a great deal of that on your Government. You take no pains to let the rest of the world know what England is doing. You and I know that without the British fleet America wouldn't rest as easy as she does to-day, and without the little British army the Huns would have been in Paris and Calais months ago. We know that, and so do many others. But the great mass of people, particularly the Irish, cry all the time, "What is England doing?" Your government should see to it that they know what she's doing.
It's not headquarters' way.
I know it isn't. And the more's the pity. Another thing where you went all wrong. Why not have let Asquith clear up the Irish muddle? Why truckle to a handful of disloyal North of Ireland traitors? If the Government had court martialed the ring-leaders, tried the rest for treason and put the Irish Government in Dublin, why, man, three-quarters of the male population of the South of Ireland would be in the trenches now.
Don't let us get into that. I was one of the officers who mutinied.I would rather resign my commission than shoot down loyal subjects.
(Hotly) Loyal? Loyal! When they refused to carry out their Government's orders? When they deny justice to a long suffering people? Loyal! Don't prostitute the word.
(Angrily) I don't want to—-
(Going on vehemently) It's just that kind of pig-headed ignorance that has kept the two countries from understanding each other. Why shouldn't Ireland govern herself. South Africa does. Australia does. And when you're in trouble they leap to your flag. Yet there is a country a few miles from you that sends the best of her people to your professions and they invariably get to the top of them. Irishmen have commanded your armies and Ireland has given you admirals for your fleet and at least one of us has been your Lord Chief Justice. Yet, by God, they can't be trusted to govern themselves. I tell you the English treatment of Ireland makes her a laughing-stock of the world.
(Opens the door, then turns and looks straight at Gilruth) My head bothers me. Will you kindly—-
(All contrition) I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to blaze out. Do forgive me like a good fellow. It's an old sore of mine and sometimes it makes me wince. It did just now. Don't be mad with me.
(The sound of a boy's voice calling newspapers is heard faintly in the distance; then the hoarse tones of a man shouting indistinctly; then a chorus of men and boys comes nearer and nearer calling of some calamity. Dartrey hurries out through the outer door. Gilruth stands ashamed. He does not want to leave his friend in bad blood. He would like to put things right before going. He waits for Dartrey to come back.
In a few minutes Dartrey walks through the outer doorway and into the room. He is very white, very agitated and his face is set and determined. He is reading a special edition of an evening paper with great "scare" head lines.
The sound of the voices crying the news in the street grows fainter and fainter.
Dartrey stops in front of Gilruth and tries to speak; nothing coherent comes from his lips. He thrusts the paper into Gilruth's hands and watches his face as he reads.
Gilruth reads it once slowly, then rapidly. He stands immovable staring at the news-sheet. It slips from his fingers and he cowers down, stooping at the shoulders, glaring at the floor.)
(Almost frenzied) Now will your country come in? Now will they fight for civilization? A hundred of her men, women and children done to death. Is that war? Or is it murder? Already men are reading in New York and Washington of the sinking of that ship and the murder of their people. What are they going to do? What are YOU going to do?
(Creeps unsteadily to the door; standing himself with a hand on the lock; his back is to the room. He speaks in a strange, far-off, quavering voice)
She was on the LUSITANIA! Mona. She was on it. Mona was on it.
(Creeps out through the street door and disappears)
(Dartrey looks after him)
(The curtain falls and rises again in a few moments. Several days have elapsed. Dartrey, in full uniform, is busily packing his regimental kit. The bandage has been removed from his head. The telephone bell rings. Dartrey answers it)
Yes. Yes. Who is it? Oh! Do. Yes. No. Not at all. Come up.All right.
(Replaces the receiver and continues packing)
(In a few moments the door-bell rings. Dartrey opens the outer door and brings Gilruth into the room. He is in deep mourning; is very white and broken. He seems grievously ill. Dartrey looks at him commiseratingly. He is sensitive about speaking)
(Faintly) Put up with me for a bit? Will you?
(Dartrey just puts his hand on the man's shoulder)
(Gilruth sinks wearily and lifelessly into a chair)
She is buried.
What?
(Nods) She is buried. In Kensal Green. Half an hour ago.
(In a whisper) They found her?
(Nods again) Picked up by some fishermen.
Queenstown?
A few miles outside. I went there that night and stayed there until—until she—they found her.
(Covers his face. Dartrey puts his arm around him and presses his shoulder)
I wandered round there for days. Wasn't so bad while it was light. People to talk to. All of us on the same errand. Searching. Searching. Hoping—some of them. I didn't. I knew from the first. I KNEW. It was horrible at night alone. I had to try and sleep sometimes. They'd wake me when the bodies were brought in. Hers came toward dawn one morning. Three little babies, all twined in each others arms, lying next to her. Three little babies. Cruel that. Wasn't it?
(Waits as he thinks; then he goes on dully; evenly, with no emotion)
Fancy! She'd been out in the water for days and nights. All alone.Tossed about. Days and nights. She! who'd never hurt a soul.Couldn't. She was always laughing and happy. Drifting about. Allalone. Quite peaceful she looked. Except—except—
(Covers his eyes and groans. In a little while he looks up atDartrey and touches his left eye)
This. Gone. Gulls.
(Dartrey draws his breath in sharply and turns a little away)
In a few hours the cuts opened. The salt-water had kept them closed.
Cuts?
(Nods) Her head. And her face. Cuts. Blood after all that time.
(He clenches and unclenches his hands nervously and furiously. He gets up slowly, walks over to the fireplace, shivers, then braces himself trying to shake off the horror of his thoughts. Then he begins to speak brokenly and tremblingly endeavoring to moisten his lips with a dry tongue)
Never saw anything to equal the kindness of those poor peasants. They gave the clothes from their bodies; the blankets from their beds. And took nothing. Not a thing. "We're all in this," they said. "We're doing our best. It's little enough." That's what they sayd. Pretty find the Irish of Queenstown. Eh?
(Dartrey nods. He does not trust himself to speak)
A monument. That's what the Irish peasants of Queenstown should have. A monument. Never slept, some of them. Wrapped the soaking woman in their shawls—and the little children. Took off their wet things and gave them dry, warm ones. Fed them with broths they cooked themselves. Spent their poor savings on brandy for them. Stripped the clothes off their own backs for them to travel in when they were well enough to go. And wouldn't take a thing. Great people the Irish of Queenstown. Nothing much the matter with them. A monument. That's what they should have. And poetry.
(Thinks for a while, then goes on)
Laid out the bodies too; just as reverently as if they were their own people. They laid her out. And prayed over her. And watched with me over her until she was put into the—. Such a tiny shell it was, too. She had no father or mother or brother or sisters. I was all she had. That's why I buried her here. Kensal Green. She'll rest easy there.
(He walks about distractedly. Suddenly he stops and with his hands extended upwards as if in prayer, he cries)
Out of my depths I cry to Thee. I call on you to curse them. Curse the Prussian brutes made in Your likeness, but with hearts as the lowest of beasts. Curse them. May their hopes wither. May everything they set their hearts on rot. Send them pestilence, disease and every foul torture they have visited on Your people. Send the Angel of Death to rid the earth of them. May their souls burn in hell for all eternity.
(Quickly to Dartrey)
and if there is a god they will. But is there a good God that such things can be and yet no sign from Him? Listen. I didn't believe in war. I reasoned against it. I shouted for Peace. And thousands of cravens like me. I thought God was using this universal slaughter for a purpose. When His end was accomplished He would cry to the warring peoples "Stop!" It was His will, I thought, that out of much evil might come permanent good. That was my faith. It has gone. How can there be a good God to look down on His people tortured and maimed and butchered? The women whose lives were devoted to Him, defiled. His temples looted, filled with the filth of the soldiery, and then destroyed. And yet no sign. Oh, no. My faith is gone. Now I want to murder and torture and massacre the foul brutes…. I'm going out, Dartrey. In any way. Just a private. I'll dig, carry my load, eat their rations. Vermin: mud: ache in the cold and scorch in the heat. I will welcome it. Anything to stop the gnawing here, and the throbbing here.
(Beating at his head and heart)
Anything to find vent for my hatred.
(Moving restlessly about)
I'm going through Ireland first. Every town and village. It's our work now. It's Irishmen's work. All the Catholics will be in now. No more "conscientious-objecting." They can't. It's a war on women and little children. All right. No Irish-Catholic will rest easy; eat, sleep and go his days round after this. The call has gone out. America too. She'll come in. You watch. She can't stay out. She's founded on Liberty. She'll fight for it. You see. It's clean against unclean. Red blood against black filth. Carrion. Beasts. Swine.
(Drops into a chair mumbling incoherently. Takes a long breath; looks at Dartrey)
I'm selling out everything back home.
Why?
I'm not going back. I'm bringing everything over here. England,France, Russia, Belgium, Serbia—they can have it. All of it.They've suffered. Only now do I know how much. Only now.
(Fiercely) I want to tear them—tear them as they've torn me. As they mangled her.
(Grits his teeth and claws with his fingers) Tear them—that's what I want to do. May I live to do it. May the war never end until every dirty Prussian is rotting in his grave. Then a quick end for me, too. I've nothing now. Nothing.
(Gets up again wearily and dejectedly; all the blazing passion burnt out momentarily)
This was to have been my wedding-day; our wedding-day. Now she's lying there, done to death by Huns. A few days ago all youth and freshness and courage and love. Lying disfigured in her little coffin. I know what you meant now by wanting to go back for a third time. I couldn't understand it the other day. It seemed that every one should hate war. But you've seen them. You know them. And you want to destroy them. That's it. Destroy…. The call is all over the world by now. Civilization will be in arms…. To hell with your Pacifists. It's another name for cowards. They'd lose those nearest them: the honor of their women; the liberty of their people—and never strike a blow. To hell with them. It's where they should be. I was one of them. No more. Wherever I meet them I'll spit in their faces. They disgrace the women they were born of; the country they claim…. To hell with them.
(Tries to soothe him) You must try and get some grip on yourself.
(His fingers ceaselessly locking and unlocking) I'll be all right. It's a relief to talk to you. (Sees the preparations for Dartrey's departure) Are you off?
Yes. To-night.
I envy you now. I wish I were going. But I will soon. Ireland first. I must have my say there. What will the "Sinn Feiners" say to the LUSITANIA murder? I want to meet some of them. What are our wrongs of generations to this horror? All humanity is at stake here. I'll talk to them. I must. They'll have to do something now or go down branded through the generations as Pro-German. Can a man have a worse epitaph? No decent Irishman will bear that; every loyal Irishman must loathe them…. I'll talk to them—soul to soul…. Sorry, Dartrey. You have your own sorrow…. Good of you to put up with me. Now I'll go….
(Goes to the door, stops, takes out wallet)
Just one thing. If it won't bother you.
(Tapping some papers)
I've mentioned you here…. If I don't come through—see to a few things for me. Will you? They're not much. Will you?
Of course I will.
(Simply) Thank you. You've always been decent to me…. Dartrey.To-day! You would have been my best man—and she's—
(Shaking him by the shoulders) Come, my man. Pull up.
I will. I'll be all right. In a little while I'll be along out there. I hope I server under you. (Grips his hand) Good-by.
Keep in touch with me.
All right.
(Passes out, opens and closes the outer door behind him and disappears in the street. Dartrey resumes his preparations)
The End of the Play
[signed]J. Hartley Manners
To France
For the third time in history it has fallen to the lot of France to stem the Barbarian tide. Once before upon the Marne, Aetius with a Gallic Army stopped the Hun under Attila. Three hundred years later Charles Martel at Tours saved Europe from becoming Saracen, just as in September, 1914, more than eleven centuries later, General Joffre with the citizen soldiery of France upon that same Marne saved Europe from the heel of the Prussianized Teuton, the reign of brute force and the religion of the Moloch State. These were among the world's "check battles." Yet the flood of barbarism was only checked at the Marne, not broken; again the flood arose and pressed on to be stopped once more at Verdun—the Gateway of France—in the greatest of human conflicts yet seen.
America was a spectator, but not an indifferent one. Once again mere momentary material interest counseled abstention; precedent was invoked to justify isolation and indifference. The timid, the ignorant, the disloyal, those to whom physical life was more precious than the dictates of conscience, counseled "peace and prosperity." Many began to wonder if America had a soul and was indeed worth saving as the policy of "Terrorism" on land followed that of "Terrorism" on the high seas seemed to leave us indifferent. Yet the same spirit, as of yore, dominated the nation. The people of America at last understood that it was not any particular rule of law, but the existence of law itself, divine and human, that was involved in the Fate of France.
The task confronting this nation is a stupendous one. Let there be no illusion. The war may well be long and painful, beyond expression, but the past few weeks have taught us that the nation will bear the strain with that same courage and enduring perseverance as in the past, following the example of the Fathers and inspired by the traditions of the American Revolution, this people will stand like a stone wall with our splendid Ally of old and of to-day—France—and from Great Britain from whence came our institutions, to end forever the Hohenzollern system of blood and iron so that a better future may come to Europe and America, one in which peace may be builded upon a guaranty of justice and law—a world order in which fundamental moral postulates and human rights may never again be set at defiance at the behest of mere material force, however scientifically organized.
To France has fallen the honor of checking, to Britain the burden of containing by sea and land, to America now comes the duty of finally overthrowing that common enemy of democratic institutions and ordered liberty, the foe whose morality knows no truth, whose philosophy admits no check upon the "will to power."
In France the traveler passing along the roads to the northeast leading to Lorraine may see at every cross-road a great index finger pointing to the single word VERDUN. To many thousands, nay, hundreds of thousands of men passing over these roads in the five fateful months of critical battle, these six letters spelled mutilation and death, yet the word was an inspiration to heroism in every home of France, and from every corner of the land men followed that great index finger pointing, as it did indeed, to the modern Calvary.
To-day at every cross-road must we here in America set up a great index hand with the words "TO FRANCE." To France, land of suffering humanity, in whose devastated fields again must be saved the same principles for which Americans fought at Bunker Hill, at Saratoga, at Yorktown, at Gettysburg and in the Wilderness; to France, where the fate of the world is still pending; to France, which has again checked the Huns of the modern world as it did those of the ancient; to France, the manhood of this nation must now be directed, to save the heritage of the American Revolution and the Civil War, to preserve the dearest conquests of the Christian civilization; to France will our men go by the thousands, hundreds of thousands, if need be by the million, to prove that the soul of America is more completely intent upon battling for the right than ever before, intent that slavery in another but far subtler and more dangerous form may not prevail upon the earth.
It was Washington who gave as the watchword of the day in those soul-trying hours that preceded the birth of our nation the immortal and prophetic phrase, "America and France—United Forever."
[signed]Frederick Coudert THE END.
Ce Que Disent Nos Morts
Il n'est pas besoin de rappeler le souvenir de ceux qui nous furent chers et ne sont plus, à notre peuple qui passe, non sans raison, pour célébrer avec ferveur le culte des morts. N'est-ce pas en France, au dix-neuvième siècle, qu'est née cette philosophie qui met au rang des premiers devoirs de l'homme la reconnaissance envers les générations qui nous ont précédés dans la tombe, en nous laissant le fruit de leurs pensées et de leurs travaux? Certes la religion des ancêtres est de tous les temps et de tous les climats; elle est même chez certains peuples orientaux la religion unique; mais en quel pas les liens entre les morts et les vivants sont-ils plus forts qu'en France, les deuils plus solennels à la fois et plus intimes? Chez nous, d'ordinaire, les defunts aimés et vénérés ne quittent pas tout entiers le foyer où ils vécu; ils y respirent dans le coeur de ceux qui demeurent; ils y sont imités, consultés, écoutés.
Je me rappelle trop confusément pour en faire usage ici une scène très belle d'une vieille chanson de geste, GIRART DE ROUSILLON, je crois, où l'on voit une fille de roi contempler, la nuit, après une bataille, la plaine où gisent les guerriers innombrables tomber pour sa querelle. "Elle eut voulu, dit le poète, les embrasser tous." Et, du fond de mes très lointains souvenirs, cette royale fille m'apparait comme une image de notre France pleurant aujourd'hui la fleur de sa race abondamment moissonnée.
Aussi n'est-ce pas pour exhorter mes concitoyens à commemorer en ce jour nos morts selon un usage immémorial, que j'écris ces lignes, mais pour honorer avec notre peuple tout entier ceux qui lui ont sacrifié leur vie at pour mediter la leçon qu'ils nous donnent du fond de leur demeures profondes.
Et tout d'abord, à la mémoire des notres, associons pieusement la mémoire des braves qui ont versé leur sang sous tous les étendards de l'Alliance, depuis les canaux de l'Yser jusqu'aux rives de la Vistule, depuis les montagnes du Frioul jusqu'aux défiles de la Morava, et sur les vastes mers.
Puis, offrons les fleurs les plus nobles palmes aux innocentes victimes d'une atroce cruauté, aux femmes, aux enfants martyrs, à cette jeune infirmière anglaise, coupable seulement de générosité et dont l'assassinat a soulevé d'indignation tout l'univers.
Et nos morts, nos morts bien aimés! Que la patrie reconnaissante ouvre assez grand son coeur pour les contenir tous, les plus humbles comme les plus illustrés, les héros tombés avec gloire à qui l'on prepare des monuments de marbre et de bronze et qui vivront dans l'histoire, et les simples qui rendirent leur dernier souffle en pensant au champ paternel.
Que tous ceux dont le sang coula pour la patrie soient bénis! Ils n'ont pas fait en vain le sacrifice de leur vie. Glorieusement frappés en Artois, en Champagne, en Argonne, ils ont arrêté l'envahisseur qui n'a pu faire un pas de plus en avant sur la terre sacrée qui les recouvre. Quelques-uns les pleurent, tous les admirent, plus d'un les envie. Ecoutons les. Tendons l'oreille: ils parlent. Penchons-nous sur cette terre bouleversée par la mitraille où beaucoup d'entre eux dorment dans leurs vêtements ensanglantés. Agenouillons-nous dans le cimetière, au bords des tombes fleuries de ceux qui sont revenus dans le doux pays, et là, entendons le souffle imperceptible et puissant qu'ils mêlent, la nuit, au murmure du vent et au bruissement des feuilles qui tombent. Efforçons-nous de comprendre leur parole sainte. Ils disent:
FRERES, vivez, combattez, achevez notre ouvrage. Apportez la victoire et la paix à nos ombres consolées. Chassez l'étranger qui a deja reculé devant nous, et ramenez vos charrues dans les champs qui nous avons imbibés de notre sang.
Ainsi parlent nos morts. Et ils disent encore:
FRANÇAIS, aimez-vous les uns les autres d'un amour fraternal et, pour prevaloir contre l'ennemi, mettez en commun vos biens et vos pensées. Que parmi vous les plus grands et les plus forts soient les serviteurs des faibles. Ne marchandez pas plus vos richesses que votre sang à la patrie. Soyez tous égaux par la bonne volonté. Vous le devez à vos morts.
VOUS nous devez d'assurer, à notre exemple, par le sacrifice de vous-mêmes, le triomphe de la plus sainte des causes. Frères, pour payer votre dette envers nous, il vous faut vaincre, et il vous faut faire plus encore: il vois faut mériter de vaincre.
Nos morts nous ordonnent de vivre et de combattre en citoyens d'un peuple libre, de marcher résolument dans l'ouragan de fer vers la paix qui se levera comme une belle aurore sur l'Europe affranchie des menaces de ses tyrans, et verra renaître, faibles et timides encore, la JUSTICE et L'HUMANITE étouffées par le crime de l'Allemagne.
Voila ce qu'inspirent nos morts à un Français que le détachement des vanités et le progrès de l'age rapprochent d'eux.
[signed]Anatole France
What our Dead Say to Us
There is no need to recall to the minds of our people those who were dear to us and have passed hence, for they are celebrating—and with good cause—the anniversaries of their deaths. Was it not in France, in the 19th century, that there was born that philosophy which placed in the rank of the foremost duties of mankind gratitude towards those generations who have preceded us to the grave, and have left us the fruits of their thoughts and of their labors? Indeed, ancestral worship prevails in all climes and at all periods; in fact, with certain Oriental nations it is the only religion. But in what country is the link between the dead and the living so strong as it is in France—the rites at the same time so solemn and so intimate? With us, as a rule, our dead, beloved and venerated, never entirely depart from the homes in which they have dwelt, but take up their abode in the hearts of the living who imitate them, consult them, pay heed to them.
I recollect, too vaguely to make full use of it here, a beautiful scene from the heroic song, "Girart de Roussillon," I think it is, where one is shown a king's daughter, one night after a battle gazing across the battlefield where lay the innumerable warriors who had fallen in the fight. "She felt a desire," said the poet, "to embrace them all." And from the depths of my far-away memories this apparition of the daughter of a royal house arises before me as an image of our France to-day, weeping for the flower of our race so abundantly cut down.
My object in writing these lines is not to exhort my fellow-citizens to commemorate to-day our noble dead, according to immemorial custom, but to honor as a united people those who have sacrificed their lives for their country and to meditate upon the lesson that comes to us from their scattered burial places.
First, with the memory of our own, let us with all piety associate the memory of those brave ones who have shed their blood under all the Allies' standards, from the streams of the Yser to the banks of the Vistule; from the mountains of Frioul to the defiles of Morava, and on the vast seas.
Then, let us offer our choicest flowers of memory to the innocent victims of an atrocious cruelty, to the women, the child martyrs, to that young English nurse, guilty only of generosity, whose assassination aroused the indignation of the entire universe.
And our dead, our beloved dead! May a grateful country open wide enough its great heart to contain them all, the humblest as well as the most illustrious, the heroes fallen with glory to whom have been erected monuments of bronze and marble, who will live in history, and those simple ones who drew their last breath thinking of the green fields of home.
Blessed be all those whose blood has been shed for their country! Not in vain have they sacrificed their lives. At the glorious encounter at Artois, Champagne, and Argonne they repulsed the invader who could not advance one step farther on the ground made sacred by their fallen bodies. Some weep for them, all admire them, more than one envies them. Let us listen to them. They speak. Let us make every effort to hear them. Let us prostrate ourselves on this ground, torn up by shot and shell, where many of them sleep in their blood-dyed garments. Let us kneel in the cemetery at the foot of the flower-strewn graves of those who were brought back to their country, and there listen to the whispers, scarcely audible but powerful, which mingle through the night with the murmur of the breeze and the rustle of the falling leaves. Let us make every effort to understand their inspired words. They say:
BROTHERS, live, fight, accomplish our work. Win victory and peace for the sake of your dead. Drive out the intruder who has already retreated before us, and bring back your plows into the fields now saturated with our blood.
Thus speak our dead. And they say, further:
FRENCHMEN, love one another with brotherly love, and, in order that you may prevail against the enemy, put into common use your possessions and your ideas. Let the greatest and strongest among you serve the weak. Be as willing to give your money as your blood for your country. Be willing that perfect equality shall exist amongst you. You owe this to your dead. Because of our example, you owe us the assurance that by your self-sacrifice ours will be the triumph in this holiest of all causes. Brothers, in order to pay your debt to us you must conquer, and you must do still more: you must deserve to conquer.
Our dead demand that we shall live and fight as citizens of a free country; that we shall march resolutely through the hurricane of steel toward Peace, which shall arise like a beautiful aurora over Europe freed from the menace of her tyrants, and shall see reborn, though weak and timid, Justice and Humanity, for the time being crushed through the crime of Germany.
Thus are the French, detached from the vanities and progress of the age, drawn nearer to our dead and inspired by them.
Anatole France Translation by E. M. Pope.
The Transports
Poetical version of Sully Prud'homme's "Les Berceaux"
The long tide lifts each might boat Asleep and nodding on the dock, Of the little cradles they take no note Which the tender-hearted mothers rock.
But time brings round the Day of Good-Byes For it's women's fate to weep and endure, While curious men attempt the skies And follow wherever horizons lure.
Yet the mighty boats on that morning tide When they flee away from the dwindling lands Will feel the clutch of mother hands And the soul of the far-off cradleside.
[signed]Robert Hughes
La Prière Du Poilu
(Written in the Trenches, before Verdun, December, 1915)
Et alors, le poilu, levant la tête derrière son parapet, se mit, dans la nuit froide de décembre, à fixer une étoile qui brillait au ciel d'un feu étrange. Son cerveau commença à remeur de lointaines pensées; son coeur se fit plus léger, comme s'il voulait monter vers l'astre; ses lèvres frémirent doucement pour laisser passer une prière:
"O Etoile, murmura-t-il, je n'ai pas besoin de ta lueur, car je connais ma route! Elle a pu me paraitre sombre au début, quand mes yeux n'étaient point accoutumés à ses rudes contours; mais, depuis un an, elle est pour moi éblouissante de clarté. On a beau me l'allonger chaque jour, on n'arrivera pas à me l'obscurcir. On a beau y multiplier les ronces et les pierres, après lesquelles je laisse de ma chair et de mon sang, on n'arrivera pas à m'y arrêter. Je sais que j'irai jusqu'au bout. Je vois devant moi la victoire…. Mais, là-bas, derrière moi, il y a une foule qui parfois s'inquiète dans les ténèbres. Au moment où la vieille anné va tourner sur ses gonds vermoulus, elle repasse en son esprit agité les évènements qui la marquèrent. Elle songe aux peuplades barbares d'Orient que le Germain a entraînées derrière son char: Turcs et Bulgares, Kurdes et Malissores, et elle oublie les grandes nations qui s'enrôlèrent sous la bannière de la civilisation. Elle songe aux territoires que foule la lorde botte tudesque, et elle oublie les empires que nous détenons en gages: ici, l'ouest et l'est Africains, grands comme quatre fois toute l'Allemagne, avec leurs 5000 kilomètres de voies ferrées et leurs mines de diamants; là, ces îles d'Océanie et cette forteresse d'Asie: Kiao-Tchéou, que le kaiser avait proclamé la perle de ses colonies. Elle s'alarme de toutes les pailles que, dans sa course désordonnée, ramasse l'Allemagne et ne voit pas les poutres énormes qui soutiennent la France…. Nous autres, qui sommes la poutre, nous savons mieux, nous voyons mieux.
"O Etoile, apprends à ceux qui ne sont pas dans la tranchée la confiance!…
"Le passé est là qui enseigne l'avenir. Chaque fois qu'une armée quelconque, prise de la folie de l'espace, a voulu s'enfoncer dans les terres lointaines et abandonner le berceau où elle puisait sa force et ses vivres, elle est morte de langueur et d'épuisement, elle s'est éffritée comme la pierre qu'on arrache de l'assemblage solide des maisons, elle n'est pas plus revenue que ne reviennent les grains de poussière qu'emporte le vent…. Voici plus d'un siècle que des légions ont tenté la conquète de l'Egypte et ces légions étaient les plus magnifiques du monde. Elles avaient des chefs qui s'appelaient Desaix, Kléber et Bonaparte; mais elles n'avaient pas la maitrise de la mer et rien ne revint des sables brulants du désert. Voici un siècle aussi qu'une armée la plus formidable d'Europe, conduite par le plus fameux conquérant qu'ait connu l'univers, tenta de submerger l'immense empire russe; mais l'empire était trop grand pour la grande armée et rien ne revint des solitudes glacées de la steppe…. Puisse, de même, aller loin, toujours plus loin, l'armée allemande déjà décimée, haletante, épuisée! Puisse-t-elle pousser jusqu'au Tigre, jusqu'à l'Euphrate, jusqu'à l'Inde!…
"O Etoile, apprends à ceux qui ne sont pas dans la tranchée, l'Histoire!…
"Certes ces nuits d'hiver sont longues. Et tous tes scintillements, Etoile, ne valent pas le sourire de la femme aimée au logis. Cependant, tu as quelque chose de la femme, puisque tant d'hommes te suivent aveuglément: tu en as la grâce et l'éclat; et toi, au moins, nul couturier boche ne t'habilla jamais!… Tu possèdes même des vertus que ne possède pas toujours la femme: tu as la patience et le calme. Les nuages ont beau s'interposer entre tes adorateurs et toi, l'aurore a beau chaque matin éteindre tes feux, tu t'inclines devant la loi suprême de la nature et nulle révolte ne vint jamais de toi…. Tâche d'inspirer ta soumission à tes soeurs terrestres qui, dans les villes, attendent le retour des guerriers.
"O Etoile, apprends à celles qui ne sont pas dans les tranchées, la Discipline!…
"Que tous, que toutes sachent qu'il y a quelque chose au-dessus du Nombre, au-dessus de la Force, au-dessus même du Courage: et c'est la Persévérance…. Il y eut, une fois, un match de lutte qui restera à jamais célèbre dans l'histoire du sport: celui de Sam Mac Vea contre Joe Jeannette. Le premier, trapu, massif, tout en muscles: un colosse noir du plus beau noir. Le second, plus léger, plus harmonieux, tout en nerfs: un métis jaune du plus beau cuivre. Le combat fut épique: il se poursuivit pendant quarantedeux rounds et dura trois heures. Au troisième round, puis au septième, Sam Mac Vea jetait Joe Jeannette à terre et sa victoire ne paraissait plus faire de doute. Cependant, Joe Jeannette peu à peu revint à la vie, se cramponna, se défendit, vécut sur ses nerfs, puis attaqua à son tour. Au quarante-deuxième round, épaule contre épaule, haletants, ruisselants de sang, ils se portaient les derniers coups; mais le ressort de Sam Mac Vea était cassé et, devant l'assurance de son adversaire, il se sentit vaincu… Alors on vit le grand géant noir lever les bras et s'écrouler en disant: I GUESS I CAN NOT…. (Je crois que je ne peux pas…) Ainsi, bientôt peut-être, verrons-nous s'écrouler l'Allemagne, en avouant: "Je ne peux pas…."
"O Etoile, apprends à ceux qui ne sont pas dans la tranchée, laBoxe!…"
[signed]Stéphane Lauzanne
The Prayer of "Le Poilu"
Then "Le Poilu" standing, in the cold December night, behind the breastworks, fixed his gaze upon a star that was shining with a strange brilliance in the sky above. His mind was stirred with thoughts of far away things. His heart grew lighter, as though it yearned to reach the star; his lips trembled, and softly he breathed a prayer.
"O Star," he murmured, "I need not thy glimmering light, for I know my way. The road may have appeared dark at first when my eyes were unaccustomed to its sharp turns, but for a year it has been divinely illumined for me. Even if it grew longer each day, it will never seem dark again. Although torn by thorns and cut by stones, nothing can make me turn back. I know that I shall go on, steadfast to the end. I behold before me Victory…. But there,—behind me, is a multitude sorely troubled in the darkness.
"Now, as the old year revolves on its rusty hinges, those who wait at home live over in their troubled hearts the events which marked its passing. They think of the barbarous hordes of the Orient which the German has caught in his train; Turks and Bulgarians, Kurds and Malissores, and they overlook the great nations enrolled under the banner of civilization. They brood over lands ground under the iron heel of the Teuton and overlook the Empires that we hold; here, West and East Africa, four times as large as all Germany, with their thousands of miles of railroads and their diamond mines; there, the Islands of Oceania and the fortress of Asia: Kiao-Tcheou, which the Kaiser has proclaimed the pearl of his colonies. They are alarmed at the chaff that Germany gathers in her lawless course and they do not see the mighty girders that stay France. But we who are the girders, we know better, we see farther.
"O Star, teach those who are not in the trenches…. Confidence!
"By the light of the past we behold the future. Whenever an army, seized with the frenzy of conquest, has forced its way into a far land, abandoning the cradle whence it drew its life and strength, it has wasted away, it has perished from utter exhaustion. Like stones loosened from a solid wall, it has disintegrated. Like the grain of dust which the wind has blow away, it has vanished never to return.
"More than a century ago legions attempted the conquest of Egypt. They were the most magnificent in the world. Their chiefs bore the names of Desaix, Kleber and Bonaparte. But they had not the mastery of the seas, and returned not from the burning sands of the desert…. Think also of the time when the most formidable army of Europe, led by the greatest conqueror the world has ever known, tried to overwhelm the vast Russian Empire. But the empire was mightier than the Great Army, and it returned not from the glacial solitude of the steppes…. So let it go far, ever farther on, that German army already decimated, panting, exhausted; let it reach the Tigris, the Euphrates, even far off India! It will not return.
"O Star, teach those who are not in the trenches…. History!
"Truly the winter nights are long, and all the rays, O Star, are not worth the smile of the loved woman at the hearth. And yet, thou hast something of woman, since so many men follow thee blindly: thou hast her grace and splendor. [No German couturier will ever clothe you!] Thou hast even virtues that women do not possess, for thou art patient and calm. Clouds come between thy worshipers and thee, dawn each morning extinguishes thy light, yet dost thou bow before the supreme law of nature without a murmur. I pray thee inspire with submission thy sisters of the earth; teach them calmly and patiently to await the return of their warriors.
"O Star, teach those who are not in the trenches…. Discipline!
"Would that all men, that all women might know that there is something above Numbers, above Force, above even Courage, and that is PERSEVERANCE! A few years ago there was a boxing match between Sam Mac Vea and Joe Jeannette that will remain famous in the history of the sport. Mac Vea was a heavy weight, strong, all muscle: a veritable black giant. Joe Jeannette, light, well proportioned, all nerve: a mongrel of the best sort. The match was epic. It went on for forty-two rounds and lasted three hours. At the third round, and again in the seventh, Sam Mac Vea threw Joe Jeannette, and his victory seemed assured. But little by little Joe Jeannette revived, pulled himself together, defended himself, and through sheer nerve, began to attack. At the forty-second round, shoulder to shoulder, panting, dripping wet and covered with blood they struck the last blow. The resources of Sam Mac Vea were exhausted, and through the very assurance of his adversary he felt himself beaten…. Suddenly the great giant lifted his arms and gave way, saying: 'I guess I cannot.'…
"Thus shall we soon see Germany fall to the earth, saying brokenly,'I cannot.'…
"O Star, teach those who are not in the trenches…to be game!"
Stéphane Lauzanne
Translation by Madame Carlo Polifème.
A Tribute to England
It may be said of this war, as the master mind of all the ages said of adversity, that "its uses are sweet," even though they be as a precious jewel shining in the head of an ugly and venomous toad. While the world-war has brutalized men, it has as a moral paradox added immeasurably to the sum of human nobility. Its epic grandeur is only beginning to reveal itself, and in it the human soul has reached the high water marker of courage and honor.
The war has enriched our language with many new expressions, but none more beautiful than that of "Somewhere in France." To all noble minds, while it sounds the abysmal depths of tragic suffering, it rises to the sublimest heights of heroic self-sacrifice.
The world has paid its tribute to the immortal valor of France, and no words could pay the debt of appreciation which civilization owes to this heroic nation; but has there been due recognition of the equal valor and the like spirit of self-sacrifice which has characterized Great Britain in this titanic struggle?
When the frontier of Belgium was crossed, England staked the existence of its great empire upon the issue of the uncertain struggle. It had, as figures go in this war, only a small army. If it had been niggardly in its effort to defend Belgium, and save France in her hour of supreme peril, England might have said, without violating any express obligation arising under the ENTENTE CORDIALE, that in giving its incomparable fleet it had rendered all the service that its political interests, according to former standards of expediency, justified; and it could have been plausibly suggested that the ordinary considerations of prudence and the instinct of self-preservation required it, in the face of the deadly assault by the greatest military power in the world, to reserve its little army for the defense of its own soil. England never hesitated, when the Belgian frontier was crossed, but moved with such extraordinary speed that within four days after its declaration of war its standing army was crossing the channel, and within a fortnight it had landed upon French soil the two army corps which constituted the backbone of her military power.
What follows will be remembered with admiration and gratitude by the English speaking races as long as they endure, for nothing in the history of that race is finer than the way in which the so called "contemptible little British Army," as the Kaiser somewhat prematurely called it—outnumbered four to one, and with an even greater disproportion in artillery—withstood the powerful legions of Von Kluck at Mons. Enveloped on both flanks they stood as a stone wall for three days against an assault of one of the mightiest armies in recorded history, and only retreated when ordered to do so by the high command of the Allied forces in order to conform to its strategic plans. The English were not defeated at Mons. It was a victory, both in a technical and moral sense.
The retreat from Mons to the Marne was one of terrible hardship and imminent danger. For nearly fourteen days, in obedience to orders, the British soldiers,—fighting terrific rear guard actions, which, in retarding the invaders, made possible the ultimate victory,—slowly retreated, never losing their morale, although suffering untold physical hardships and the greater agony of temporary defeats, which they could not at that time understand, and yet it is to their undying credit, in common with their brave comrades of the French Army, that when the moment came to cease the retreat and to turn upon a foe, which flushed with unprecedented victory still greatly outnumbered the retreating armies, the British soldier struck back with almost undiminished power. The "miracle of the Marne" is due to Tommy Atkins as well as to the French Poilu.
Even more wonderful was the defense of Ypres. There was a time in the first battle of Ypres when the British high command, denuded of shells, were allotting among their commands, then engaged in a life-and-death struggle, ammunition which had not yet left England. So terribly was the "first seven divisions" of glorious memory decimated in this first battle of Ypres, that at a critical time, the bakers, cobblers and grooms were put into the trenches to fill the gaps made by the slain soldiers in that great charnel house. The "thin red line" held back—not for days, but for weeks,—an immensely superior force, and the soldiers of England unflinchingly bared their breasts to the most destructive artillery-fire that the world at that time had ever known. They held their ground and saved the day, and the glory of the first and second battles of Ypres, which saved Calais, and possibly the war itself, will ever be that of the British Army.
Over four million Britons have volunteered in the war, and although very few of them had ever had an previous military experience, yet their stamina and unconquerable courage were such that the youth of the great Empire, on more than one occasion, when called upon, as on the Somme, to attack as well as defend, swept the famed Prussian guard out of seemingly impregnable positions, as for example at Contalmaison.
Will the world ever forget the children of the Mother Empire who came so freely and nobly from far distant Canada, who wrenched Vimy and Messines ridges from a powerful foe?
I hear still the tramp of marching thousands in the first days of the war, as they passed through the streets of Winchester en route to France via Southampton, singing with cheer and joy, "It is a long way to Tipperary." Alas! It is indeed a "long, long way," and many a gallant English boy has fallen in that way of glory.
To-day, from the Channel to the Vosges, there are hundreds of thousands of graves where British soldiers keep the ghostly bivouac of the dead. They gave their young lives on the soil of France to save France, and when the great result is finally accomplished, a grateful world will never forget that "fidelity even unto death" of the British soldier. Their place on Fame's eternal camping ground is sure.
What just man can fail to appreciate the work of the English sailor? It has been said by Lord Curzon, that never has an English mariner in this war refused to accept the arduous and most dangerous service of patrolling the great highways of the deep. No soldier can surpass in courage or fortitude the mine sweepers, who have braved the elemental forces of nature, and the most cruel forces of the Terror, which lurks under the seas.
The spirit of Nelson still inspires them, for every mariner of England has done his duty in this greatest crisis of the modern world.
And how can words pay due tribute to the work and sacrifices of the women and children of England? They have endured hardships with masculine strength, and have accepted irreparable sacrifices with infinite self-sacrifice.
When the three British cruisers were sunk early in the war by a single submarine, and many thousand British sailors perished, the news was conveyed to a seaport town in England, from which many of them had been recruited, by posting upon a screen the names of the pitifully few men who had survived that terrible disaster. Thousands of women, the wives and daughters of those who had perished, waited in the open square in the hope, in most cases in vain, to see the name of some one who was dear to them posted among the survivors; and yet when the last names of the rescued were finally posted, and thousands of English women, there assembled, realized that those who were nearest and dearest to them had perished beneath the waves, these women of England, instead of lamentations or tears, in the spirit of loftiest and most sacred patriotism united their voices and sang "Britannia Rules the Waves," and re-affirmed their belief that, notwithstanding all the powers of Hell, that "Britons never would be slaves."
Who shall then question England's right to a conspicuous place in this worldwide tournament of Fame? In all her past history, there has never been any page more glorious. Without her, as without France, civilization would have perished. To each nation be lasting honor!
The spirit of Shakespeare has animated his people, and that mighty spirit still says to them in his own flaming words—-
"In God's name, cheerily on, courageous friends,To reap the harvest of perpetual peaceBy this one bloody trial of sharp war."
[signed]James M. Beck
Unity and Peace
Great Britain and the United States were politically separated nearly a century and a half ago, because Britain was not in those days governed by the will of the people as she has been for the last eighty years and more. But the ideals of the two nations have been for many generations substantially the same. Both have loved Liberty ever since the time when their common ancestors wrested it from feudal monarchs. A time has now come when both nations are called to defend, and to extend in the world at large, the freedom they won within their own countries. America has harkened to the call. Renouncing her former isolation, she has felt that duty to mankind requires her to contend in arms for the freedom she has illustrated by her example. The soldiers of Britain and France welcome the stalwart sons of America as their comrades in this great struggle for Democracy and Humanity. With their help, they look forward confidently to a decisive victory, a victory to be followed by a lasting peace.
[signed] Bryce.
[caption under a picture] The Right Honourable Arthur James Balfour
"Here was a great British statesman equal to his place and fame. He will long be remembered in America. He has done a high service to Great Britain and all democracies." — New York Times (Editorial)
Our Common Heritage
Not very long ago I happened to be dining in The Savoy Restaurant in London one evening at a table close to the screen, when suddenly there was a stir. People looked away from their dinners. The band abruptly stopped the air it was playing, and after an instant's pause struck up another. Every one in the crowded restaurant stood up. And then there came in slowly from the outer hall a procession of serious looking men in uniform, who, walking in couples, made their way to a large table almost in the middle of the room. They gained their places. The air ceased. The new comers sat down. And we all went on with our dinners and our interrupted conversations.
What did we talk about? Well, I will dare forswear that at all the tables the same subject was discussed. And that subject was—America. For the air we had heard was "The Star Spangled Banner," and the men we had seen were General Pershing, commanding the first American contingent to France, and his Staff, who had landed that day in England. It was a great moment for Britishers, and those of us who were there will probably never forget it. For it meant the beginning of a New Era, and, let us hope, of a new sympathy and a new understanding.
Since then we have learnt something of what America is doing. We know that ten millions of men have registered as material for the American army, that a gigantic aircraft scheme and a huge shipbuilding program are in process of realization; that enormous camps and cantonments have been established for the training of officers and men, that American women have crossed the Atlantic, in spite of the great danger from submarines, to act as nurses at the front, that the regular army has been increased to thrice its former size, that the volunteer militia has been doubled through voluntary enlistment, and that an immense expenditure has been voted for war purposes. We know all this and we are glad, and thankful that hands have been held out to us across the sea.
True sympathy and true understanding are very rare in this world. Even between individuals they are not easy to bring about, and between nations they are practically unknown. Diversity of tongues builds up walls between the peoples. But the Americans and the British ought to learn to draw near to each other, and surely the end of this war, whenever it comes, will find them more inclined for true friendship, for frank understanding, than they have ever been yet, less critical of national failings, less clearsighted for national faults. The brotherhood of man, which the idealistic Russian sighs for, may only be a far away dream, but the brotherhood of those who speak one language, have one great aim, and fight side by side for freedom against force, law against lawlessness, justice against persecution, right against evil, is a reality, and must surely endure long after the smoke of the world war has faded into the blue sky of peace, and the roar of the guns has died away into the silence of the dawn for which humanity is longing.
The happy warriors lead us. Let us follow them and we shall attain a goodly heritage.
[signed] Robert Hichens.
Poetic Justice