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With the full blast of war sweeping over this old Continent, with
the young manhood of France forming a wall of steel between us and
the enemy who would annihilate, with the prospect of this tragedy
continuing for an indefinite period, each Frenchwoman, safe behind the
living barrier, asks herself what she can do to help. How to use her
individual capacities to the best advantage for the sustenance and
comfort of those dear ones—the son or grandson in the trenches, the
husband or brother at the front, the children and the old folk left
behind in her care.
As one looks abroad over this beautiful country, seeing what she is
accomplishing, one is inspired with a sincere and fervent admiration
for her devotion, self-sacrifice and patriotism.
These noble qualities are not restricted to one class, but are
universal in all ranks; from the peasant to the comtesse, from
the little working girl to banker's wife; dressmakers, actresses,
school-teachers, shopkeepers, nuns, the erstwhile rich and idle, as
well as the wage-gainer, all feel the same enthusiasm; the same spirit
of courage and endurance fills their souls; the pressing desire to
"soul-ager" (help) the sorrow and privation brought on by this war of
wars.
All through the summer and autumn the women have worked manfully in the
fields. I use this word advisedly.
The physical strength to gather the wheat, cut the hay, garner the
fruit and vegetables, care for the cattle, toiling every day and all
day to replace the men at the front, shows what healthy living for
generations will do.
I have seen them down on the beach raking up the heavy piles of
sea-weed, pitching it on the high carts and hauling it back to their
farms, sometimes miles away, as fertilizer for the soil.
Strong, broad women these, woolen skirts tucked up high above their
thick ankles, muslin coiffes flapping in the stinging wind blowing in
from the channel, broad faces and muscular arms, red from exertion;
very often even, the Grandma tosses a load of sea-weed on her pitchfork
to the granddaughter, standing high upon the soggy mass in the
two-wheeled cart. I have seen them working at the cider mill in the
farmyard; ploughing the fields for the winter wheat; driving carts
piled with farm products to the markets. A woman and a tiny donkey
being about the only means of transport left now, since the horses and
men have gone to the war.
The old men and women, who might confidently look forward to a
comfortable seat by the open hearth, are out in the fields in all
weathers, forgotten, the rheumatic joints, the bronchitis and the
colds; the wind is piercing, rain falls almost every day in Brittany,
but warm garments, and boots lined with straw keep out the cold, and
the cattle must be herded; someone must cut and trim the hedges and
trees; collect the apples and cabbages; potatoes and turnips must
be dug Many are the little gifts of knitted socks and jerseys, of
passemontagnes (hoods) sent to the "Poilu" at the front, for these
women are never idle. In the long, dark evenings by the open fire, with
only its light and a candle to brighten the dark interior, knitting
needles glisten and click, and thoughts roam afar to the trenches,
where, behind the barbed-wire and fortifications, "the man" is watching
each day.
Railroad canteens are another war work for the soldiers going to,
and coming back from the front. Here they can get a warm drink and
food—tea, coffee, milk, cocoa, good bread and meat, etc.—served by the
ladies of the French Red Cross, who also climb into the trains, passing
from carriage to carriage, shaking their little tin boxes for sous or
francs; the stations have, as well, a Red Cross dressing station, where
wounds are washed and rebandaged, a bed for a weary body, and a quiet
hour are provided free of all charge. They are constantly used, I can
tell you.
In thousands of hospitals all over France, the Red Cross nurses are
working with unexampled devotion. No task is too menial for them, no
work too repulsive; their only thought is to relieve the suffering of
the poor creatures brought to them. The men repay them well by quick
obedience, and openly-expressed gratitude. It is a touching sight to
go down a hospital ward lined with beds, and see these chaps follow
gratefully with boyish eyes, the little white-robed figure, which
represents so much to them of well-being and gentle care. If one stops
to inquire about their health, always a cheery answer, "Ca va bien
aujour d'hui, Madame (It goes well today, Madame);" no matter how much
they suffer, or what acute agony they may be undergoing, they will not
admit it.
I know one boy of nineteen, a volunteer, twice wounded, who was told by
the doctor, while dressing his wound for the first time after his third
operation, "Scream, my boy, scream, if it does you good, it will help."
"No, doctor," he replied, "I prefer to whistle." So while the doctor
opened the wound and cleaned the bone, he whistled "Nous les aurons"
(We'll get 'em)—the latest song from the trenches.
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Many women who would gladly work in the hospitals are prevented by
other duties. They have their homes and children to look after, or
old people or invalids dependent on them, or also they must tend the
shops in their husbands' absence, or run the auberge or hotel, or work
in the factories, but each one does something on the side for the
"Union sacrée." It may not be more than a pair of knitted socks sent
weekly to the trenches, or a cushion made of snipped-up cotton rags,
cut fine and close, or a package of tobacco bought by carefully saved
sous. From this universal wish have been created many good and useful
works. During a recent visit to Paris I was impressed by the number of
charities Frenchwomen have established and keep in fine running order.
Let me mention a few: