once and arranged a most delightful programme for every day of our stay
in Copenhagen, bringing us invitations to see over the most important
hospitals, and the Finsen Light Institute, the old Guildhall, the
picture gallery, and anything else any of us wanted to see.
[Illustration: MAP OF OUR NORTHERN JOURNEY]
The president, Madame Tscherning, and the members of the same council,
arranged a most delightful afternoon reception for us at the Palace
Hotel, at which Dr. Norman Hansen welcomed us in the name of Denmark,
and read us a poem which he had written in our honour.
TO THE BRITISH SURGEONS AND NURSES PASSING COPENHAGEN ON THEIR WAY
FROM BELGIUM
Silent, we bid you welcome, in silence you answer'd our greeting
Because our lips must be closed, and your teeth are set
Against the gale.
Our mouths are mute, our minds are open--
We shall greet you farewell in silence;
Sowers of good-will on fields where hate is sown--
Fare ye well.
C. NORMAN HANSEN, M.D.
That evening at dinner we all found a beautiful bunch of violets tied up
with the Danish colours on our plates, and a pretty Danish medal with
the inscription "Our God--our Land--our Honour" which had been issued to
raise a fund for the Danish Red Cross Society. This was a little
surprise for us on the part of the manager of the hotel, who, like
every one else, simply overwhelmed us with kindness. One simply felt
dreadfully ashamed of oneself for not having done more to deserve all
this.
On the first day of our arrival in Denmark came the news of the downfall
of Antwerp, and through all these delightful invitations and receptions
there was a feeling in my heart that I was not free yet to enjoy myself.
The downfall of Antwerp seemed almost like a personal loss. We had been
so close to it, had shared our Belgian friends' hopes and fears, had
watched the big German howitzers going out on the Antwerp road, had
heard the bombardment of the forts, on our long journey through Belgium
had seen the enormous reinforcements being sent up to take it. And now
it had gone, and the Germans were marching on Ostend. What was the end
of all this going to be? We _must_ win in the end--but they are so
strong and well organized--so _dreadfully_ strong.
In that same paper I read an account from a Russian correspondent,
telling of the distress in Poland, which they described as the "Belgium
of Russia." It stated that the news just then was not good; the Germans
were approaching Warsaw, and that the people in many of the villages
were almost starving, as the Germans had eaten up almost everything.
(How well I could believe that!) The paper went on to say that the
troops were suffering severely from cholera and from typhoid fever and
that there was a great scarcity of trained nurses. That gave me the clue
for which I was unconsciously seeking--we had been turned out of
Belgium, and now, perhaps, our work was to be in that other Belgium of
Russia.
Three other Sisters wished to join me, and I telegraphed to St. John's
to ask permission to offer our services to the Russian Red Cross. The
answer was delayed, and as we could not go to Russia without permission
from headquarters, we most reluctantly prepared to go back to England
with all the others.
On the last morning our luggage, labelled Christiania-Bergen-Newcastle,
had already gone down to the station when the expected telegram arrived:
"You and three Sisters named may volunteer Russian Red Cross." We flew
down to the station and by dint of many tips and great exertions we got
our luggage out again. I should have been sorry to have lost my little
all for the second time.
This permission to serve with the Russian Red Cross was confirmed later
by a most kind letter from Sir Claude Macdonald, chairman of the St.
John's Committee, so we felt quite happy about our enterprise.
We could not start for Russia for another ten days. We were to be
inoculated against cholera for one thing, and then there were passports
and visés to get and arrangements for the journey to be made. The
ordinary route was by Abö, Stockholm and Helsingfors, but we were very
strongly advised not to go this way, first, because of the possibility
of mines in the Baltic, and, secondly, because a steamer, recently
crossing that way, had been actually boarded, and some English people
taken off by the Germans. And we had no desire to be caught a second
time.
So it was decided to my great joy that we should travel all the way
round by land, through Sweden, through a little bit of Lapland, just
touching the Arctic Circle, through Finland and so to Petrograd. The
thought of the places we had to go through thrilled me to the
core--Karungi, Haparanda, Lapptrask, Torneo--the very names are as
honey to the lips.
* * * * *
One might have expected that all the kindness and hospitality would
cease on the departure of the majority of the party, but it was not so.
Invitations of all kinds were showered on us. Lunches were the chief
form of entertainment and very interesting and delightful they were.
There was a lunch at the British Legation, one at the French Legation,
one at the Belgian Legation where the minister was so pathetically glad
of any crumbs of news of his beloved country; a delightful dinner to
meet Prince Gustav of Denmark, an invitation to meet Princess Mary of
Greece, another lunch with Madame Tscherning, the president of the
Danish Council of Nurses, and the "Florence Nightingale of Denmark."
Altogether we should have been thoroughly spoilt if it had lasted any
longer! One of the most delightful invitations was to stay at Vidbek for
the remainder of our time, a dear little seaside place with beautiful
woods, just then in their full glory of autumnal colouring. It was
within easy reach of Copenhagen and we went in almost every day, for
one reason or another, and grew very fond of the beautiful old city.
The time came for us to say good-bye. I was very sorry indeed to leave
dear little Denmark where we had had such a warm welcome. Denmark is, of
course, officially, absolutely neutral, but she cannot forget the ties
of blood and friendship that bind the two island countries together.
They are indeed a splendid people to be kin to, tall and fair and
strong, as becomes an ancient race of sea-kings. I only hope that it may
be my good fortune, some day, to be able to repay in some small measure
all the wealth of kindness so freely poured out for us.
On Saturday, October 24, at 7 P. M. we started for Lapland! Many
of our very kind friends came down to the station to give us a good
send-off and with last presents of flowers, fruit, chocolates and
papers. We crossed first to Malmö on the ferry, which took about an hour
and a half. It was very calm and clear, and we watched the little
twinkling lights of Denmark gradually disappear and the lights of Sweden
gradually emerge in exchange. At Malmö there was a customs examination
which was not very severe, as our things were all marked with a huge Red
Cross, and then we got into a funny little horse tram that conveyed us
to the station.
When morning broke we were speeding along towards Stockholm. The country
was very different from Denmark, much wilder, with rocks and trees and
sand and an occasional glimpse of lake. At that time Sweden was supposed
to bear little good-will towards England, and certainly our reception in
that land was distinctly a chilly one. We drove on arrival to a hotel
which had been recommended to us and asked the concierge if there were
rooms. He said there were, so we had our luggage taken down and
dismissed the cab. The concierge then looked at us suspiciously, and
said, "You are English?" "Yes, we are English." He then went and
confabbed for some minutes with the manageress, and returned. "There are
people still in the rooms, they will not be ready for twenty minutes."
"Then we will have breakfast now and go to our rooms after." Another
long conversation with the manageress, and then he returned again.
"There are no rooms." "But you said there were rooms." "There are no
rooms." Evidently there were none for English travellers anyway, so we
went to another hotel opposite the station, where they were civil, but
no more. We had to stay in Stockholm twenty-four hours and simply hated
it. I had heard much of this "Venice of the North," but the physical
atmosphere was as chilly and unfriendly as the mental one.
The recollection stamped on my memory is of a grey, cheerless town where
it rained hard almost the whole time, and a bitter wind blowing over the
quays which moaned and sobbed like a lost banshee.
I was asked to luncheon at the British Legation, and this proved a very
fortunate occurrence for us all, as the minister was so kind as to go to
great trouble in getting us a special permit from the Swedish Foreign
Office to sleep at Boden. Boden is a fortified frontier town and no
foreigners are, as a rule, allowed to stay the night there, but have to
go on to Lulea, and return to Boden the next morning. We started off on
the next lap of our northern journey that evening, and again through
the minister's kind intervention were lucky in getting a carriage to
ourselves in a very full train, and arrived twenty-four hours later at
Boden.
It was extraordinarily interesting to sleep in that little shanty at
Boden, partly, no doubt, because it was not ordinarily allowed. The
forbidden has always charms. It was the most glorious starlight night I
have ever seen, but bitterly cold, with the thermometer ten degrees
below zero, and everything sparkling with hoar frost. It was here we
nearly lost a bishop. A rather pompous Anglican bishop had been
travelling in the same train from Stockholm, and hearing that we
insignificant females had been permitted to sleep at Boden, he did not
see why he should not do the same and save himself the tiresome journey
to Lulea and back. So in spite of all remonstrances he insisted on
alighting at Boden, and with the whole force of his ecclesiastical
authority announced his intention of staying there. However, it was not
allowed after all, and he missed the train, and while we were
comfortably having our supper in the little inn, we saw the poor bishop
and his chaplain being driven off to Lulea. They turned up again next
morning, but so late that we were afraid they had got lost on the way
the night before.
All the next morning we went through the same kind of country, past
innumerable frozen lakelets, and copses of stubby pines and silver
birches, till we arrived at Karungi where the railway ends. We made
friends with a most delightful man, who was so good in helping us all
the way through that we christened him St. Raphael, the patron saint of
travellers. He was a fur trader from Finland, and had immense stores of
information about the land and the queer beasts that live in it. He was
a sociable soul, but lived in such out-of-the-way places that he seldom
saw anyone to talk to except the peasants, and it was a great treat, he
said, to meet some of his fellow-countrymen, and his satisfaction knew
no bounds when he heard that one of us hailed from Lancashire, near his
old home.
From Karungi we had to drive to Haparanda. Our carriage was already
booked by telegram, but a very irate gentleman from Port Said got into
it with his family and declined to get out, using such dreadful
language that I wondered the snow did not begin to sizzle. We did not
want to have a scene there, so when "St. Raphael" said if we would wait
till the evening he would take us over by starlight, we graciously let
the dusky gentleman with the bad temper keep our carriage.
We went in the meantime to the little wooden inn and ate largely of
strange dishes, dried reindeer flesh, smoked strips of salmon, lax, I
think it is called, served with a curious sweet sauce, and drank many
glasses of tea. At 9 P. M. behold an open motor-car arrived to
take us the thirty miles' drive to Haparanda. It seemed absolutely
absurd to see a motor-car up there on the edge of the Arctic Circle,
where there was not even a proper road. There were several reindeer
sleighs about, and I felt that one of those would have been much more in
keeping. The drivers look most attractive, they wear very gay reindeer
leggings, big sheep-skin coats and wild-looking wolf-skin caps.
The frozen track was so uneven that we rocked from side to side, and
were thrown violently about in the car, like little kernels in a very
large nut. But it was a wonderful night all the same, the air was thin
and intoxicating like champagne, and the stars up in these northern
latitudes more dazzlingly brilliant than anything I have seen before. We
had to get out at Haparanda and walk over the long bridge which led to
Torneo, where the Finnish Custom House was, and where our luggage and
passports had to be examined.
We arrived there very cheerful and well pleased with ourselves, to find
all our old travelling companions waiting till the Custom House was
open; the bishop and his party; the bad-tempered man and his family; a
Russian and a Chinese student who were travelling together, and some
others. They had been waiting in the cold for hours, and had not had
their papers or luggage examined yet, so we had had the best of it after
all.
And we scored yet once more, for "St. Raphael," who spoke fluent
Finnish, at once secured the only cart to take our things over the ferry
to the railway station about half a mile away.
It was borne in upon me during this journey what an immense country
Russia is. From Torneo to Petrograd does not look far on the map, but
we left Torneo on Wednesday night, and did not arrive in Petrograd till
12.30 A. M. on Saturday, about fifty-two hours' hard travelling
to cover this little track--a narrow thread, almost lost the immensity
of this great Empire.
Petrograd is not one of those cities whose charms steal upon you
unawares. It is immense, insistent, arresting, almost thrusting itself
on your imagination. It is a city for giants to dwell in, everything is
on such an enormous scale, dealt out in such careless profusion. The
river, first of all, is immense; the palaces grandiose, the very blocks
of which they are fashioned seem to have been hewn by Titans. The names
are full of romance and mystery. The fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul,
for instance, how it brings back a certain red and gold book of one's
youth, full of innocent prisoners in clanking chains confined in fetid
underground dungeons. It seemed incredible to really behold its slender,
golden minarets on the other side of the Neva. But this was no time for
sight-seeing, we were all very anxious to get to work at once. So my
first excursion in Petrograd was to the Central Bureau of the Red
Cross.
The director of the Red Cross received me most kindly and promised that
we should have work very soon. He suggested that in the meantime we
should go and stay in a Russian Community of Sisters, who had a hospital
in Petrograd. I was very glad to accept this offer for us all, for we
must assimilate Russian methods and ways of thought as soon as possible,
if we were to be of real use to them. Still I very much hoped that we
should not be kept in Petrograd very long, as we wanted, if possible, to
get nearer the front. I told the director that we had been inoculated
against cholera and typhoid, and would be quite pleased to be sent to
the infectious hospitals if that would be more help, as there are always
plenty of people to nurse the wounded, but comparatively few who for one
reason or another are able to devote themselves to this other very
necessary work.
We betook ourselves without delay to the Community of Russian Sisters,
and were installed in dear little cell-like rooms at the top of the
house devoted to the Sisters. The other side of the house is a
beautiful little hospital with several wards set apart for wounded
soldiers. There are a great many similar communities in Russia--all
nursing orders. They are called Sisters of Mercy, but are not nuns in
any sense, as they take no vows and are free to leave whenever they
like. The course of training varies from two to three years and is very
complete, comprising courses in dispensing and other useful subjects.
The pity of it is that there are comparatively few of these trained
Sisters at the front; the vast majority of those working there have only
been through a special "War Course" of two months' training, and are apt
to think that bandaging is the beginning and the end of the art of
nursing.
The Russian Sisters were most interested in our adventures, and most
kind and nice to us in every way, but assured us that we should not be
allowed anywhere near the front, as only Russian Sisters were allowed
there. They were very surprised when the order came a few days after our
arrival, that we were to get ready to go to Warsaw at once. That was
certainly not quite at the front at that moment, as just then Russia
was in the flush of victory, following the retreating Germans back from
Warsaw to the German frontier. But it was a good long step on the way.
One errand still remained to be done. I had not posted the letter given
me by the English lady at the Brussels station to her husband in
Petrograd, wishing to have the pleasure of delivering it myself after
carrying it at such risks all through Germany. Directly I arrived I made
inquiries for this Englishman, picturing his joy at getting the
long-deferred news of his wife. Almost the first person I asked knew him
quite well, but imagine what a blow it was to hear that he had a Russian
wife in Petrograd! I vowed never again to carry any more letters to
sorrowing husbands.
Before we went I received a very kind message that the Empress Marie
Federovna would like to see us before our departure. Prince Gustav of
Denmark had been most kind in writing to his aunt, the Empress, about
us, and had also been good enough to give me a letter of introduction to
her which I sent through the British Embassy.
A day was appointed to go to the Gatchina Palace to be presented to her
Majesty. The palace is a little way out of Petrograd and stands in a
beautiful park between the Black and the White Lake.
We were greeted by General K----, one of the Empress's bodyguard, and
waited for a few minutes in the throne room downstairs, chatting to him.
Soon we were summoned upstairs, a door was thrown open by an enormous
negro in scarlet livery, and we were ushered into the Empress's private
boudoir. The Empress was there, and was absolutely charming to us,
making us sit down beside her and talking to us in fluent English. She
was so interested in hearing all we could tell her of Belgium, and we
stayed about half an hour talking to her. Then the Empress rose and held
out her hand, and said, "Thank you very much for coming to help us in
Russia. I shall always be interested in hearing about you. May God bless
you in your work," and we were dismissed.
I would not have missed that for anything, it seemed such a nice start
to our work in Russia.
Every spare moment till our work began had to be devoted to learning
Russian. It is a brain-splitting language. Before I went to Russia I was
told that two words would carry me through the Empire: "Nichevo" meaning
"never mind," and "Seechas" which means "immediately" or "to-morrow" or
"next week." But we had to study every moment to learn as much Russian
as possible, as of course the soldiers could not understand any other
language. French is understood everywhere in society, but in the shops
no other tongue than Russian is any use. German is understood pretty
widely--but it is absolutely forbidden now to be spoken under penalty of
a 3000 rouble fine. In all the hotels there is a big notice put up in
Russian, French, and English in the public rooms "It is forbidden to
speak German," and just at first it added rather to the complications of
life not to be able to use it.
VII
OUR WORK IN WARSAW
In two or three days' time after our visit to the Empress we were off to
Warsaw and reported ourselves to Monsieur Goochkoff, the head of the Red
Cross Society there.
We received our marching orders at once. We were not to be together at
first, as they thought we should learn Russian more quickly if we were
separated, so two of us were to go to one hospital in Warsaw, two to
another. My fate was a large Red Cross hospital close to the station,
worked by a Community of Russian Sisters. I must say I had some anxious
moments as I drove with Sister G. to the hospital that afternoon. I
wondered if Monsieur Goochkoff had said we were coming, and thought if
two Russian Sisters suddenly turned up without notice at an English
hospital how very much surprised they would be. Then I hoped they were
very busy, as perhaps then they would welcome our help. But again, I
meditated, if they were really busy, we with our stumbling Russian
phrases might be only in the way. It was all very well in Denmark to
think one would come and help Russia--but supposing they did not want us
after all?
By the time I got so far we had arrived at the hospital, the old
familiar hospital smell of disinfectants met my nostrils, and I felt at
home at once. I found that I had been tormenting myself in vain, for
they were expecting us and apparently were not at all displeased at our
arrival. The Sister Superior had worked with English people in the
Russo-Japanese War and spoke English almost perfectly, and several of
the other Sisters spoke French or German. She was very worried as to
where we should sleep, as they were dreadfully overcrowded themselves;
even she had shared her small room with another Sister. However, she
finally found us a corner in a room which already held six Sisters.
Eight of us in a small room with only one window! The Sisters sleeping
there took our advent like angels, said there was plenty of room, and
moved their beds closer together so that we might have more space.
Again I wondered whether if it were England we should be quite so
amiable under like circumstances. I hope so.
I began to unpack, but there was nowhere to put anything; there was no
furniture in the room whatsoever except our straw beds, a table, and a
large tin basin behind a curtain in which we all washed--and, of course,
the ikon or holy picture which hangs in every Russian room. We all kept
our belongings under our beds--not a very hygienic proceeding, but _à la
guerre comme à la guerre_. The patients were very overcrowded too, every
corridor was lined with beds, and the sanitars, or orderlies, slept on
straw mattresses in the hall. The hospital had been a large college and
was originally arranged to hold five hundred patients, but after the
last big battle at Soldau every hospital in Warsaw was crammed with
wounded, and more than nine hundred patients had been sent in here and
had to be squeezed into every available corner.
My work was in the dressing-room, which meant dressing wounds all day
and sometimes well into the night, and whatever time we finished there
were all the dressings for the next day to be cut and prepared before
we could go to bed. The first week was one long nightmare with the awful
struggle for the Russian names of dressings and instruments and with
their different methods of working, but after that I settled down very
happily.
Sister G. was in the operating-room on the next floor, and she, too,
found that first week a great strain. The other two Sisters who had come
out with us and had been sent to another hospital apparently found the
same, for they returned to England after the first five days, much to my
disappointment, as I had hoped that our little unit of four might have
got a small job of our own later, when we could speak Russian better and
had learnt their ways and customs.