[Illustration: Funeral Oraison—In the Cemetery]
Up the village street comes the funeral. Gusts of wind, bearing fog and
rain on their wings, roar up the roadway, tossing the branches against
the low sky, tearing the last Autumn leaves from the trees, whirling
the skirts of the women and the white garments of the priest, as the
mournful little band struggles towards the church.
The bell is tolling in long, heavy notes; the funeral cars, alas!
three in number, move slowly along; the "tricolor," wet and draggled,
whipping above the heads of the little troopers who have lain down
their lives that it may float free and unsubdued over France.
What a sad little procession it is! First, a chorister bearing a cross;
then two others chanting, with the priest, the dirge for the dead.
On either side of the three hearses limp a few soldiers, their red
trousers the only spot of color in the black and gray landscape.
A group of the Red Cross nurses follow, their dark cloaks and
white head-dresses straining in the gale, and then the crowd of
sorrowing people. Poor, humble folk they are, in sabots and heavy
black peasant costumes. Old women tottering along together, bending
their white-coiffed heads to the blast. Young women, white and
broken-hearted. Tragedy written in changeless lines on their faces,
innocent victims of this unspeakable war, bearing their last poor
little offerings in their red hands, a few rain-beaten bunches of
chrysanthemums, the only tribute they can offer to their dear ones.
The bell still tolls mournfully; the bowed, black figures grow fainter
in the mist. In from the Atlantic sweeps the storm, raging above the
piteous mourners. Shrieking! Whistling! Howling! Where now the sunny
France sung by the poets? Where the gaiety and life, so typical of the
charming French?
Gray clouds, wind-swept roads, black skeleton branches, straining away
from the sea. Rain in gusts. Cold, sorrow, desolation in all the land!
Since the war began, seventy-five thousand Frenchmen have fallen on the
field of honor. Some on the battlefields, some in the trenches, others
destroyed beyond human recognition. Nameless graves cover the northern
plains. In innumerable hospitals lie the broken remnants of French
manhood.
Five hundred thousand they are today, suffering untold agonies,
helpless, uncomplaining.
What can Americans, in the happy safety of their homes know of the
tragedy, the death, that overwhelms us here?
It is so far-reaching, so stupendous, so heart-breaking, all energy and
activity become paralyzed.
Where begin? What can one do? If one helps only a few hundreds, how
about the thousands one cannot reach?
England, in fine generosity, has sent supplies of all kinds: medicines,
garments, hospital stores, surgical instruments; five hundred tons have
crossed the channel.
Beyond praise, the pitying help of England! She has poured her wealth,
her supplies, her splendid armies, into France, giving ungrudgingly and
constantly. But for her timely assistance, we should be in unimaginable
straits. But now England needs for her own.
With her great losses in men, fifty-seven thousand; her own wounded
the end of this October; her thousands upon thousands of refugees—one
cannot expect her to do for all.
How are her cousins across the Atlantic coming to our aid?
Can we count on the Americans? Will their warm hearts send out to us
these necessities for the wounded not only now, but during the long
weary months that stretch in such dreary perspective before us?
The melancholy little funeral is a daily occurrence; so used to it are
we, one scarcely notices it. The wounded living claim all our pity and
work.
Darkness closes down early these bleak November days, and the few
straggling lights illumine streets deserted. At 8 o'clock all cafes
close, the lamps are put out, and only the military patrol with their
feeble lanterns traverse the gloom. Nothing more until the cold
November dawn wakes us to another day of hard work.
Where fashionable women in luxurious motor-cars sped through the
avenues, now soldiers hobbling on sticks and crutches, or wheeled in
chairs, appear. Women and children swathed in crepe wander in dumb
groups on the Esplanade. The shops are full of soldiers' necessities,
and everywhere high and low, young and old, the seamstress, the
shop-keeper behind her counter, the young girls taking their morning
walks, even little schoolgirls, grandmammas and nurses, all are
knitting.
If a friend come to call (a rare pleasure nowadays, as all are too busy
for social amenities), out come the needles from a bag. The tea hour is
interrupted by the click of steel and the counting of stitches.
Those who cannot nurse are knitting socks, comforters,
chest-protectors, cholera belts, for the nights are cold on the
battlefields and the trenches are often full of water. The chilling
fogs creep up from the Flemish marshes and the little soldier, the
little Piou-Piou, has many long hours to face the cold and darkness.
Happy he who has some loving women to knit for him.
Strong, vigorous young men one never sees! Only wounded fellows,
old men in mourning, and priests ceaselessly on their errands of
consolation and pity.
In this hour of tribulation, France has turned devoutly and repentantly
to religion. The tone of the press has changed. A reverent and humble
seeking after Divine help is felt in their supplications.
It is not only the women and the ancients who now pray, for over many
hospital cots hang a crucifix, and hardened, indifferent men turn in
their agony to the ever-present clergy.
One dying man told me with great pride that though he had been a great
scoffer and unbeliever for many years, "Now that he had confessed and
received absolution, he was at peace and willing to go;" so, during
the long watches of the night, the old priest, broken as he was with
fatigue and sleeplessness, sat beside the poor chap comforting him
through the Valley of the Shadow, and when dawn came shortly, closed
his eyes, placing the crucifix between the stiffening fingers.
When the next day I placed a few flowers about the quiet form I found
the rugged features softened, all coarseness had disappeared. He lay at
peace with God and man.
Who was he? A peasant? A shoe-maker? A factory hand or street cleaner?
Perhaps an Apache? I do not know. But he gave all he had—his young
life! Surely he has gone to his reward.
Dinard, November, 1914.