M. LE POILU
I
If you had ventured into Bar-le-Duc during the stormy days of 1916,
when the waves of the German ocean beat in vain against the gates
of Verdun, you might have thought that the entire French army was
quartered there. Soldiers were everywhere. The station-yard was a
wilderness of soldiers. In faded horizon-blue, muddy, inconceivably
dirty, with that air of _je ne sais quoi de fagoté_ which distinguishes
them, they simply took possession of the town. The _pâtisseries_
were packed--how they love cakes, _choux-à-la-crême_, _brioches_,
_madeleines_, tarts!--the Magasins Réunis was a tin in which all the
sardines were blue and all had been galvanised into life; fruit-shops
belched forth clouds that met, mingled and strove with clouds that
sought to envelop the vacated space; in the groceries we, who were
women and mere civilians at that, stood as suppliants, "with bated
breath and whispering humbleness," and generally stood in vain. But
for Madame I verily believe we would have starved. Orderlies from
officers' messes away up on the Front drove, rode or trained down
with lists as long as the mileage they covered, lists that embraced
every human need, from flagons of costly scent to tins of herrings or
_pâté-de-foie-gras_, or _Petit Beurre_, _Lulu_ (the most insinuating
_Petit Beurre_ in the world), from pencils and notepaper to soap, from
asparagus and chickens--twelve francs each and as large as a fair-sized
snipe--to dried prunes and hair-oil. We even heard of one _popotte_
which pooled resources and paid twenty-five francs for a lobster, but
perhaps that tale was merely offered as a tax upon our credulity.
Bar-le-Duc was delirious. Never had it known such a reaping, never had
it heard of such prices. It rose dizzily to an occasion which would
have been sublime but for the inhumanity of the _Petite Vitesse_ which,
lacking true appreciation of the situation, sat down upon its wheels
and ceased to run.
Not that the _Petite Vitesse_ was really to blame. It yearned to
indulge in itinerant action, but there was Verdun, with its gargantuan
mouths wide open, all waiting to be fed, and all clamouring for men,
munitions and _ravitaillement_ of every kind. In those days all roads
led to Verdun--all except one, and that the Germans were hysterically
treading.
However, we wasted no sympathy on the shopkeepers. Their complete
indifference to our needs drove every melting tenderness from our
hearts, or, to be quite accurate, drove it in another direction--that
of the poor _poilu_ who had no list and no fat wallet bulging with
hundred-franc notes. And I think he richly deserved all the sympathy
we could give him. Think of the streets as I have described them
when talking of the Marché Couvert, call to mind every discomfort
that weather can impose, add to them, multiply them exceedingly, and
then extend them beyond the farthest bounds of reason, and you have
Bar in the spring of 1916. Cold, wet, snow, sleet, slush, wind, mud,
rain--interminable rain--did their worst with us, and in them all
and under most soldiers lived in the streets. The _débitants_ and
café-restaurants were closed during a great part of the day, there
was literally nowhere for them to go. They huddled like flocks of
draggled birds in the station-yard, some in groups, some in serried
mass before the barrier, some stamping up and down, some sitting on
the kerb or on the low stone parapet from which the railings spring,
and while some, pillowing their heads on their kits, went exhaustedly
to sleep, others crouched with their backs against the wall. They ate
their bread, opened their tins of _conserve_--generally potted meat or
sardines--sliced their cheese with a pocket-knife, or absorbed needed
comfort from bottles which, for all their original dedication, were
rarely destined to hold water! On the Canal bank they sat or lay in the
snow, on ground holding the seeds of a dozen chilly diseases in its
breast; on the river banks they sprang up like weeds, on the Boulevard
every seat had its quota, and we have known them to have it for the
night. In all the town there was not a canteen or a _foyer_, not a hut
nor a camp, not a place of amusement (except a spasmodic cinema), not a
room set apart for their service. They might have been Ishmaels; they
must have been profoundly uncomfortable.
Yet no one seemed to realise it. That was the outstanding explosive
feature of the case. Late in the spring, towards the end of April or
in May, buffets were opened in the station-yard under the ægis of the
Croix Rouge. At one of these ham, sardines, bread, post cards, tobacco,
chocolate, cakes, matches, _pâté_, cheese, etc., could be bought;
at the other wine, and possibly beer. The space between was not even
roofed over, and, their small purchases made, the men had to consume
them--when eatable--in the open. But of real solicitude, in the British
sense of the word, for their comfort there was none.
France has shown herself mighty in many ways during the war, but--with
the utmost diffidence I suggest it--not in her care for the men who
are waging it. Our Tommies, with their Y.M.C.A. huts and Church Army
and Salvation huts, with their hot baths, their sing-songs in every
rest-camp, their clouds of ministering angels, their constellations of
adoring satellites waiting on them hand and foot, are pampered minions
compared with the French soldier. For him there is neither Y.M.C.A.,
Church Army nor Salvation Army. He comes, some three thousand of him,
_en repos_ to a tiny village, such as Fains or Saudrupt, Trémont or
Bazincourt, he is crowded into barns, granges, stables and lofts, he is
route-marched by day, he is neglected by evening. No one worries about
him. Amusement, distraction there is none. No club-room where he may
foregather comfortably, no cheery canteen with billiards and games,
no shops in which if he has money he can spend it. Blank, cheerless,
uncared-for nothingness. He gets into mischief--what can you expect?
He goes back to the trenches, and shamed eyes are averted and hearts
weighed with care hide behind bravado as he goes.
Sometimes you hear, "The men are so weary and so dispirited they do no
harm." They are like dream people, moving through a world of shadows.
Those who go down into hell do not come back easily to the things of
earth. Sometimes you hear tales that make you wince. The pity of it!
And sometimes you meet young girls who, tempted beyond their strength,
are paying the price of a sin whose responsibility should rest on other
shoulders.
"My friend the Aumonier at F---- does not know what to do with his
men," said the Abbé B. to me one day. "They are utterly discouraged,
he cannot rouse them; they vow they will not go back to the trenches."
And then he talked of agitators who tried to stir up disaffection in
the ranks, Socialist leaders and the like. (France has her Bolos to
meet even in the humblest places.) But I could not help thinking that
the good Aumonier's task would have been a lighter one had plenty of
wholesome recreation been provided for his men in that super-stupid,
dull and uninteresting village of F----.[11]
[11] It must be remembered that there is no one in such villages or
their immediate neighbourhood capable of initiating such recreation.
The inhabitants are of the small farmer class for the most part, the
mayor a working man, the parish priest old (priests of military age
serve with the colours), and all are often very poor.
The migratory soldier going to or from leave, or changing from one
part of the Front to another, might, as we have seen, wait hours
at a junction, cold and friendless, without where to lay his head.
And just why it was not particularly easy to discover. We divined a
psychological problem, we never really resolved it.
Does logic, carried to its ultimate conclusion, leave humanity limping
behind it on the road?
Or are the French the victims of their own history? Did not the
Revolution sow the seeds of deep distrust between aristocracy and
bourgeoisie and, more than that, sow an even deeper distrust between
bourgeois and bourgeois? During the Reign of Terror the man who dined
with you to-night all too often betrayed you on the morrow, neighbour
feared neighbour, and with terrible justification, the home became a
fortress round which ran a moat of silence and reserve, the family
circle became the family horizon, people learned to live to themselves,
to mind their own business and let the devil or who would mind that of
their neighbours.
When England was blossoming in a springtime of altruism, when
great-minded men and women were learning that the burden of the poor,
the sick, the suffering was their burden to be shouldered and carried
and passed from hand to hand, France was still maimed and battered by
blows from which she has scarcely yet recovered.
Even to-day French women tell me of the isolation of their upbringing.
"Our father discouraged intercourse with the families about us."
But that narrow individualism--or, more properly, tribalism--is,
I think, dying out, and the present war bids fair to give it its
death-stroke.
Behind the Revolution lay no fine feudal instinct, no traditions save
those of bitter hatred and of resentment on the one hand, of contempt
and oppression on the other. Not, it will be acknowledged, the best
material out of which to reconstitute a broken world. And so what might
be called collective sympathy was a feeble plant, struggling pitifully
in unfavourable soil. The great upper class which has made England so
peculiarly what she is scarcely existed in France. The old aristocracy
passed away, the new sprang from the Napoleonic knapsack; Demos in a
gilt frame, a Demos who had much to forget and infinitely more to
learn.
Some philanthropic societies, of course, existed before the war, but,
so far as my knowledge of them goes, they were run by the State or by
its delegates, the iron hand of officialdom closed down upon them, they
made little if any claim upon the heart of the people. Perhaps in a
nation of such indomitable independence no more was necessary, but what
was necessary--if I may dare to say so--was large-hearted sympathy and
understanding between class and class--a common meeting-ground, in fact.
So, at least, I read the problem, and offer you my solution for what it
is worth, uncomfortably aware that wiser heads than mine may laugh me
out of court and sentence me to eternal derision.
One thing, at least, I do not wish, and that is to bring in a verdict
of general inhumanity and hard-heartedness against the French nation.
A certain imperceptiveness, lack of intuition, of insight, of the
sympathetic imagination--call it what you will--is, perhaps, theirs in
a measure; but, on the other hand, the individual responds quickly,
even emotionally, to an appeal to his softer side. Only he has not
acquired the habit of exposing his soft side to view and asking the
needy to lean upon it! Nor has he acquired the habit of going forth to
look for people ready to lean. He accepts the _status quo_. But prove
to him that it needs altering, and he is with you heart and hand. His
is an attitude of mind, not of heart. When the heart is touched the
mind becomes its staunchest ally. The feeding of the refugees done on
lavish scale, the installation of a hostel for the relatives of men
dying in hospital are instances of what I mean. For months, years,
poor women, wives and mothers coming to take their last farewell of
those who gave their lives for France, had no welcome in Bar. All too
often they were unable to find a bed, they wandered the streets when
the hospitals were closed against them, they slept in the station.
Then a _Médicin-Chef_, with a big heart and reforming mind, suggested
that the refugee dormitories in the market should be converted into a
hostel. No sooner suggested than done. The "Maison des Parents" sprang
into life, a tiny charge was made for _le gîte et la table_, voluntary
helpers served the meals, organised, catered, kept the accounts.
France only needs to be shown the way. One day she will seek it out
for herself. Every day she is finding new roads. And this I am sure
every one who has worked as our Society has done will endorse, no
appeal has ever been made in vain to those who, like our friends in
Bar-le-Duc and elsewhere, gave with unstinting generosity and without
self-advertisement.
II
Think, too, of the hospitals. The call of the wounded was answered
magnificently. Remember that before the war French hospitals were very
much where ours were in the days of Mrs. Gamp, and before Florence
Nightingale carried her lamp through their dark and noisome places.
It is said that the nursing used to be done by nuns for the most
part, a fact of which the Government took no cognisance when it drove
the religious orders from the country, and when they went away it
fell into the hands of riff-raff. Women of no character, imported by
students as worthless as themselves, masqueraded as ministering angels,
and it is safe to assume that they neither ministered nor were angelic.
Gentlewomen, even the _petit bourgeoisie_, drew their skirts aside
from such creatures. The woman of good birth and education who became
a nurse, not only violated her code by earning her living, but cut her
social cables and drifted out upon an almost uncharted sea. Only the
few who were brave enough to attempt it trained (if my authorities are
reliable) in England, and no doubt it was owing in large measure to
them that a movement for re-organising the hospitals was set on foot.
But before the project could mature the church bells, ringing out their
call to arms, rang out a call to French women too, and gathered them
into the nursing profession.
Perhaps that is why the hale, hearty, often dirty, and by no means
always respectful _poilu_ has been neglected. Woman seeing him wounded
had no eye for him whole. Besides, he is rather a bewildering thing;
his gods are not her gods, his standards not her standards, she
is--dare I whisper it?--just a little afraid of him, as we are apt to
be of the thing we do not understand. All her instinct has bidden her
banish him from her orbit, but insensibly, inevitably he is beginning
to move in it, to worm himself in. Wounded, she has him at her mercy,
and when, repaired, patched and nursed into the semblance of a man
again, he goes back to the trenches surely she can never think of
him in the old way, or look at him from the old angle? As your true
democrat is at heart a complete snob, the poor _poilu_ used to be, and
is probably to a large extent still, looked down upon as an inferior
being. Conscription rubbed the hero from him, but the human being is
beginning to emerge.
It is possible that in the hospitals another revolution is taking place
which, if unseen and unguessed at, may be scarcely less far-reaching
in its effects than the old. It has at least drawn the women outside
the charmed circle of the home, it is bringing them hourly into contact
with a side of life which, but for the war, might have remained a
closed book whose pages they would always have shrunk from turning.
Such close contact with human agony, endurance and death cannot leave
them unmoved, and though they have not yet thoroughly mastered the
knack of making hospitals HOMES, though many little comforts, graces
and refinements that we think essential are missing, still, when one
remembers the overwhelming ignorance with which they began and the
difficulties they had to contend with, we must concede that they
have done wonders. For, unlike our V.A.D.s, they did not step into
up-to-date, well-appointed wards with lynx-eyed sisters, steeped in
the best traditions, waiting to instruct them. Experience was their
teacher. They were amateurs doing professional work, and without
discredit to them we may sympathise with the soldiers who, transferred
from a hospital under British management to one run by their own
compatriots, wept like children. Which shows that though we may deny
him the quality, the _poilu_ appreciates and is grateful for a good
dose of judicious petting.
III
Yes! The _poilu_ deserves our sympathy. He is, to my mind, one of
the most tragic figures of the war. He is pursued by a fatalism
as relentless as it is hopeless, and whether he is ill or well is
subjected to much unnecessary discomfort. He hates war, he hates the
trenches, he loathes the life of the trenches, he wants nothing so
much in the world as his own hearthstone. He is often despairing, and
convinced of defeat. ("Mademoiselle, never can we drive the Boche
from his trenches, _never_!") and yet he goes on. There lies the hero
in him--he goes on. Not one in a hundred of him has Tommy's cheery
optimism, unfailing good-humour, cheerful grumble and certainty of
victory. And yet he goes on! He sings _L'Internationale_, he vows in
regiments that "on ne marchera plus. C'est fini"--but he goes on. He is
really rather wonderful, for he has borne the brunt of heavy fighting
for more than three years, and behind him is no warm barrage of
organised care, of solicitude for his welfare, or public ministration
to shield him from the devils of depression and despair. His wife, his
sister, his mother may pinch and starve to send him little comforts,
but he is conscious of the pinching, he has not yet got the great
warm heart of a generous nation at his back. Think of his pay, of his
separation allowances (those of the refugees, one franc twenty-five per
day per adult, fifty centimes per day per child), and then picture him
fighting against heavy odds, standing up to and defying the might of
Germany at Verdun. Isn't he wonderful?
He seems to have no hope of coming through the war alive. In canteen,
in the train, in the kitchens of the refugees you may hear him say,
"At Verdun or on the Somme, what matter? It will come some time, and
best for those to whom it comes quickly."
"Ceux qui cherchent la mort ne la trouve jamais." The speaker was a
quick, vivid thing, obviously not of the working classes. He had been
_cité_ (mentioned) more than once, and offered his stripes with a view
to a commission several times, but had always refused them. "For me,
I do not mind, but think of the responsibility ... to know that the
lives of others hung upon you, your coolness, quickness, readiness
of decision. _Impossible!_ And it is the sergeants who die. The
mortality among them is higher than in any other rank. They must expose
themselves more, you see.... Oh yes, there are men who are afraid, and
there are men who try to die." It was then he added, "But those who
seek death never find it. The man who hesitates, who peers over the top
of the trench, who looks this way and that, wondering if the moment is
good, he gets killed; but the man who is not afraid, the man who wants
to die, he rushes straight out, he rushes straight up to the Boche ...
he is never hurt."
And then he and his companion talked of men who longed to die, who
courted death but in vain. Both expressed a quiet, unemotional
conviction that Death would come to them before long. And both wore the
Croix de Guerre.
Old Madame Leblan--you remember her?--had a nephew whom she loved as
a son. He and her own boys had grown up together, and she would talk
to me of Paul by the hour. He saw all the Verdun fighting, and before
that much that was almost as fierce; he visited her during every leave,
he brought her and her family gifts, napkin-rings, pen-handles,
paper-cutters, finger-rings, all sorts of odds and ends made in
the trenches from shell-cases and the like. He was always cheery,
always sure he would come again. Paul was like a breeze of sunny
wind, he never lost heart, he never lost hope--until they gave him
his commission. He refused it over and over again. Then his Colonel,
taxing him with want of patriotism, forced him to accept it. That
week he wrote to Madame. He told her of his promotion, adding, "In a
fortnight I shall get leave, so I am looking forward to seeing you all,
unless...."
She showed me the letter. She pointed to that significant "unless...."
"Never have I known Paul to write like that. Always he said I will
come." Her heart was full of foreboding, and next time I saw her she
took out the letter with shaking hands. Paul was dead.
"He knew," she said, as she wept bitterly; "he knew when he took his
commission."
A reconnaissance from which all his men got back safely, Paul last of
all, crawling on hands and knees ... raises himself to take a necessary
observation ... a sniper ... a swift bullet ... a merciful death ...
and an old heart bleeding from a wound that will never heal.
"If we see Death in front of us we care no more for it than we do
for that." A Zouave held a glass of lemonade high above the canteen
counter. "For that is the honour of the regiment. Death?" he shrugged.
"One will die, _sans doute_. At Verdun, on the Somme, _n'importe_! My
_copain_ here has been wounded twice. And I? I had two brothers, they
are both in your cemetery here. Yes, killed at Verdun, M'amzelle; I
was wounded. Some day I suppose that we, _nous aussi_...." Again he
shrugged. "Will you give me another lemonade?"
He and his companion wore the _fourragère_, the cord of honour, given
to regiments for exceptional gallantry in the field. They had been
at Vaux. And what marvels of endurance and sheer pluck the Zouaves
exhibited there are matters now of common knowledge. Personally,
I nourish a calm conviction that but for them and their whirlwind
sacrifice Verdun must have fallen.
IV
Fatalists? Yes. But a thousand other things besides. It is useless to
try and offer you the _poilu_ in tabloid form, he refuses to be reduced
to a formula. The pessimist of to-day is the inconsequent child of
to-morrow. You pity him for his misfortunes, and straightway he makes
you yearn to chastise him for his impertinence. His manners--especially
in the street--like the Artless Bahdar's, "are not always nice." He
can be, and all too often is, frankly indecent; indeed there are
hours when you ask yourself wildly whether indecency is not just a
question of opinion, and whether standards must shift when frontiers
are crossed, and a new outlook on life be acquired as diligently and as
open-mindedly as one acquires--or strives to!--a Parisian accent.
It is, of course, in the canteen that he can be studied most easily.
There you see him in all his moods, and there you need all your wits
about you if you are not to be put out of court a hundred times a day.
Canteens are, as we have seen, accidental luxuries on the French front.
They took root in most inhospitable soil. As happy hunting-grounds for
the pacifists and anti-war agitators they were feared, their value
as restoratives (I speak temperamentally, not gastronomically) being
practically unknown. But once known it was recognised. The canteen at
Bar-le-Duc, for instance, has been the means of opening up at least two
others, though the opinion of one General, forcibly expressed when it
was in process of installation, filled its promoters with darkest gloom.
"There will not be an unsmashed bowl, cup or plate in a week. The men
will destroy everything." And therein proved himself a false prophet,
for the men destroyed nothing--except our faith in that General's
knowledge of them!
Once, indeed, we did see them in unbridled mood, and many and deep
were the complications that followed it. It was New Year's Eve, and
as I crossed the station yard I could hear wild revelry ascending to
the night. (Perhaps at this point it would be as well to say that the
canteen was not run by or connected in any way with our Society, and
that I and two members of the _coterie_ worked there as supernumeraries
in the evenings when other work was done. The fourth and by no means
last member was one of the fairy godmothers whose magic wand had waved
it into being.) Going in, I found it as usual in a fog of smoke, and
thronged with men. Now precisely what befell it would take too long to
relate, but I admit you to some esoteric knowledge. The evening, for
me, began with songs sung in chorus, passed swiftly to solos which
blistered the air, and which would have been promptly silenced had not
Authority warned us "to leave the men alone, they are in dangerous
mood to-night." (A warning with which one helper, at least, had no
sympathy.) It may safely be assumed that there was much in those songs
which we did not understand, but, judging by what we did, ignorance was
more than bliss, it was the topmost pinnacle of discretion.
The soloist hoarse (he should have had a megaphone, so terrific was
the din), his place was taken by a creature so picturesque that all my
hearts went out to him at once. (It is as well to take a few hundred
with you when you go to France, they have such a trick of mislaying
themselves.) He was tall and slender, finely made, splendidly poised,
well-knit, a graceful thing with finished gestures, and he wore a
red fez, wide mustard-coloured trousers and a Zouave coat. He was
singularly handsome with chiselled features and eyes of that deep soft
brown that one associates with the South. Furthermore, he possessed no
mean gift of oratory.
He stood on the bench that did duty as a platform. Jan Van Steen might
have painted the canteen then, or would he have vulgarised it? In spite
of everything, in some indefinable way it was not vulgar, and yet we
instinctively felt that it ought to have been. What saved it? Ah, that
I cannot tell. Perhaps the dim light, or the faint blueish haze of
tobacco smoke, the stacked arms, trench-helmets hanging on the walls.
Or else that wonderful horizon-blue, a colour that is capable of every
artistic _nuance_, that lures the imagination, that offers a hundred
beauties to the eye, and can resolve itself as exquisitely against
the dark boarding of a canteen as against the first delicate green of
spring, or against autumn woods a riot of colour.
Now the speech of that graceless creature, swaying lightly above the
crowd, was everything that a canteen or war-time speech ought not
to be. It began with abuse of capitalists--well, they deserved it,
perhaps. It taxed them with all responsibility for the war, it yearned
passionately to see them in the trenches. There, at least, we were in
accord. We know a few.... But when it went on to say that the masses
who fought were fools, that they should "down tools," that the German
is too rich, too powerful, too well-organised, too supreme a militarist
ever to be defeated.... Then British pride arose in arms.... Just what
might have happened I cannot say, for French pride arose too, and as
it rose the orator descended, and holy calm fell for a moment upon the
raging tumult.
It was indeed a hectic evening, and I, for one, was hoarse for two
days after it. Even "Monsieur désire?" or "Ça fait trente-trois sous,
Monsieur," was an exercise requiring vocal cords of steel or of wire in
such a hubbub, and mine, alas! are of neither.
But the descent of the orator was not the end. Somehow, no matter how,
it came to certain ears that the canteen that night had been the scene
of an "orgy," the reputation of France was at stake, and so it befell
that one afternoon when the thermometer sympathetically registered
twenty-two degrees of frost, Colonel X. interviewed those of us who had
assisted at the revels, separately one by one, in the little office
behind the canteen. He wanted, it seems, to find out exactly what had
happened. Well, he found out!
Put to the question, "Colonel X.," quoth I, not knowing the enormity I
was committing, "the men had drunk a little too much."
"But, Mademoiselle," his dignity was admirable, reproof was in every
line of his exquisitely-fitting uniform, "soldiers of France are never
drunk."
"Then"--this very sweetly--"can you tell me where they get the wine?"
And he told me! He ought to have shot me, of course, and no doubt I
should richly have deserved it. But inadvertently I had touched upon
one of his pet grievances. The military authorities can close the
_débitants_ and restaurants, but they cannot close the _épiceries_.
"Every grocer in France," he cried, "can get a license to sell wine.
He sends a small boy--_un vrai gosse_--to the Bureau, he stamps a
certificate, he pays a few francs, and that is all. A soldier can fill
his bottle at any grocer's in the town. Why," he went on, the original
cause of our interview forgotten and the delinquent turned confidante,
"not long ago I entrained a regiment here sober, Mademoiselle, I assure
you sober, but when they arrived at R---- they were drunk. And the
General was furious. 'What do you mean by sending me drunken soldiers?'
he thundered. They had filled their bottles, they were thirsty in the
train...."
But officially, you understand, soldiers of France are never drunk.
Actually they seldom are. Coming home after six months in Bar, I saw
more soldiers under the influence of drink in a week (it included a
journey to Ireland in a train full of ultra-cheerful souls) than in all
my time in France. That men who were far from sober came occasionally
to the canteen cannot be denied, there are rapscallions in every army,
but the percentage was small, and with twenty-two degrees of frost
gnawing his vitals there is excuse for the man who solaces himself with
wine.
V
It was characteristic of the French mind that Colonel X. could not
understand why we did not call the station guard and turn the rioters
into the street. To wander about in that bitter wind, to get perhaps
into all sorts of trouble! Better a rowdy canteen a hundred times over.
We were frank enough--at least I know I was--on that aspect of the
episode, and, all honour to him, he conceded a point though he failed
to understand its necessity. But now, as at so many pulsating moments
of my career, the ill-luck that dogs me seized me in the person of the
Canteen-Chief and removed me from the room. She, poor ignorant dear,
thought I was being indiscreet, whereas I was merely being receptive.
I am sure I owe that Canteen-Chief a grudge, and I HOPE the Colonel
thinks he does, but on that point his discretion has been perfect.
Only in the very direst extremity would we have called in the station
guard. We knew the deep-seated animosity with which the soldier views
the gendarme. I may be wrong, but my firm impression is that he hates
him even more than, or quite as much, as he hates the Boche. I suppose
because he does not fight. There must be something intensely irritating
to a war-scarred soldier in the sight of a strapping, well-fed,
comfortable policeman. You know the story of the wounded Tommy making
his way back from the lines and being accosted by a red-cap?
"'Some' fight, eh?" he inquired blandly.
"Some don't," retorted Tommy, and that sums the situation up more
neatly than a volume of explanation.
Once, after the Walpurgis Night, a man chose to be noisy and slightly
offensive in the canteen. It was a thing that rarely happened, and
could always be dealt with, but, smarting possibly under a reprimand,
the guard rushed in, seized a quiet, inoffensive, rather elderly man
who was meekly drinking his coffee, and in spite of remonstrances and
protestations in which the canteen-workers joined, dragged him off,
cutting his throat rather badly with a bayonet in the scuffle. A little
incident which in no way inclined us to lean for support, moral or
otherwise, upon the guardians of military law. But we gave them their
coffee or chocolate piping hot just the same.
And there were weeks when hot drinks were more acceptable than would
have been promise of salvation.
"Bien chaud" ("Very hot") they would cry, coming in with icicles on
their moustaches and snow thick on their shoulders. Once an officer
asked for coffee.
"Very hot, please."
"It is boiling, Monsieur." He gulped it down.
"It is the first hot food I have tasted for fourteen days."
"From Vaux?" we asked.
"Yes, front line trenches. Everything frozen, the wine in the
wine-casks solid. Yes, another bowl, please."
Once another officer came in accompanied by an older man whom we
thought must be his father. He begged for water.
"It comes straight from the main tap, it is neither filtered nor
boiled," we told him.
"_N'importe._" No, he would not have tea nor coffee. Water, cold water.
He had a raging, a devouring thirst. A glass was filled and given him.
"Suppose Monsieur gets typhoid?"
"He has it now," the elderly man replied. "His temperature is high,
that is why he has so great thirst." The patient drank another glass.
Then they both went away. We often wondered whether he recovered.
Once, at least, our hearts went out to another sick man. He leaned
against the counter with pallid face, over which the sweat of physical
weakness was breaking. Questioned, he told us he had just been
discharged from hospital, he was going back to the trenches, to Verdun,
in the morning. He looked as if he ought to have been in his bed. I
wonder if any society exists in France with the object of helping such
men? We never heard of one (which by no means proves that it does not
exist), but oh, how useful it might have been in Bar! One morning, for
instance, a man tottered into the canteen, ordered a cup of coffee,
drank, laid his head down on the table and fell into a stupefied doze.
So long did he remain the canteeners became anxious. Presently he
stirred, and told them that he had come there straight from a hospital,
that he was going home on leave, that his home was far--perhaps two
days' journey--away, and he had not a sou in his pocket. He was by no
means an isolated case. As a packet of food was being made up for him,
a soldier, obviously a stranger to the sick man, ordered _deux œufs
sur-le-plat_."
"They are not for myself," he said, "but for the pal here." A little
act of good comradeship that was by no means the only one of its kind.
The moment which always thrilled was that in which a regimental
Rothschild treated his companions to the best of our store. How eagerly
and exhaustively the list of _boissons_ was studied!
"Un café? C'est combien? Deux sous? ce n'est pas cher ça." Then to a
friend, "Qu'est-ce-que-tu-prends?"
"Moi? je veux bien un café."
"No, non, un chocolat. C'est très bon le chocolat." The coffee lover
wavers.
"Soit. Un chocolat alors." Then some one else cannot make up his mind.
A bearded man pouring _bouillon_ down his throat recommends that. It
is excellent. The merits of soup are discussed. Then back they go to
coffee again, and all the time as seriously as if the issue of the
war depended upon their deliberations. At length, however, a decision
is made--not without much pleading for _gniolle_ (rum) on the part
of Rothschild. "A drop? Just a tiny drop, Mad'm'zelle. Eh, there is
none? _Mais comment ça?_ How can one drink a _jus_ (coffee) without
_gniolle_? Mad'm'zelle is not kind." He would wheedle a bird from the
bushes, but happily for our strength of mind there is no drink stronger
than _jus_ in the canteen, a fact he finds it exceedingly difficult to
believe. We know that when at last he accepts defeat he is convinced
that fat bottles lie hidden under the counter to be brought forth for
one whose powers of persuasion are greater than his. He loads his
bowls on a tray, carries them by some occult means unbroken through the
throng, and has his reward when the never-failing ceremony of clinking
bowls or glasses with _Bonne chance!_ or _Bonne Santé!_ or _À vous_,
prefaces the feast.
A pretty rite that of the French. Never did two comrades drink together
in the canteen without doing it reverence. Never did I, visiting a
refugee, swallow, for my sins, _vin ordinaire rouge_ in which a lump of
sugar had been dissolved without first clinking glasses with my hosts
and murmuring a "Good health," or "Good luck," and feeling strangely
and newly in sympathy with them as I did so. The little rite invested
commonplace hospitality with grace and spiritual meaning.
VI
However, you must not think that the canteen kept us in a state of
soppy sentiment, or even of perfervid sympathy. Sanity was the mood
that suited it best. Presence of mind the quality that made for
success. A sense of humour the saving grace that made both the former
possible. When a thin, dark individual leans upon the counter for half
an hour or more, silent, ruminative, pondering--it is a quiet night, no
rush--gather your forces together. His eyes follow you wherever you go,
you see revelations hovering on his lips. You become absorbed in ham or
sausage (horse-sausage is incredibly revolting), but your absorption
cannot last. Even sausages fail to charm, and then the dark one sees
his opportunity. He leans towards you ... His faith in himself must
be immense.... Does he really think that a journey to Paris at 2 a.m.
in an omnibus train and a snowstorm can tempt you? If we had consoled
all the lonely _poilus_ who offered us--temporarily--their hands, their
hearts and their five sous a day we should now be confirmed bigamists.
Or it may be that you are busy and contemplation of sausage
unnecessary. Then he sets up a maddening _Dîtes, dîtes, dîtes,
Mad'm'zelle_, that drives you to distraction. To silence him is
impossible. Indifference leaves him unmoved. He is like a clock in a
nightmare that goes on striking ONE!
That he has an eye for beauty goes without saying. "Voilà, une jolie
petite brune! Vas-y." So two vagabonds catching sight of a decorative
canteener, and off they go to discuss the price of ham, for only by
such prosaic means can Sentiment leap over the counter. He addresses
you by any and every name that comes into his head. "La mère," "la
patronne" (these before he grasped the fact that the canteen was an
_œuvre_ and not a commercial enterprise), "la petite," "la belle," "la
belle Marguerite," "la Frisée," "la Dame aux Lunettes," "la petite
Rose," and many others I have forgotten.
Indeed, the French aptitude for nicknames based on physical
attributes was constantly thrust on us. The refugees, finding our
own names uncomfortable upon the tongue, fell back on descriptive
nomenclature. "La Blonde," "la Blanche," for the fair-haired. "La
Grande," "la Belle," "la belle Dame au Lunettes," "la petite bleue,"
"la Directrice," "la grande dame maigre." And once when a bill was in
dispute in a shop the proprietress exclaimed, "Is it that you wish to
know who bought the goods? It was la petite qui court toujours et qui
est toujours si pressée" (the little lady who always runs and is always
in such a hurry). As a verbal snapshot it has never been equalled. It
would have carried conviction in any court in the country.
But most of all the heart of the soldier rejoices when he can call you
his _marraine_ (godmother). That we, mere English, pursued by ardent
souls, should sometimes be compelled to send out S.O.S. messages to our
comrades; that, feeling the mantle of our dignity slipping perilously
from our shoulders, we should cast aside our remote isolation and
engage the worker in the "next department" in animated conversation,
was only to be expected. But our hearts rejoiced and the imps in us
danced ecstatically when Madame D. was discovered one day hiding in the
office. She, splendid ally that she always was, volunteered to sit at
the receipt of custom on certain afternoons each week, and, clad in her
impenetrable panoply, at once suavely polite, gracious but infinitely
aloof, to sell _tickés_ with subdued but inextinguishable enjoyment.
But a lonely _poilu_ strayed by who badly needed a _marraine_, and so
persistent was he in his demands, so irresistible in his pleadings, so
embarrassing in his attentions, Madame, the panoply melting and dignity
snatched by the winds, fled to the office, from whence no persuasions
could lure her till the lonely one had gone his unsatisfied way.
It is the man from the _pays envahi_ who, most of all, needs a
_marraine_, e. g. a sympathetic, sensible woman who will write to him,
send him little gifts and take an interest in his welfare. Because all
too often he stands friendless and alone. His relatives, his family
having remained in their homes, between him and them lies silence
more awful than death. He is a prey to torturing fears, he endures
much agony of mind, dark forebodings hang about him like a miasma
poisoning all his days. No news! And his loved ones, in the hands of
a merciless foe, may be in the very village the French or the British
are shelling so heavily! From his place in the trenches he may see the
tall chimneys, the church spire in the distance. He has been gazing
yearningly at them for two years, has seen landmarks crumble and
steeples totter as the guns searched out first one, then another....
A _marraine_ may well save the reason of such men as these. She can
assuredly rob life of much of its bitterness, and inspire it with hope
and courage to endure.
One of these men who came from Stenay told us of his misery. He had
done well in the army, had been promoted, might have been commissioned,
but his loneliness, the vultures of conjecture that tugged at his
heart, his longing and his grief overwhelmed him one night, and seeking
distraction in unwise ways he fell into dire trouble, and was reduced
to the ranks....
And yet, though I write of these poor derelicts, it is the gay and
gallant who holds my imagination. The thing of the "glad eye," and the
swagger, the jest, "Going _en permission_, Mad'm'zelle," the happiest
thing in France! It is he, the irrepressible, who carries gaiety
through the streets as he rolls by in his _camions_; he sings, he plays
discordant instruments, he buys _couronnes_ of bread, he shouts to
the women. "Ah, la belle fille!" "Mad'm'zelle, on aura un rendez-vous
là-bas." Sometimes he is more explicit:--intermittent deafness is an
infirmity of psychological value in the War Zone! And he thoroughly
enjoys the canteen. He likes "ploom-cak," he likes being waited on by
_Les Anglaises_, he likes the small refinements (though now and then
he "borrows" the forks), he appreciates generosity, he is by no means
ungrateful (see him pushing a few coppers across the counter with a
shamefaced "C'est pour l'œuvre"), and at his worst, least controlled,
most objectionable, he can be shamed into silence or an apology by a
few firm or tactful words.
A bewildering thing! If I wrote of him for ever I should not be able to
explain him.
ENVOI
And so the tale is written, and the story told in strange halting
numbers that can but catch here and there at the great melody of the
human symphony.
Just for one moment one may lay one's finger on the pulse of a great
nation, feel its heart beat, feel the quivering, throbbing life that
flows through its veins, but more than that who dare hope to gain? Not
in one phase, nor in one era, not in one great crisis nor even in a
myriad does the heart of a people express itself fully. From birth to
death, from its first feeble primitive struggles as it emerges from
the Womb of Time to its last death-throe as it sinks back again into
the Nothingness from which it came, it gathers to itself new forces,
new aspirations, new voices, new gods, new altars, new preachers,
new goals, new Heavens, new Hells, new readings of the Riddle that
only Eternity will solve. It is in perpetual solution, and the
composite atoms that compose it are in a state of unending change and
transmutation; it dies but to live again in other forms, is silent
only to express itself through new and--may we not hope it?--more
finely-tuned instruments.
Summarising it to-day you may say of your summary, This is Truth. But
to-morrow it is already falsehood, for the Nation, bound upon the Wheel
of Evolution, has passed on, leaving you bewildered by the way. And
since the war has thrown the nations of the world into the crucible,
until they come forth again, and not till then, may we say, with
finality, "This is gold, or that alloy."
France is being subjected to a severe test; her burden is almost more
than she can bear, but as she shoulders it we see the gold shining,
we believe that the dross is falling away. No defeat in the field--if
such an end were possible--can rob her of her glory, just as no victory
could save Germany from shame. "What shall it profit a Nation if it
gain the whole world, and lose its own soul?" The soul of Germany is
withered and dead. She has sacrificed it on the Altar of Militarism,
and has set up the galvanic battery of a relentless despotism and crude
materialism in its place.
But the Soul of France lives on, strengthened and purified, the Soul of
a Nation that seeks the Light and surely one day shall find it.
THE END
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TELEGRAMS;
LANGUAGE-RAND,
LONDON.
TELEPHONE NO.
7435 GERRARD.
To the Clergy:
Lent, 1918.
_34, SOUTHAMPTON STREET,
STRAND, LONDON, W.C.2._
_PUBLISHERS TO HIS MAJESTY KING GEORGE V._
SKEFFINGTON'S NEW LIST
Including New Sermons for +Lent, Good Friday+ and +Easter,+
many of them with special reference to the +Three Years of War,+
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=Thoughts for Dark Days=: By the Rev. H. L. GOUDGE, D.D., Canon of
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The purpose of these excellent sermons is to bring out the value of the
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=Lenten Teaching in War Time=: By the Rev. J. H. WILLIAMS, M.A.,
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They contain many new thoughts, and the subjects dealt with are treated
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There is one main thought throughout each week (with illustrative
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=Life in Christ=, or What It Is to be a Christian: By the REV. CANON
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The Author of this book was for many years engaged in preaching
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The book will be specially useful to those who desire to have, or to
give to others, consecutive and plain teaching.
=At God's Gate=: By the Venerable JOHN WAKEFORD, B.D., Precentor of
Lincoln. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. net (postage 3d.).
A Series of Addresses suitable for "A Retreat," "A Quiet Day," or for
private reading with many entirely new thoughts and the expressions of
thought. The book is written with marked ability and can be thoroughly
recommended.
It contains eight chapters suggesting thought, and stimulating the
praise and worship of God. In these days of emotion and spiritual
disquiet it is a wholesome thing to be drawn to think about the
relation of body and spirit in the harmony of the life of grace. The
mistaken distinctions of natural and spiritual are here put away, and
man is shown in his common life as the Child of God, intent upon doing
his Father's business.
=Triplicates of Holy Writ=: By the Rev. J. H. WILLIAMS, M.A. Author
of "Christmas Peace in War Time," "Lenten Thoughts in War Time," etc.
Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net (postage 2d.).
This book contains fine Addresses for the Sundays in Lent, Good Friday
and Easter Day applicable to the War.
The Publishers cannot do better than give the chapter headings of the
book which is written in this popular writer's best vein:
_Ash Wednesday_: The Three Primary Duties--Prayer, Fasting and
Alms-giving. _Lent I._: The Three Temptations. _Lent II._: The Three
Favoured Disciples. _Lent III._: The Three Hebrew Martyrs. _Refreshment
Sunday_: The Three Witnesses. _Passion Sunday_: The Three-One God.
_Palm Sunday_: The Three Burdens. _Good Friday_: The Three Crosses.
_Easter Sunday_: The Threefold Benediction.
=Some Penitents of Scripture=: By the late Rev. G. A. COBBOLD. Author
of "Tempted Like as We are." Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. (postage 3d.).
This book, showing as it does various aspects of that wide subject,
"Repentance," should prove especially useful to the Clergy during the
Season of Lent.
The first address is a powerful appeal and a clear setting forth of the
meaning of a true repentance.
In the other six addresses the author dwells in a very original and
practical way on various notable repentances recorded in Holy Scripture.
=Piety and Power=: By the Rev. H. CONGREVE HORNE, Author of "The Mind
of Christ crucified." Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net.
An exposition of "My Duty towards God," as defined in the Catechism,
and of the Eucharist as the means whereby we are empowered to perform
that duty.
A contribution towards the wider appreciation of the Holy Eucharist as
the grand corporate act of redeemed humanity, bending in lowly homage
before the Sovereign Ruler of the Universe and Father of all mankind.
Contents: Introduction--Faith, Fear and Love--Worship and
Thanksgiving--Trustfulness and Prayer--God's Holy Name and Word--True
Service--An Epilogue for Holy Week.
Each chapter is divided into six sections. Those with the four which
form the Introduction will provide a short reading for each week day
of Lent. The Epilogue for Holy Week reviews the leading ideas of the
book by means of outline Meditations on one of the events of each day.
(Postage 2d.).
=The Language of the Cross=: By the Rev. J. H. WILLIAMS, M.A. Author
of "Christmas Peace in War Time," "Lenten Thoughts in War Time," etc.
Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net (postage 2d.).
This excellent book contains plain addresses written on new lines of
thought, on "The Seven Last Words."
They have copious reference to the War and are likely to prove useful
for the Three Hours' Service, or as Addresses during Lent and Passion.
The subjects include: "The Word of Intercession," "The Word of Kingly
Majesty," "The Word of Filial Affection," "The Word of Desertion," "The
Word of Agonized Humanity," "The Word of Victory," "The Word of Death."
=God's Love and Man's Perplexity=: By the Rev. A. V. MAGEE, Vicar of
St. Mark's, Hamilton Terrace. Author of "The Message of the Guest
Chamber" (3rd edition), etc. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. net (postage 3d.).
This book, which deals with various aspects of the love of God, will
be specially useful for Retreats and Quiet Days, or for courses of
Sermons. It is also a message of Hope in war time, for all who feel
unable to reconcile the love of God with the horrors of war.
The chapters deal with "The Prodigality of Love," "The Claim and
Response of Love," "The Quality of Divine Love," "The Joy of Love,"
"The Timeliness of Love," "The Tardiness of Love, the Power and
Patience of Love," "Love's Reward of Obedience," "Love's Perplexity."
It is excellent in every way, and can be thoroughly recommended.
Her Majesty the Queen has been graciously pleased to say that she will
be pleased to accept a copy of this book on publication.
=Prayer the Sign-Post of Victory=: Addresses written for January 6th,
1918, but eminently suitable for general use. By the REV. CANON C. LL.
IVENS, H. CONGREVE HORNE and J. H. WILLIAMS. 2s. 6d. net.
This book contains five addresses, the chapter headings being:
"A Time Call to Prayer and Thanksgiving," "The King's Command,"
"Prayerfulness," "Clearsightedness," "What the Crib reveals in Time of
War," and an "Appendix of Prayers."
=Religion and Reconstruction.= Cloth, crown 8vo., 3s. 6d. net (postage
3d.).
If the War has taught us anything at all, it has most certainly
taught us that many of our national institutions and many phases of
our social life need urgent reform. Men's minds are turning towards
reconstruction. The whole fabric of Church and State is quickly
coming under the ken of an impatient public, and there is a danger
that they will be guided more by the heart than the head. Problems of
Reconstruction call for the consideration of men of stability and high
character. As the Church's contribution to this momentous discussion,
the forthcoming book on "RELIGION AND RECONSTRUCTION" is one that
everybody will find extremely valuable.
It has been written by:
The RT. REV. C. J. RIDGEWAY, D.D., Bishop of Chichester.
The RT. REV. J. A. KEMPTHORNE, D.D., Bishop of Lichfield.
The RT. REV. B. POLLOCK, C.V.O., D.D., Bishop of Norwich.
The RT. REV. W. W. PERRIN, D.D., M.A., Bishop of Willesden.
The RT. REV. J. E. C. WELLDON, D.D., Dean of Manchester.
The VERY REV. W. M. EDE, D.D., M.A., Dean of Worcester.
The RT. REV. G. H. FRODSHAM, D.D., Canon of Gloucester.
The HON. and REV. CANON JAMES ADDERLEY, M.A.
The VEN. JOHN WAKEFORD, Precentor of Lincoln, B.D.
MONSIGNOR POOCK, D.D.
The REV. W. E. ORCHARD, D.D. (Presbyterian).
The REV. F. B. MEYER, B.A., D.D. (Baptist).
F. C. SPURR (Baptist).
leaders of religious thought, who are something more than students of
social questions.
The book covers a very wide field, from questions of Education and
Imperial Politics to those of Family and Domestic Interest. It is the
book every parish priest, in fact every minister of religion, should
read and discuss with his parishioners and adult classes.
=Faith and the War=: By ARTHUR MACHEN, Author of "The Bowmen: and
other Legends of the War." Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net (postage 2d.).
This very ably written book contains excellent doctrine which ought to
prove helpful to any Christian of any religious persuasion. The errors
of Infidelity and the absurdities of Spiritualism are exposed in a
courteous manner. The subjects include: "The Contradictions of Life,"
"Faith," "The Freethinker," "The Religion of the Plain Man," etc.
=The Round of the Church's Clock=: By the Rev. JOHN SINKER, Vicar of
Lytham, and Rural Dean of the Fylde. Author of "Into the Church's
Service," "The Prayer Book in the Pulpit," "The War; Its Deeds and
Lessons," etc. With an introduction by the Right Rev. G. H. S.
Walpole, D.D., Lord Bishop of Edinburgh. Recently published. Crown
8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net (postage 4d).
An entirely new series of Addresses, including one Sermon for each of
the Church's Seasons from Advent to Trinity.
These addresses are popular in style, and abound in illustrations
and other matter calculated to arrest and hold the attention of any
congregation. Messrs. Skeffington consider them among the very best
they have ever published.