CLOSURE OF THE HOSPITAL IN THE HÔTEL CLARIDGE
Early in December trains of British sick and wounded were brought into
Paris and the hospital on the Champs Élysées was filled to overflowing.
In order to make additional accommodation, the large central hall had
been closed in and furnished as a ward, and extra beds had been placed
in the side wards.
The main problem, which became more pressing as the winter advanced,
was how to procure enough coal to heat the huge building. The heating
system was an extravagant one, for it was impossible to heat the hotel
in sections, and if heat were raised for the ground floor, the whole
of the seven stories had to participate, while the five great furnace
boilers ate up the fuel with marvellous rapidity. It became necessary
to introduce brazzeros into the wards. By this means the patients were
kept fairly comfortable, although there were many objections to their
use. A continual effort was required to secure enough fuel for cooking
and for keeping the water hot, and neither M. Casanova nor M. Aubry nor
M. Falcouz was successful in maintaining the supply.
Christmas found the hospital very full, and preparations for decorating
the wards began unusually early. The British soldier had preconceived
ideas with regard to paper chains, and thought that a blanket decorated
with crude mottoes in cotton-wool and holly berries was the last word
in mural decoration. The Poilu watched his operations in silence till
his artistic soul rose within him, and snatching the chalk, with an
impatient ‘Tiens,’ he too went down on the floor and sketched amazing
pictures, directing with the voice of the master the colouring and
embellishment of his designs.
In the end the walls were hung with aeroplanes, long guns, rising suns,
statues to Liberty and Victory, mixed with British mottoes: ‘Good
Luck to the Women’s Hospital Corps,’ ‘God Bless Mr. Davies,’ and ‘A
Happy New Year to the Doctors’; while, overhead, paper chains of many
hues were draped and the flags of all nations were prominently and
abundantly displayed. In one ward every bedstead had the four Allied
flags bound to each post, and in another a large dark coloured blanket
displayed three battleships and a Union Jack, under which was traced
‘The Flag of Freedom,’ in letters of cotton-wool.
‘Freedom!’ said the _Médecin-en-Chef_ to the Sister, with the treatment
of militant women suffragists still fresh in her memory. ‘Freedom!
There is no freedom for women under that flag.’
The men were a little disappointed, for this was their great effort,
and that it should fail to please, when all the rest of the decorations
were commended, puzzled them. For some days before Christmas the wards
were open to visitors, and crowds of people came to admire them. A
sergeant taking a lady round paused before this masterpiece, and she
too made the same comment.
‘That’s just what the doctor says, and we can’t think what she means,’
he exclaimed.
That night, when the doctor made her round, the word ‘Freedom’ had
become ‘England,’ and as she looked at it with a comprehending smile
growing on her face, a voice from the group round the brazzero said:
‘We’re all for Votes for Women, Doctor.’
‘Yes,’ said another, ‘even the Frenchies is for it.’
On Christmas Eve Mr. Bennett brought the choir boys from the Church
to sing carols in the wards, and it was touching to see them grouped
between the wards, wearing their white surplices and carrying coloured
lanterns, which gleamed in the darkness. While the old melodies echoed
through the hospital, the night nurses slipped from bed to bed, hanging
socks on each one, and the final preparations for the next day’s
festivities were hastily completed behind the scenes.
At five o’clock on the festive morning the whole place awoke to the
sound of laughter. Tin trumpets and jews’ harps, tumbling pigs and
false noses, evoked shouts of joy, reminiscent of nursery life. The
spirit of Christmas descended on the hospital and pain and care were
forgotten.
M. Casanova had found splendid turkeys and sausages, and plum puddings
had been sent from England. Mr. Davies had procured beer and there
was port wine for the King’s health. Long tables were set for those
who were up, and the beds of those who were not up were collected in
the large ward. Only one officer, Lieut. Vogel, was in the hospital
that day, and he gave the French toasts, and joined in all the fun
with great delight. The procession of puddings was hailed with
acclamation. The toasts were drunk and the crackers pulled with energy
and much noise. Every one feasted and made merry. Later there was an
entertainment in the big hall, to which many guests had been invited,
including all the Belgians from the seventh story.
The concert began, with a sergeant in the chair, and was going well,
when Colonel S---- and his quartermaster and several sergeants arrived
to distribute Princess Mary’s gifts to the men. Some weeks before, a
nominal roll of men who would be in hospital had been required, and
the hospital was hardly to blame if the roll had altered since that
date. At the last moment two new rolls had to be made, one for smokers
and one for non-smokers, and this task had been much complicated by a
desire on the part of many recipients to change over from one roll to
the other. The colonel arrived without warning, and was embarrassed
to find himself on a platform, facing a large crowd of people. In
consequence, he lost his place on the roll and made mistakes about the
names, and confused the smokers and non-smokers; but in the end he got
through the distribution, and merry-making was resumed.
The _chef-d’œuvre_ was the Pantomime, arranged by the staff. Mr. Davies
was consulted about an abridged version of ‘Red Riding Hood,’ and was
so horrified by the amateurish suggestions that he refused to write
it. He said his reputation would never survive it; so, if it was
written at all, Baroness Geysa de Braunecker and Dr. Cuthbert wrote it,
or threw it together; for the construction left much to be desired.
The actors (having no reputations) were not at all nervous, and they
appointed Mr. Davies stage manager and instructed him to take one cue
and pass a cow’s head through the screen. Divided between laughter and
nervousness, he forgot his cue about Maud, the cow; and the performer
called so frequently for Maud that the room took it up and shouted
for Maud, until, with a shaking hand, a large pasteboard cow’s head
was pushed through. The hall became uproarious over the flight of the
grandmother pursued by the wolf, and many hands were stretched out to
catch the wolf and give the old lady a chance. The day ended, as it
had begun, with laughter and cheers. And as night fell there was a
quiet hour, smoking in the wards and talking it over. The men said that
they had never known such a Christmas: it was something to tell in the
trenches, something to write home--a memory treasured by patients and
staff alike.
The Pantomime had inspired the men to give dramatic entertainments on
their own account, and almost every evening the staff enjoyed seeing
a play arranged and rehearsed by the patients, which was often full of
humour and of pathos. One, entitled ‘The Murder of Mr. Smith,’ in which
a judge was represented who wore a cotton-wool wig and who constantly
roared out ‘Silence in Court!’; and another, ‘The Deserter,’ stand out
in the memory of those who saw them. The latter was a pathetic little
drama. The officers at the Court Martial were faithfully portrayed:
the bullying sergeant-major, the bouncing lieutenant, the courageous
accused, were all recognisable types. And the death sentence, carried
out on the stage, moved one strangely. The acting was simple and
intelligent, and the theme a very living one to those men in those
days. After the play there would be music and songs, with the Baroness
at the piano and Mrs. Henley leading and conducting from the steps.
‘My! this is a place!’ a sergeant from a neighbouring hospital said
to Mrs. Henley. He had come with a message from Colonel S---- and had
found his way into the hall one evening. ‘This is a place! You would be
pleased if you heard how they are all talking about you.’
The patients, too, appreciated the place and wrote glowing accounts of
its grandeur and its pleasures to friends at home.
‘I’d be happy,’ wrote a wife, ‘if you was stopping there till the war
was over.’
And many messages of thanks reached the Sisters from mothers in
England. Photographs of babies and little boys in velveteen suits
arrived by post, so that the doctors might see what fine children they
had. And the Poilus were always proud if opportunity allowed them
to introduce Madame. One of the older men, who was confined to bed
with rheumatism, consulted the doctor as to the best way of sending a
registered parcel to his wife.
‘It will be vallyble furs,’ he said.
And the doctor thought he must have been looting, until it transpired
that he wished to send her the goat-skin coat which had been issued for
his own use.
‘I don’t seem to fancy it for myself,’ he said, ‘but the Missus would
look proper in it.’
* * * * *
‘They pay you the compliment of not wishing to leave,’ said a general
after his round of inspection. And indeed it was with very mixed
feelings that men ready for evacuation left the hospital, even
though evacuation meant going straight to England. There were many
handshakings, promises ‘not to forget you,’ grateful thanks and not
uncommonly tears in the eyes of the men as they drove away, making the
Champs Élysées resound to the strains of ‘Auld Lang Syne.’
* * * * *
As the weather grew colder, all M. Casanova’s efforts to procure coal
were unavailing, and very often there was not enough to maintain the
supply of hot water. This was the case on one occasion when notice was
received that eighty patients were arriving, and no hot baths were
available; and much time and labour was spent in preparing gallons of
hot water for toilet purposes over the gas rings. When the wards were
very cold, the men were kept in bed with hot bottles and blankets; but
obviously this plan could not be continued indefinitely, and as no help
was forthcoming from ‘l’intendance militaire,’ the question of closing
the hospital had to be considered. The French Red Cross had other
hospitals in Paris, and many of these had not yet been opened. They
were unwilling to close ‘Claridge’s,’ which had been very useful to
both French and British troops; but they were helpless over the matter
of fuel, and during the winter months the pressure of work was not very
great. They regarded the hospital as their ‘meilleure installation.’
It had been a great interest and a great revelation not only to the
officials of the Red Cross but to many people outside it, and they
were reluctant to part with it. In addition, they began to have some
difficulty with M. Casanova, and it was understood that he had offered
the building without the authority of his Board of Directors, and that
the presence of the hospital in the Hôtel was embarrassing to him.
British officials were equally unwilling to lose the hospital. One
wrote: ‘You have set a standard which is quite unknown even among
auxiliary hospitals.’ And another said: ‘It would be a misfortune if
you were to leave. You are such a good example of what a hospital ought
to be.’
Nevertheless, it was decided in conference between M. Pérouse, M.
Falcouz and Dr. Flora Murray that, in view of the circumstances,
the hospital should be closed. The decision was reached after much
consideration, and with deep regret the staff turned to the task of
evacuation and packing.
The hospital closed on the 18th of January 1915. The doctors and nurses
proceeded to Wimereux to join forces with the rest of the Corps,
bearing with them the good wishes and kind farewells of their many
friends in Paris.
The hospital in the Hôtel Claridge was the first effort of the Women’s
Hospital Corps. It brought help to the wounded at a time when such help
was greatly needed. It gave women doctors an opportunity of showing
their capacity for surgery under war conditions. It was one of the
outstanding pieces of work done by women in those first months of war,
and it was a great success.