LOVE AND WAR
Love and war go together. War destroys the body but love lives on with
the soul. Love and war have transformed the hitherto seemingly
empty-pated, fashionable woman to an angel of mercy. Socialists have
developed into patriots, artisans have become statesmen,
good-for-nothings are now heroes, misers have grown to be
philanthropists.
Man, missing woman’s ministrations at the front, turns instinctively to
her when opportunity offers. Hard, fierce, unyielding to his fellows, he
relaxes in her sheltering affection. He is but a boy grown. He wants to
be petted, coddled, civilized again.
The woman realizes he has suffered for her. He knows what she has
sacrificed for him. War has brought them together, brushed aside false
pride and hypocrisy and revealed refreshing springs of patriotism and
love out of which flows a union of hearts and hopes that only those who
suffer, sacrifice and endure together can realize.
The man is better for having been a soldier. He is self-reliant,
stronger in mind and body. Through discipline he has become punctual and
dependable. All snobbishness, fads and isms are now out of him. He is
more tolerant and charitable. He recognizes the value of women’s work in
the home, in the hospital and in the munition factory. As a
representative of her country, whose uniform he wears, he carries
himself more proudly, more uprightly.
What a soldier is to the army, a home is to the nation. The home is safe
only so long as is the country. With foreign invasion, all values become
nothing. The woman, the man, the home, the country are interwoven.
Beyond lie the right to live their lives, personal liberty,
representative government, the preservation, yes, even the propagation
of the race.
To check that on-coming German tide which threatened to wipe away
everything he holds dear, the soldier has fitted himself into that
surging, bending, human wall. Behind it, under the shadow of death,
woman works and waits, in a quiet that knows not peace—often in
vain—filled with care and dread, ever striving to be calm, she hides her
heart’s pain.
Ancestors died for the liberty his flag represents. Posterity must enjoy
the same freedom. So, he bridges the gap, shoulders the load and becomes
a better lover, husband, father. Having learned his obligation to the
nation, he is a better citizen for all time. One man’s daughter loves
and marries another’s son and they become one. War tears them apart. He
goes to the trenches. She keeps the home fires burning. Love holds them
together while he fights to protect and preserve, she works to support
and maintain.
That man is not yet whose pen can do justice to the incomparable woman
of France. She is a wonderful combination of heart, head and health. The
women of colder climes love with their minds. The French woman with her
heart. She gives all, regardless of consequences.
Cynical critics may have their cool sensibilities shocked at the sight
of a well-turned ankle, crossing a muddy street. That is as near as they
get to the sweet creature they outwardly condemn, but secretly approve.
She plays square and wants to love as well as be loved. She gives love
and is loved in return. While the woman who wants something, but gives
nothing, instills her selfishness into others.
The selfish person loves him or herself and gives no love to friend,
family or country. The unselfish woman absorbs love, and, as a flower
its perfume, scatters fragrance. She inspires the noblest sentiments of
loyalty and patriotism. She places herself and her best beloved upon the
altar of her country. It is always she who has given most, who is
willing to give all.
Mere man notices her dainty figure, her happy disposition, her cheery,
outspoken manner, her charm and goodness of heart, the utter absence of
vulgarity and ill-temper. Her tears are shed in solitude. Laughter is
for her friends. He admires her at a distance, because she is sheltered
in the home until marriage. The French man must pass the family council
before becoming an accepted suitor. He consults them in his business
ventures. His troubles become theirs when Mademoiselle changes to Madame
and is his comrade as well as a continued sweetheart. She devotes her
whole time and attention to him. Her clever, home-making instinct is
combined with good business sense. She is a valuable partner in life’s
great enterprise.
One of the most beautiful sights in France is, on a Sunday afternoon the
poilu home on furlough, satisfied to drink a bottle or two of wine with
his family, and rest. He did not want to see anyone else. But she
insists he must see grandmother and sister-in-law, drop into the cafe
and inquire about old comrades, then, enjoy a walk out into the country.
In the gathering twilight Madame conducts her straggling brood home, her
hands full of flowers, her eyes full of love—the little doll-like
children, with long, flowing hair, romping nearby. The poilu has lost
that dark, brooding look. That little touch of Nature and the woman
diverted his mind from suffering and revived his sentiment. She sent him
back to the front with a smile on her lips—hiding the dread of her
heart.
The thought of peace is ever with her—she longs for it. But her
conscience will not permit her to ask it. She thinks of the thousands of
graves that dot the hillsides with the cross at the head. She will
suffer the torments of hell rather than that they shall have died in
vain.
Their little savings have been used up. The clothes are worn thin. She
works, slaves to keep the wolf from the door. She manages to send an
occasional five-franc note to her poilu. She labors in munition
factories, the tramways, the postal service, in the fields, replacing
the man, while cows and dogs do the work of the horses, who, like the
men, are on the front. She wears wooden shoes and pulls hand-carts about
the street. She drives the milch cow that plows the land, cleans the
cars and wipes the engines on the railroad, cooks the food and nurses
the wounded and sick in hospitals, does clerical work in the commissary
department and military bureaus—chasing out the fat slackers who were
strutting in the rear.
In spite of all, she retains her feminacy. She is still as alluring, as
good a comrade, as cheerful and gay, outwardly, as though her body was
not racked by fatigue, her heart choked with sadness. Occasionally she
forgets herself. The mask falls off and trouble stares through the
windows of her soul. Catching that look in the eyes of his nurse, a
soldier exclaimed: “Cheer up! It will be all right after the war.” She
replied: “After the war? There will be no ‘after the war.’ You’ll be
dead, I’ll be dead. We shall all be dead. There’ll be no ‘after the
war.’”
Many French girls have deliberately married mutilated cripples to cheer
and to help them earn their living. A beautiful young woman, gazing into
the eyes of her soldier, said: “Why should we not? They lost their legs
and arms for us—we cannot do too much for them.”
Does the poilu appreciate this? Does he? What if he did lose one leg for
such a woman? He would give the other with pleasure!
On furlough one evening, eating supper in my favorite cafe in Paris, I
observed a most horribly repulsive object. He had once been a poilu, but
a shell battered his face so that it resembled humanity not at all. His
nose was flattened out. His skin was mottled and discolored. A hole was
where the mouth had been. Both eyes were gone and one arm was crippled.
He sat and waited for food. Madame came from behind the counter and
looked on. A fat boy, repulsed and sickened, forgot his appetite and
gazed, unconsciously stroking his stomach, fascinated by that mutilated
creature.
A very beautiful girl, whose face might pass her into Heaven without
confession, left the well-dressed gourmands with empty plates. She went
and served the unfortunate one. She cut his meat and held his napkin
that caught the drippings. She was so kind and gentle and showed such
consideration, I asked her:
“Is that the proprietor?”
“Oh, no.”
“Your husband or sweetheart, perhaps?”
“I have none.”
“Who was he?”
“Un pauvre poilu.”
Again, we were in a peasant woman’s farmhouse. She wore wooden shoes,
without socks. Just home from work in the fields, she asked two
convalescent soldiers to help drink a bottle of wine, and we sat and
talked with her.
“Yes,” she said, her dark eyes shining with pride, “my husband was a
soldier, too. He is now a prisoner in Germany. This is his photograph.
Don’t you think he looks well? He was a machine gunner in Alsace. He did
not run away when the Germans came, but stayed and worked the gun.”
Then, speaking of a well dressed little girl sitting on my Egyptian
comrade’s knee: “He has never seen her—she is only two years old and
thinks every soldier is papa.”
Hanging from the roof was a row of dried sausages. Pointing to them she
said: “Yes, I send him a package every week and never forget to put in a
sausage. Don’t you think from the photograph he looks well?”
In the stable were two milch cows and a young heifer. Indicating the
latter, she said: “He has not seen her, either. When he comes home I am
going to kill her, faire le bomb, and ask all the family.”
The look of pride changed into a haunted, painful, far-away gaze: “Oh,
dear, we shall all be women! Except my husband and Francois, my brother,
all our men are dead—four of my brothers! Francois is the last. The
Government sent him from the front to keep the family alive. Don’t you
think France was good to us to do that?”
When in hospital I met the grand dame from the nearby chateau. She
harnessed her own horse and drove through the rain, on a wintry morning,
to play the organ at early mass. She nursed a ward in the hospital
through the day and returned home alone in the darkness to make her own
supper.
“Oh,” she said, “I don’t mind it, I do what I can. I was not brought up
right or I could be of more use. Before the war, we had fifteen
servants. They are now at war. We have only two left, a half-wit and a
cripple.”
“Do you know,” she said, “I have never heard the English marching song
‘Tipperary.’ I just love music. In Tours the other day, I saw it on
sale, my hand was in my pocket before I knew. But I happened to think of
our brave soldiers; they need so many things”—
Noticing the troubled look on the usually serene countenance of a very
good friend, I asked her: “Why those clouds?”
“Oh,” she replied, “they have just called Gaston to the colors. His
class is called up. You know how I have pinched and saved to bring that
boy up right. Now, he must go and I cannot make myself feel glad. I
ought to feel proud, but I cannot. I don’t feel right. Every time I look
at him I think of my husband and his one leg.”
During the early days of the war I was out with my landlady, whose
calculating instinct in the matter of extra charges separated me from
all my loose change. Going past the Gare d’Est Paris we noticed a crowd
about a French soldier. He had a German helmet in his hand. Walking up
to him, she said:
“What is that?”
“A German helmet, Madame.”
“Did you get that?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Did you get it yourself?”
“Certainly, Madame.”
“Here, take this, go back and get some more.” She passed her pocketbook
over to the poilu.
The soldier stared; the crowd stared; but the soldier was a
thoroughbred. Crooking his elbow and sticking the helmet out on his
index finger, he bowed:
“Will Madame give me pleasure by accepting the helmet?”
Would she! Boche helmets were scarce in those days. Beautiful
Mademoiselles in that crowd would have given their souls to possess such
a treasure! Neither they nor I know Madame. Her eyes looked level into
those of the soldier as she demanded:
“You are not a Parisian?”
“No, Madame.”
“To what province are you going?”
“Brittany.”
“When?”
“At six o’clock tonight.”
“Have you a wife?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Will you do something for me?”
“With the greatest pleasure!”
“Well, keep that casque in your hand until you arrive in Brittany. Then
give it to your wife. She will always love you for it and your children
will never forget such a father!”
Walking away, Madame dropped into a silent mood. I looked at her
curiously. Was she sorry she had given away her money? Did she regret
not accepting that highly-prized helmet, or was she thinking of the
pleasure that gift would give the soldier’s wife?
Suddenly she turned and said: “Well, one thing is certain.”
“What is certain?”
“You will have to pay my car fare home.”
[Illustration]
The self-sacrifice and devotion of the women permeates the
atmosphere—from the lowest to the highest. It is contagious. It is
evident, even to a stranger, and it restores his faith in human nature.
She is the other half of the poilu. He excels in courage and fortitude.
She completes him with an untiring zeal.
One beautiful, romantic feature of French army life is the adoption of
soldiers by god-mothers. In one instance, a girl fifteen years of age,
having enough money, adopted a half dozen. One of them proved to be a
Senegalize, who wished to take the young lady back to Africa to complete
his harem!
[Illustration:
CROIX DE GUERRE
Famous French War Cross
The star denotes an individual citation, “John Bowe, an American
citizen, engaged in the active army, who in spite of his age (past
the limits of military service) has given an expression of the most
absolute devotion. Upon the front since the 9th of May, 1915, he has
always volunteered for the dangerous missions and the most perilous
posts.”
]
The uncertainties and possibilities of the situation distract the
soldier’s mind from his real, staring troubles. His thoughts are
directed into pleasant channels. The lady sends him little comforts,
extra food, or money and, maybe, invites him to spend his furlough at
her residence. She always does, if he is from invaded territory. If they
prove congenial, friendship sometimes ripens into love and love into
marriage. It relieves the lonesome isolation of the soldier, and gives
the woman a direct, personal interest in the war.
In the spring of 1916 I stood at the Spouters’ Corner in Hyde Park,
London, where Free Speech England allows its undesirables to express
themselves. Here the authorities classify, label and wisely permit each
particular crank or freak to here blow off surplus gas. If suppressed,
it might explode or fester and become a menace.
In French uniform I was listening to the quips of a woman lecturer who
really was a treat. “Yes,” she cried out, “Mr. Asquith has asked us poor
people to economize. Instead of spending three shillings a day, we must
only spend two; and our average wage is but a bob and a half. The high
cost of living is nothing to the cost of high living. When Mr. Asquith
pushes that smooth, bald head of his up through the Golden Gates, St.
Peter will think it is a bladder of lard, and lard is worth two
shillings per pound. So he will ‘wait and see’ if he can use it at the
price.” (English call Asquith Mr. “Wait and See.”) “Yes,” she continued,
“I try to be careful to make things last as long as possible. Instead of
buying a new petticoat, I now change the one I have wrong side out and
make it last twice as long.”
I was absorbing these subleties when a French lady, dressed in velvet
and furs, noticing my faded blue uniform, stepped up, excused herself,
and asked if I were not a French soldier, and would I have a cup of tea
with her?
Thus, I found my god-mother.
One year later, again on furlough, passing through London, I called on
my good friend and was invited to accompany her to church. After a long
prayer, so long as to excite my curiosity, she whispered: “I used to
come here every Sunday and pray for you. In this seat, at this part of
the ceremony, I prayed you would come back again. I wanted you here with
me today so I could show you to God. Now I am content. He will take care
of you.”
Opening her prayer-book, she took out a piece of paper and pressed it
into my hand. It was an extract from a London newspaper, which told of
my being decorated by the French Government. I had not told her, and was
not aware the news had been in the London papers. At the house, later,
Captain Underwood, one of Rawlinson’s invalided veterans, who was in the
retreat from Antwerp, inquired: “Did our friend show you the paper?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she bought that newspaper one night and came here crying out,
‘See what my poilu has done, and he never said a word to me about it!’
When you blew in, she made us promise we would not mention it till after
you came back from church.”