I left the war zone with an increased respect, if this were possible,
for the men of France. They have altered their uniforms, but the
spirit is unchanged. They are no longer in the red and blue of the
old days, but in shades of green, grey and blue, colours blending
to form one mighty ocean--wave on wave of patriotism--beating
against and wearing down the rocks of military preparedness of
forty years, and as no man has yet been able to say to the Ocean
stop, so no man shall cry "Halt" to the Armies of France.
I have spoken much of the men of France, but the women have
also earned our respect--those splendid peasant women, who
even in times of peace worked, and now carry a double burden on
their shoulders--the middle-class women, endeavouring to keep
together the little business built up by the man with years of toil,
stinting themselves to save five francs to send a parcel to the man
at the Front that he may not suspect that there is not still every
comfort in the little homestead--the noble women of France, who in
past years could not be seen before noon, since my lady was at
her toilette, and who can be seen now, their hands scratched and
bleeding, kneeling on the floors of the hospitals scrubbing, proud
and happy to take their part in national service. The men owe
much of their courage to the attitude of the women who stand
behind them, turning their tears to smiles to urge their men to even
greater deeds of heroism.
In one of our hospitals was a young lad of seventeen who had
managed to enlist as an "engage volontaire" by lying as to his age.
His old Mother came to visit him, and she told me he was the last
of her three sons; the two elder ones had died the first week of the
war at Pont Mousson, and her little home had been burned to the
ground. The boy had spent his time inventing new and terrible
methods of dealing with the enemy, but with his Mother he
became a child again and tenderly patted the old face. Seeing the
lad in his Mother's arms, and forgetting for one moment the spirit
of the French nation, I asked her if she would not be glad if her boy
was so wounded that she might take him home. She was only an
old peasant woman, but her eyes flashed, her cheeks flushed with
anger and turning to me she said, "Mademoiselle, how dare you
say such a thing to me? If all the Mothers, Wives and Sweethearts
thought as you, what would happen to the country? Gustave has
only one thing to do, get well quickly and fight for Mother France."
Because these women of France have sent their men forth to die,
eyes dry, with stiff lips and head erect, do not think that they do not
mourn for them. When night casts her kindly mantle of darkness
over all, when they are hidden from the eyes of the world, it is then
that the proud heads droop and are bent upon their arms, as the
women cry out in the bitterness of their souls for the men who
have gone from them. Yet they realise that behind them stands the
greatest Mother of all, Mother France, who sees coming towards
her, from her frontiers, line on line of ambulances with their burden
of suffering humanity, yet watches along other routes her sons
going forth in thousands, laughter in their eyes, songs on their lips,
ready and willing to die for her. France draws around her her
tattered and bloodstained robe, yet what matters the outer
raiment? Behind it shines forth her glorious, exultant soul, and she
lifts up her head rejoicing and proclaims to the world that when she
appealed man, woman, and child--the whole of the French nation--
answered to her call.