And, in the meantime, Rheims goes about what business it may
have with that iron nerve and endurance and faith which is the
new inheritance of France. There is agony enough when the big
shells come in; there is pain and terror among the people; and
always fresh desecration to watch and suffer. The old men and
the women and the children drink of that cup daily, and yet
the bitterness does not enter into their souls. Mere words of
admiration are impertinent, but the exquisite quality of the
French soul has been the marvel to me throughout. They say
themselves, when they talk: "We did not know what our nation
was. Frankly, we did not expect it ourselves. But the thing
came, and--you see, we go on."
Or as a woman put it more logically, "What else can we do?
Remember, _we_ knew the Boche in '70 when _you_ did not. We
know what he has done in the last year. This is not war. It
is against wild beasts that we fight. There is no arrangement
possible with wild beasts." This is the one vital point which
we in England _must_ realize. We are dealing with animals who
have scientifically and philosophically removed themselves
inconceivably outside civilization. When you have heard a
few--only a few--tales of their doings, you begin to
understand a little. When you have seen Rheims, you
understand a little more. When you have looked long enough at
the faces of the women, you are inclined to think that the
women will have a large say in the final judgment. They have
earned it a thousand times.