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The September morning was crystal-clear. The old fortifications at St. Malo, violet in shadow, lay wrapped in sunlight as from the crest of the hill we turned for a farewell glimpse of Dinard and the sea, before turning eastward on our long proposed trip to some Brittany hospitals.
Our motor was packed in every corner with hospital supplies—tins of ether, rolls of absorbent cotton, hundreds of compresses and bandages, surgical supplies and instruments, cigars, cigarettes, chocolate, hospital-shirts and slippers, sponges, socks—all we could think of, capable of mending the broken bodies or healing the spirits of those brave poilus we were to visit in various hospitals during the next few days.
The motor looked top-heavy, with great hampers strapped on its roof, as we (my husband, the singer and I) squeezed ourselves in between the bulky supplies, but in these days of almost priceless tires and rare gasoline one must manage with little personal pretentions to comfort. The first place of call was the Chateau of Combourg. As we bowled along roads now much in need of repair after three years of forced neglect, we recalled something of its history.
The vast pile, buried in its own forests, was built, before the Norman Conquest, of immense blocks of granite hewn from nearby quarries; its five great towers, with deep slate roofs, ornamented with forged iron "grilles" and weathervanes, its massive keep, its crenelated walls and outlying bastions, have apparently withstood the vicissitudes of centuries. Wars, revolution, fire, siege, storms, have left it unharmed. As we approached, the castle loomed up above the surrounding groves, looking much as it must have appeared to the Crusaders as they left its doors for the Holy Land.
We rolled through a sordid village lying at its base, and soon stopped before an iron gate in a high stone wall for the concierge to open, and then a lovely scene met our eyes.
Great avenues of oaks and chestnuts stretched in all directions, interspersed with long stretches of greensward and clumps of bushes. It required slight imagination to see Robin Hood and his men, or catch a glimpse of them fleeting through the sun-wrapped distance—or hear their horns sounding in the forest.
The young chatelaine was awaiting us at the head of a great flight of stone steps, "Tescalier d'honneur," large and broad enough for a regiment to ascend. The drawbridge and moat, formerly occupying this side, were removed by order of Cardinal Richelieu, who, fearing the belligerent spirit of the Brittany nobles, and determined to destroy their feudal privileges for all time, conceived the idea of turning their castle-fortresses into harmless country-houses, and they, themselves, into extravagant courtiers.
For two and one-half years these walls have sheltered wounded from the battlefields of Picardie and Lorraine, nursed back to health by the Comtesse who, as "infirmière Majeure," does all the dressing of wounds herself—50 beds in all. She has three assistant nurses and a doctor, but all the expense of this private hospital is borne by the Comte and Comtesse de Durfort. No small item, when everything has doubled in price, and hospital supplies, as well as food, are necessarily difficult to obtain. The question of lighting and heating alone is a hard one. No coal to be found anywhere, so trees are sacrificed in the Park. Candles and kerosene lamps being the only way of lighting, these immense halls must be gloomy and depressing enough in the long dark afternoons of winter, with the wind howling around the towers and the rain lashing the casements.
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The great dining-room and salons (in feudal times the "Salle des Gardes") have been turned into dormitories, white cots stand in rows beneath the painted beams of the ceilings; frescoed knights, bishops and ladies gaze down from the lofty walls on the broken soldiers of today; hooded chimneys of stone, heavily carved with armorial bearings, still burn, in their black depths, logs from the neighboring forest. Through cross-barred windows, cut in eighteen feet of masonry, one catches glimpses of white and blue skies, of seas of verdant leaves, of sunlight glinting on yellow lichen roofs far below. A pale blue smoke drifts upward, the voices of children, the clang of forge, the lowing of cattle in the market place, sound faintly through the autumn air, and gazing downwards from this elevation, one realizes vaguely how great was the distance, socially and morally, separating in the middle ages the serf from his overlord!
After a most excellent luncheon of chicken "en casserole," venison, fresh vegetables and salads, a pastry and some fine Burgundy (all furnished by the estate, except the wine), the host and hostess, the singer, my husband and I, climbed around the upper turrets, gazed down through the "Machiacoli" whence boiling oil was hurled on the besieger in the Dark Ages, scrambled through low stone arches, up corkscrew-stairs to the bedroom of the famous Comte de Chateaubriand, great-uncle of the present owner, and from whom she inherited the property. Here he spent his lonely childhood, full of dreams and fears; in one of his books, complaining of the bats circling and flapping outside his window, in the moonlight, around this white-washed room high up in this silent tower! What a dreary abode for an imaginative boy!
Down the turning staircase, where an ancestral ghost with a wooden leg and accompanied by a spectral cat "walks" before any disaster comes to the family, we came to the Poet's Library, a circular room, lined from floor to ceiling with books, as well as many unbound manuscripts. A ladder on runners can be pushed around to reach the higher rows. Here are many family relics; a comfortable oak armchair and table before the open fireplace, where Chateaubriand wrote many of his world-renowned books.
On returning to one of the salons, we found some thirty-five wounded awaiting the little concert we had arranged for them. Some village notables, the mayor, the cure, the postmaster and a few elderly neighbors, were amongst them.
The singer, Miss Marion Gregory, of New York, confided to me afterwards that she was so overcome, facing those poor wounded fellows, especially the blind with their sightless eyes turned towards her, that her voice seemed to die in her throat; but the singer was new to all the pain and sorrow, having only just come from "'God's Country." She said she had faced many large audiences in America, but never with so many qualms. The soldiers, however, ignoring this, sat in blissful attention, enjoying every note of her lovely voice, and heartily applauding. The postmaster then recited some stirring French poetry, then, rising, we all sang the "Marseillaise." One poor blind boy, with tears streaming down, said to me: "Oh, Madame, I am so sad, I have no longer eyes to see to fight to avenge the wrongs of my beloved France."
A "gouter" served in the dining-hall made us all very cheerful. Speeches were made, hands shaken, toasts drunk, in that excellent wine of Champagne to "la Victoire," and to the intimacy of France and the United States.
The Comte and his beautiful wife, surrounded by their "blessés," bade us farewell at the foot of the "escalier d'honneur;" the castle behind them looming gray and forbidding against the evening sky. The sun, gilding the crests of the chestnuts and oaks and glinting on the tricolor, the Red Cross flag and the family banner hanging limply in the lambent air, sent its flood of red over the little group.
As we waved goodbye, we felt how intimately the past and present are related. How great traditions never die, but repeat themselves in national life from generation to generation. The high caring for the humble, the rich for the poor. How love of country wipes out all distinctions of caste, making France what she is today, the world's example of sacrifice, devotion and patriotism.
September, 1916.
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She was a slender, graceful creature; tall, blond, highbred; so young and so good-looking, one wondered how she was able to escape from Belgium without unheard-of difficulties from those brutes of Germans; but here she was, that cold February night, coming to Val Fleuri with a pitiful handful of luggage, a great courage, and soul-racking remembrances.
A mutual friend had months ago told me of her tragic experiences and her keen desire to escape from the German tyranny in Belgium, so we originated a scheme (through a Belgian consul in Switzerland) by which she was to travel via Germany to Switzerland, thence to France where she would sign on as a regular Red Cross nurse.
Poor girl! Her life in Namur had been so tragic, it was extraordinary she had the courage to undertakealonea long journey, in the depth of winter, through enemy country, going voluntarily into exile for an indefinite period, with no one to turn to in case of trouble or sickness, entirely dependent on her meager Red Cross pay, frcs 2.50 (50 cents) a day—board and lodging alone being provided by the hospital.
She remained a number of months in Val Fleuri as our guest, and little by little, as her reserve wore off, the tale of the actual horror of her life under the German yoke came out, and I was able to understand the motive which drove her, a beautiful girl of twenty-seven, into France, facing an unknown future and a hard present, rather than remain a day longer than was necessary under German rule.
The only daughter of a rich and indulgent widow, until the fatal summer of 1914, she had lived a luxurious idle life; petted by society in Belgium for her charm and her beauty; welcomed at house parties and balls; sought for cotillions, dinners, race-meetings; with all that wealth and rank in the old nobility could offer to a girl of her position, the sudden transition to the horrors of German invasion and occupation was terrific.
When the war broke out in 1914, her mother and she were entertaining a large house-party of fashionable young people in their chateau, some miles out from Namur. The sudden crashing of guns broke in upon their country pleasures, their guests fled, the shells boomed over the park and buildings, old friends advised them, two defenseless women, to abandon the chateau and take refuge in their large town house at Namur.
Their hearts were heavy with grief and foreboding, that August morning, when they looked their last on their ancestral home; its huge towers and wide terraces framed in great oaks and chestnuts, sleeping tranquilly beneath a radiant blue sky. Ten days later their home had been gutted from tower to basement, flames had destroyed their furniture, pictures, family heirlooms, household treasures—all scattered, burnt or carried off by the Huns—and, crowning insult, German dead buried in the rose-gardens beneath the marble terrace. *
*Note. She seemed to feel this more bitterly than anything else.
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None of us in America have had our homes pillaged or destroyed, so it is hard to realize the heart-anguish of looking on, helpless, while the destruction of all one holds sacred is consummated; so these two lonely women passed many gloomy hours in the town house at Namur where they immediately installed a Red Cross hospital.
The shells boomed night and day over the town; every hour my young friend passed through the whole building, with her servants, carrying water, wet blankets and sticks to beat out any possible fire; six or seven poor families from the neighbors had taken refuge in their great house, and one could not turn them away to face the fire and bullets in the streets, so they camped out in the kitchen and offices, hall-ways and cellars. The Louis XVI ballroom, with its magnificent frescoes and paneled walls, was turned into a temporary hospital, my young friend in charge.
Fortunately, before the war, she had, like many women of rank in Belgium, taken a course in surgical nursing, and, having passed her examination, was fully qualified to take charge of the hospital. The wounded during the siege were brought in from the streets, their blood staining the marble steps of the grand escalier, and lying in pools on the inlaid floors of the ball room. A ghastly reminder for all time of that August, 1914! For four months they fed, sheltered and protected 36 people, not counting the wounded. The Red Cross flag over the great portes-cocheres did not prevent the German soldiers from firing at any imprudent person who might show themselves at the windows after dark.
The health of the widow, never robust, gave away under these misfortunes, and early in December, 1914, the poor girl was left alone to face her difficulties. Her country destroyed, her mother dead, the town house a hospital, and German officers quartered in the two wings looking on the court. Not a safe or pleasant home for a defenseless girl. Friends of her parents advised her leaving for France, but still she hesitated to leave what little remained of her previous happiness to seek an unknown future in a strange land, and only a dangerous and unpleasant incident finally decided her to take this hazardous step.
In December, curious to see the damage done by the Huns, she went with a girl friend to visit the town ofDinant, that spot of infamous memory, where the boches shot down civilians—men, women and children—like dogs, and dragged their families out to see their execution. On the tram, the girls fell into conversation with a man who, a native of Dinant, had nearly been massacred on that fearful day in August. He said he had been lined up with the other victims and the order given. Shots were poured into the helpless crowd. He owed his escape to the fact that he was in the second line and was short, the man in front being a tall noble, who turned out to be a cousin of my Yolande. He showed the girls a sharp, white line along the top of his head, where the bullet had passed. He fell beneath the cousin of my friend, who, being a large, heavy man, completely covered him. During the night the boches came back often and fired into the dark mass, did they see the slightest movement. All during the night the man talked in undertones to the wounded noble, who told him to be still until dawn, when they might hope to escape in the morning mists by swimming the Meuse.
About 3:30 a. m., the traveler spoke to the noble, and, getting no reply, very slowly and carefully moved his hand up to where he thought the head was. The body had been growing heavier and heavier and he had been saturated with a wet substance. What was his horror to find the head had been shot away in the last volley! He waited, silent as the dead about him, until the morning mists crept up from the river, then wriggled out from the mass of dead, and effected his escape by creeping down the bank and swimming the Meuse in the early dawn before the sun rose. My poor Yolande was deeply affected by this recital. She had known of the murder of her relative, but none of the details. On reaching Dinant, she visited the devastated part of the town, where some poor wretched women sought shelter under their broken roofs, having lost everything, and not knowing where their families were scattered, having nowhere else to go, they came back like homeless cats, nothing but broken walls, shattered roofs and piles of plaster, bricks, charred wood, and perhaps a chimney to show what had once been their homes; but they came back and poked among the rubbish with sticks, hoping to find a spoon or cooking utensil; many holding monkey-like babies to their starved breasts, all that remained to them of their previous families.
Sitting thus, holding their starving children to their bosoms, their vacant faces and shrivelled forms outlined under the roofless doorways; staring at space, they presented a truly desolate picture. My friend spoke to them and tried to awaken and cheer them, but it was useless, they were too far gone in misery to even understand.
This horrible spectacle of misery, combined with the story of her relative's death, raised such hatred in her heart that, as she said, she must have shown too plainly what she felt, for, while passing in front of a cafe where some German officers were singing and feasting, she suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder and she and her friend were arrested and taken to the guardhouse. When she demanded why they had been arrested the sergeant said: "because she had cast such a look of hatred at the officers in the cafe!" ("Un regard de hain.")
For five hours they were left sitting in the guard-room, while soldiers came in and tried to laugh and talk to them. Finally the officer who had them arrested came in and tried to "jolly" them. When all his efforts were met with a frigid silence, he went to the phone. Fortunately for Yolande, as she understood his German orders, she immediately claimed her release as a Red Cross nurse. He would not listen at first, but an insistent appeal to the Military Governor on her part secured their freedom, and the two girls were turned out at two o'clock in the morning in the soldier-infested streets of Dinant; and, remember, this was at the height of the German invasion of Belgium, when the whole country lay at their mercy. Had she not understood German, it is doubtful if the girls would ever have been seen again!
How she ever got back to Namur she never quite remembered, but this experience determined her to leave. After much wire-pulling and family influence, she obtained her passports, and, in company of a young wife and three small children, they made their way across Germany to Switzerland. Her perfect German accent and blond appearance helped them along, but when at last they crossed the frontier their hearts were too heavy for talk. They were safe, but at what a sacrifice.
Safely arrived in Dinard, she immediately signed on "for the war," and became one of the most valuable and beloved nurses. She was so gentle and gracious, but still so firm and competent, she soon was given charge of a whole floor (65 men of all kinds and descriptions). I looked at her often in amazement. How that slender young woman could make those rough men obey her! She never raised her voice or lost her temper in all the eighteen months she was in Dinard. I never saw her peeved, or snappy, or cross.
At that time I used to go every morning, from 9 to 12, to make a little "extra food" or canteen for the more dangerously wounded, I had invited a friend, the Marquise de T——— (also a Belgian), to help me. We had a little rolling table piled high with jam, bread and butter, soup, and a rum punch I made from Mellin's food, milk and eggs and rum, which we took to the different wounded. The men were very fond of this punch, but only those who were "bed cases" could have it, and then only a glass apiece.
Amongst others, there was a huge Senegalais, an interne for some months, who had had a number of small operations and who, just as he was getting better, would always go out and get drunk and then was laid up again, a perpetual blesse. One day, apparently, the Marquise and I were innocently distributing our little dejeuner, when this huge creature hobbled up, demanding some "Ponche." We told him it was strictly forbidden that day. He gave a wild bellow and rushed at us. I shall never forget that great animal, his face as black as ink, with flashing, angry eyes, his great red mouth open and yelling incomprehensible gibberish at us, flinging himself along on crutches, with terrific speed, he seemed the personification of Darkest Africa.
We fled down the corridor pursued by the negro, our little table rattling along, cups, saucers and tartines bounding out as we ran, the precious rum punch slopping over at every step, and that great bellowing Senegalais pounding along behind, flinging everything that came to hand at us, even to his slippers, which he finally whipped off as he saw us dash around the corner. Suddenly a door opened and Yolande appeared. What she said to the monster or how she appeased him I don't know, but after a while he went grumbling and growling back to his room. The other soldiers said, "Vous l'avez échappé belle c'est un mauvais caractère." (You got off easily, he has a nasty character.)
For over two years, Yolande staid on, reaping golden opinions on all sides; her constant devotion to the wounded all day and many nights, easing their suffering, comforting, cheering, even in the last sad hours staying with them through the Valley of the Shadow, and going to the funeral and the grave! I often wondered how she stood the strain, the long tedious hours, the poor food, the cold and discomfort, the anxiety of the operations, and then, added to all these, the uncertainty of the future, the loneliness of exile, and the then black outlook for Belgium!
A year ago happier times came for the dear girl. For a number of years she had been engaged to a distinguished officer in the Belgian diplomatic service, and last December he was able to obtain leave for three months, and came to carry his bride off to a far-away, sunny country.
I like to think of her, happily married to the man she has loved so long, in a charming house of her own amidst palms, hibiscus and tropical foliage, far-away from all the gloom and tragedy of her war-stricken country. May all happiness and wealth and peace be hers in this new life! She deserves them all.
December, 1917.
Paris, 30 Mars, 1917.
Madame:
J'ai lu et hautement apprécié la belle traduction que vous avez faite de mon poème et je vous remercie de votre pensée de la faire connaître dans votre pays.
Autant d'Américains fraternels partagent notre indignation française et qui s'unis si réellement â la cause de la justice et du droit.
Daigniez agréer, Madame, avec tous mes remerciements, mes hommages respectueux.
Henri de Regnier.
I swear to keep forever in my heart
This sacred Hate, until the final beat.
This holy venom will become a part
Of every drop which forms its living heat.
Forever graven on my sombre face
A tragic furrow on my mournful brow.
This outrage leaves its utmost loathly trace
Upon my mind and soul, Forever, Now.
My ruined fields, my cities sunk in flame,
My murdered hostages, my fallen sons,
My wounded babes, the nameless deeds of shame
Upon my women, helpless, fore the Huns,
I swear I shall avenge! My justice and my right
Shall conquer, or my last red blood I shed.
I, France, austere and blazing in my might
Shout forth this message to my valiant dead.
This Holy vow of wrath, this oath of hate,
Before high Heaven solemnly I swear,
Before the waters of the Marne and Aisne,
Still crimson with French blood, I consecrate
Myself. Oh, Rheims sublime! Thou torch whose glare,
Still shows the sacred ruins of thy fane,
Burning and crumbling on the horizon,
Hear, thou, my vow of vengeance on the Hun!
Henri de Regnier.
1917, Translated by Elsie Deming Jarves.
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With the full blast of war sweeping over this old Continent, with the young manhood of France forming a wall of steel between us and the enemy who would annihilate, with the prospect of this tragedy continuing for an indefinite period, each Frenchwoman, safe behind the living barrier, asks herself what she can do to help. How to use her individual capacities to the best advantage for the sustenance and comfort of those dear ones—the son or grandson in the trenches, the husband or brother at the front, the children and the old folk left behind in her care.
As one looks abroad over this beautiful country, seeing what she is accomplishing, one is inspired with a sincere and fervent admiration for her devotion, self-sacrifice and patriotism.
These noble qualities are not restricted to one class, but are universal in all ranks; from the peasant to the comtesse, from the little working girl to banker's wife; dressmakers, actresses, school-teachers, shopkeepers, nuns, the erstwhile rich and idle, as well as the wage-gainer,allfeel the same enthusiasm; the same spirit of courage and endurance fills their souls; the pressing desire to "soul-ager" (help) the sorrow and privation brought on by this war of wars.
All through the summer and autumn the women have worked manfully in the fields. I use this word advisedly.
The physical strength to gather the wheat, cut the hay, garner the fruit and vegetables, care for the cattle, toiling every day and all day to replace the men at the front, shows what healthy living for generations will do.
I have seen them down on the beach raking up the heavy piles of sea-weed, pitching it on the high carts and hauling it back to their farms, sometimes miles away, as fertilizer for the soil.
Strong, broad women these, woolen skirts tucked up high above their thick ankles, muslin coiffes flapping in the stinging wind blowing in from the channel, broad faces and muscular arms, red from exertion; very often even, the Grandma tosses a load of sea-weed on her pitchfork to the granddaughter, standing high upon the soggy mass in the two-wheeled cart. I have seen them working at the cider mill in the farmyard; ploughing the fields for the winter wheat; driving carts piled with farm products to the markets. A woman and a tiny donkey being about the only means of transport left now, since the horses and men have gone to the war.
The old men and women, who might confidently look forward to a comfortable seat by the open hearth, are out in the fields in all weathers, forgotten, the rheumatic joints, the bronchitis and the colds; the wind is piercing, rain falls almost every day in Brittany, but warm garments, and boots lined with straw keep out the cold, and the cattle must be herded; someone must cut and trim the hedges and trees; collect the apples and cabbages; potatoes and turnips must be dug Many are the little gifts of knitted socks and jerseys, of passemontagnes (hoods) sent to the "Poilu" at the front, for these women are never idle. In the long, dark evenings by the open fire, with only its light and a candle to brighten the dark interior, knitting needles glisten and click, and thoughts roam afar to the trenches, where, behind the barbed-wire and fortifications, "the man" is watching each day.
Railroad canteens are another war work for the soldiers going to, and coming back from the front. Here they can get a warm drink and food—tea, coffee, milk, cocoa, good bread and meat, etc.—served by the ladies of the French Red Cross, who also climb into the trains, passing from carriage to carriage, shaking their little tin boxes for sous or francs; the stations have, as well, a Red Cross dressing station, where wounds are washed and rebandaged, a bed for a weary body, and a quiet hour are provided free of all charge. They are constantly used, I can tell you.
In thousands of hospitals all over France, the Red Cross nurses are working with unexampled devotion. No task is too menial for them, no work too repulsive; their only thought is to relieve the suffering of the poor creatures brought to them. The men repay them well by quick obedience, and openly-expressed gratitude. It is a touching sight to go down a hospital ward lined with beds, and see these chaps follow gratefully with boyish eyes, the little white-robed figure, which represents so much to them of well-being and gentle care. If one stops to inquire about their health, always a cheery answer, "Ca va bien aujour d'hui, Madame(It goes well today, Madame);" no matter how much they suffer, or what acute agony they may be undergoing, they will not admit it.
I know one boy of nineteen, a volunteer, twice wounded, who was told by the doctor, while dressing his wound for the first time after his third operation, "Scream, my boy, scream, if it does you good, it will help."
"No, doctor," he replied, "I prefer to whistle." So while the doctor opened the wound and cleaned the bone, he whistled "Nous les aurons" (We'll get 'em)—the latest song from the trenches.
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Many women who would gladly work in the hospitals are prevented by other duties. They have their homes and children to look after, or old people or invalids dependent on them, or also they must tend the shops in their husbands' absence, or run the auberge or hotel, or work in the factories, but each one does something on the side for the "Union sacrée." It may not be more than a pair of knitted socks sent weekly to the trenches, or a cushion made of snipped-up cotton rags, cut fine and close, or a package of tobacco bought by carefully saved sous. From this universal wish have been created many good and useful works. During a recent visit to Paris I was impressed by the number of charities Frenchwomen have established and keep in fine running order. Let me mention a few:
1.Oeuvre des Blesses au Travail(work of wounded soldiers).
2.Oeuvre du Soldat dans la Tranchée(fund for the soldier in the trenches—send warm clothing).
3. For sending food and clothing to the French Prisoners in Germany.
4. The "Quinze Vingt" the government establishment for teaching the permanently blind a trade.
5. The Duchesse d'Uzes' organization for sending clothing and money to the soldiers from the invaded districts; men who have no news from their families or relations since the German invasion.
6. Soup kitchens—good, wholesome meals provided for ten cents. There are a number scattered over Paris, frequented by men and women of good positions before the war. Old artists and musicians out of work, professors who have lost their jobs, refugees from Lille, Courtrai and the invaded provinces, widows and girls with no means, little dressmakers and milliners without custom—a sad patient crowd who come silently and humbly to eat the bitter bread of charity. One group of ladies at the Hotel Mercedes (placed at their disposal) provides four hundred meals daily.
L'Oeuvre du Blesse au Travail(objects made by wounded soldiers) are showing in handsomely arranged shops, articles made by the men as they lie wounded in their beds. These articles consist chiefly of baskets of finely plaited straw, some artistically colored and of charming designs; others made by clumsier hands, crude but interesting—lace mats of plaited ribbon; string bags of macramé work; penholders and pencils, fashioned from spent cartridges. Rings made from the aluminum tips of exploded German shells picked up in the French trenches—these are very cunningly made and are often very handsome in design and execution. Every man, woman and child wants one of these rings, but as their only value is being "genuine,"i. e., made in the trenches by a soldier, from the real shell tip, there are naturally not enough to go 'round.
Flowers made out of bread, tinted and modeled to an exact imitation of Dresden flowers, stand in little gilt baskets, also made by the soldier. Dolls as Red Cross nurses, soldiers, doll furniture and houses, boxes, baskets, no end of tempting little things are displayed and sold by the ladies of the committee, who guarantee the genuineness of each object.
Then there is the "Journée," or a day is chosen with the approval of the government, committees are formed in all the cities, towns, and villages of France. Bands of young girls and children start out early to sell flags or boutonnierés or rosettes, on the steps of the churches, at the railroad station, in the public squares and streets, holding their little pincushions stuck with flags, or scraps of ribbon, with a sealed tin box for coins. Thus, enormous sums are collected for the various war works, and every one, no matter how poor or humble, can give his offering.
Besides these charities, innumerable "Ouvroirs" exist in every city. Sewing-rooms, where poor women are paid (and fed) to make shirts, chemises, belly-bands, socks, pyjamas, etc., and everyone is thus helped through the long, hard winter.
Women are taking men's places all over France. Women are in the munition factories, in the government postoffice and telegraph service, as tramway conductors, as metro ticket collectors—places they never dreamed of filling before the war, for the Frenchwoman is essentially a home-body, her "intérieur" (home) being dearer to her than all else; to take these masculine occupations is especially hard.
The great dressmakers of the Rue de la Paix, the Rue de Rivoli, and the Place Vendôme are doing their share, too. One floor is usually devoted to some charitable purpose, either an "Ouvroir," or a convalescent home, etc.; and that the little "midinette" (apprentice) may feel that she, too, is working for France, a work has been started called "la marraine" (the godmother). Through proper channels, any woman or girl can be put in communication with some lonely soldier in the trenches. She writes him long, encouraging letters. She keeps up his spirits by letting him know someone is thinking of him. When, by strictest economy, she can scrape a few sous together, she buys him a ten-cent packet of tobacco, or a few postal cards, or a pencil, and back in due time comes a soiled card, written in pencil, telling her the news of the trenches, how they will soon throw the "sales boches" out of France, and promising to spend many a happy hour with his "marraine" if he is lucky enough to escape the German bullets.
So many friends have asked me to tell them about our life here in Brittany, that I have selected a few facts, hoping that these little wavelets, on the ocean of war-literature at present inundating the country, may prove of interest.
Let me first tell the story of an American girl of whom we are all very proud—a girl whose courage and devotion has won her theCroix de Guerreand theMédaille d'or des Epidemes.
The Vicontesse de la Mettrie, daughter of the late Comte Amedee de Gasquet—James of New Orleans and Dinard—and grand-daughter of the late Colonel George Watson Pratt, of Albany, has lived in Dinard all her life. On the 18th of August, 1914, she offered her services as a nurse, and since that date has been constantly on duty, never sparing herself in her devotion to her wounded.
I cannot do better than translate from the order of the day, read at the army headquarters, the following citation:
"The Vicontesse Henri de la Mettrie, whose husband went to the front early in August, 1914, became hospital-nurse in the military hospitals, first at Rennes, and afterwards at the front on the Somme, and on the Aisne, these last places since 1916. She has just become the object of highly laudatory 'citation' in general orders of the army for the 18th of February, 1918, in the following terms: 'Has shown, during the bombardment of the ambulance of ————, the utmost courage, devotion and sang froid. On the 30th of November, 1917, her ambulance was subjected to a prolonged bombardment and, although slightly wounded herself from bursting shell, she immediately rescued two dangerously injured stretcher bearers, who fell at her side. She refused to seek shelter and showed the greatest courage throughout all danger.
"TheCroix de Guerreis accorded with this citation. Madame de la Mettrie has further earned the gratitude of her compatriots by giving her blood, by infusion, to save the life of one of her wounded men (dying in her hospital at the front) and she had the joy of knowing she had saved his life." Let me add in passing, that, before the war, the Vicontesse de la Mettrie was a lively, gay young woman of fashion, fond of automobiling, hunting, traveling and dancing. The contrast of these carefree days before the war when young, rich and lovely, with a devoted husband and a loving family about her, she could reasonably look forward to every happiness—and the present tragic months under the German guns must be at times overwhelming.
Her last posts have been in such dangerous zones, often under bombardment night and day, that, before the war-office allowed her to go, she was obliged to sign three papers, stating, respectively: First—that she had no children or parents dependent on her; second—that she fully realized the danger, and went at her own risk and peril; third—that her husband knew when and where she was going, and fully gave his consent.
Those people in America who think war-nursing consists of attending to nice, clean, interesting young men in big, airy, spotless wards, with sunshine pouring in at the open windows, flowers on a table near the bed, and pretty Red Cross nurses serving wine, jellies and afternoon tea, would be rather surprised to look in upon these ambulance-stations at the front, behind the first dressing stations.
Imagine a shelltorn, gunswept desert; low, wooden encampments partitioned off into long rooms, full to overflowing with wounded; ankle-deep mud separating the different sheds; appalling food; no possibility of baths or even elementary cleanliness; no comfort of any kind. For sleeping quarters each nurse has a cubicle 5 feet by 9 feet, a cot, a chair, a washbasin on a box, and a small trunk for her clothes. Under the cot is a hole, long and large and deep enough for a person to lie in, into which they pop when the bombardment alarm is given. The damp cold is intense in these desolated regions, the work equally so. Always on the alert for gas attacks or shells, always ready, night and day, for the arrival of freshly wounded from the trenches, only a few yards away, operations often, deaths often, fatigue always, dirt, stenches, vermin, the sacrifice of youth, good looks and ease—these are some of the demands that a military nurse under army orders must consider all in a day's work.
TheCroix de Guerreis the highest decoration given by the French Government for deeds of valor or endurance under fire, and many are the sons of France who wear it on their blue tunics. That it also gleams on the uniforms of some of her daughters, shows how unfailing is the heroism and patriotism inspiring alike the men and women of France.
All these four long, weary years this has been the lot of the French.
Behind the lines reigns a constant anxiety. In the cities, in the villages, in the lonely farms, everywhere, the homes are empty of their men-folk. Millions of families living in fear of what crushing news the next hours may bring. Lucky those households whose men are still in the fighting line.
A slight idea of the degradation and misery endured in the German prison camps may be gathered from a letter received from the brother of one of my maids. He is now at Leysin, in Switzerland, trying to regain his health and recover his eyesight. At times he is almost blind, the result of the typhus. If he loses it completely, he will indeed be a helpless burden to his family, as he is a cabinetmaker by trade. His father and mother are humble folk who have brought up their nine children honestly and well, educating them, giving each a good trade, and, before the war, looking forward themselves to a well-earned rest in their old age. Now this large family is completely ruined and broken up. This eldest son almost blind, the second son disappeared since 1914 in the holacust of the war, the third son fighting in Italy. Next month the fourth boy, barely eighteen, joins the colors.
The poor old father, struck down by paralysis, has been slowly dying for months. The rest of the family, the old mother, four small children and a young girl, are entirely dependent on the wages of my maid, except for 110 francs ($23) a month, given as allowance by the French Government to those whose men are fighting. The old mother has a patch of ground where she grows a few vegetables. One boy of fourteen receives a few francs as electrician (the only wage earner at home). Out of her wages of $20.60 a month, my good Marie has helped her family, bought clothes and medicines for the sick father and the children, and managed to send twice a month, for the last three and one-half years, a box to the prisoner brother. Naturally, all her savings are gone. This is typical of thousands of families all over France—it is not a hard-luck story.
These monthly boxes sent to the prisoners usually contain a half pound of coffee, costing 28 cents; a quarter pound of sugar, costing 5 cents; one-half pound of chocolate, costing 25 cents; one-half pound of rice, costing 18 cents; one-half pound of butter, costing 50 cents; one-half pound of figs, costing 14 cents; one box of sardines, costing 42 cents; one jar of jam, costing 25 cents; one can of condensed milk, costing 55 cents; one box of dates, costing 35 cents; one piece of soap, costing 20 cents; two packages of cigarettes, costing 25 cents; one pair of wool socks; one cotton shirt; packing, costing 50 cents; one box of meat and beans, costing 39 cents.
The letter of Marie's brother is as follows:
"Madame permits me to address to her my sincere thanks for the money which allows me to purchase some strengthening food, which my poor state of health so greatly demands.
"Since my arrival in Switzerland, I asked no further help from my sister nor my family, who, as Madame knows, have struggled against such great difficulties, due to present conditions. How much they have voluntarily borne during my stay in Germany, when it was so urgent! It is absolutely certain that if I am still in this world it is to thanks of the solicitude of my sister and of my family, who deprived themselves daily in order to send me food.
"Being wounded the 29th of August, 1914, and made prisoner, I dragged about the hospital for five and one-half months. The 15th of February, 1915, I was sent to the camp at Cassel at the very moment of the outbreak of typhus, which appeared the 29th of February. I would not know how to describe to you, Madame, the scenes of horror which I witnessed at that time. I would have to write a book, even then I would lack words to give you the smallest conception of all the great misery whose ghastly impression will remain forever engraved in my soul.
"After nursing a large number of my comrades, attempting by my goodwill to make up for my inexperience, my own turn came. I was struck low by this appalling sickness the 19th of April, 1915. After a few days in the hospital I conquered this awful illness, but in what a state. I could not walk but with the aid of crutches. I was a human rag. The care which I ought to have had was substituted by a complete neglect on the part of the authorities, even the most ordinary and needful precautions were denied me.
"For the following two months I lay on the floor, only a threadbare blanket for covering. It is useless, Madame, to recite to you the treatment of utmost rigor to which I was subjected. It was the same for all of us. Alas, how many unfortunates have died of it! Two thousand five hundred are the official figures recognized by the German authorities in our hospital.
"They will have to answer before the tribunal of humanity for this horror added to so many others of which they are guilty. They are entirely responsible, for they never made the slightest effort to prevent contagion, or to attenuate, in any way, the hideous results. Quite the contrary! They remained inert, rejoicing in the work of desolation passing before their eyes. Their cynical ferocity permitted the German general commanding our camp to explain in the presence of these dying prisoners: 'I make war in my own way.' He made us feel, we unfortunate mori-bunds, that if we were left without the most elementary care of nursing, abandoned in a most tragic state, it was entirely due to him, the German general commanding.
"After a long time, the Red Cross, horrified by the ravages caused by this scourge, and by the indifference of the German authorities, obtained after great difficulty, the privilege of sending some French doctors to our camp at Cassel. These devoted men did their whole duty, more than their duty, no matter how trying and disheartening. There, where the deepest despair reigned, their arrival gave us a gleam of hope. By their sublime abnegation and absolute devotion, they succeeded in stamping out this pest; alas, by the sacrifice of their lives. Two of our dear doctors thus paid the debt, but to those who saw them at their work—courageous, cheering, consoling their poor comrades, prey to this vile disease, the remembrance of them will remain forever vivid and holy—these two heroes.
"I have witnessed the most horrible misery, but I would do wrong to let you think I was the greatest sufferer. Whoever has been prisoner in Germany has seen the same spectacle, the acts of refined cruelty one hoped had disappeared forever from the world. I enclose two photos, which will give you some idea of the actual conditions endured by so many thousand unfortunates fallen into German hands. One shows the interior of a shed where the prisoners are crowded, a bed of infection for all kinds of diseases. The other shows the punishment meted out for the merest peccadillo. They need no comment.