[Original]
The first of the "Grands Blesses Prisonniers en Allemagne" have arrived. They came via Switzerland to Lyons, and from there have been distributed through the country and seashore places. Nineteen came to Dinard, very severely injured—blind, many one-legged, and some badly disfigured, but so rejoiced, poor chaps, to find themselves once more in France. Some have been in Germany since September. They say they were kindly treated in the hospitals, but had precious little to eat. Their looks show it, being quite emaciated. Being also accustomed to little food, their capacity for digesting has also decreased—much to their regret; but, no doubt, that misfortune will correct itself now they are back in the "land of plenty."
It appears that when the train drew up in the Lyons Gare, they saw hundreds of enthusiastic compatriots cheering and waving flags and handkerchiefs, flowers everywhere, and heard the "Clarions de France," some broke down and cried like children. They had borne the privations and sufferings consequent to imprisonment for ten long months, but when they heard those sweet, clear notes, and saw the "tricolor" once more (Ils Avaient le Coeur Gros) they just gave way; that is, the weaker ones did.
At the mother-house of the Little Sisters of the Poor, at St. Bern, one hundred and twenty-five are installed in that quiet convent, in the midst of the rich fields, and the green and peaceful woods of Brittany, with those good little sisters to wait upon them and nurse them; with fine milk, butter and eggs, chickens and fresh vegetables to eat, they will soon recover and they can hardly express their feelings, poor fellows, but just sit smiling and cheery in the sun. Mere boys, many of them—thin-cheeked, fresh-colored, bright-eyed, but crippled for life. Older men, fathers of families, bronzed and calm, thankful to be in France, with the thought of soon returning to their wives and children. May they there regain their health and strength. To these brave ones, we all, Americans and French alike, owe an immense debt of gratitude, for, but for them and their like, we would be facing now a very different outlook.
What impresses one above all is their modesty, patience and patriotism. Whether they are doctors or lawyers, peasants or little artisans, they all show the same soul-stirring love for France, they count their sufferings as nothing compared to the welfare of the nation.
The life of the last ten years which we knew and loved so well, has vanished like the snows of yester-year. Where the tango was danced are now long rows of hospital cots. The music of the Hungarian band has given place to the silence of the ambulance corridors. Crippled men are sitting on the casino verandas where fashionable women in former years strolled in idleness and elegance. Horrid odors of iodoform and chloroform assail one, instead of the perfume of the flowers. The gay young girls of other days, who laughed and flirted and danced in these airy halls, are now demure Red Cross nurses, in severe white linen gowns, the Red Cross embroidered on their white veils; a vivid testimony to their real nature and pitying compassion for the helpless.
What a few awful months of this World's War seems to us over here. You in America, who continue to live as much as usual, can really have but little conception. To you that pageant and tragedy of war is as "A Tale that is Told"—very horrible, perhaps, but of necessity it cannot affect you intimately. You can know little of the heartrending day-by-day experience and hourly ordeals demanded of those men and women of France.
Some few weeks ago I attended a class for "first aid" to the injured, whose matron was rather a formidable Frenchwoman, laden with years and honors. As I went in, a friendly Red Cross nurse murmured: "The poor Marquise had just received a telegram two hours ago announcing the death of both her sons; but, you know, her husband was killed in September, and she has given her boys to France. She does not wish it mentioned—do not refer to it." As I looked at that wrinkled but composed countenance, so stern and so calm, as I listened to her instructions, given in a quiet voice, it was quite evident that the old French proverb still holds good, "Bon sang ne peut mentir." There she was, an old, stricken mother, looking drearily into the future. Her two dear sons killed on the same day on the field of honor, her home forever desolate. But she came down, nevertheless, to show us how to bandage the wounded men, to teach us patience, endurance and control under all circumstances. At night she returns to her lonely hearth to mourn these brave boys. But did she not need our sympathy? To us, watching this superb example, she seemed to embody the spirit of courage, which admits of no defeat. The valiant heart rising above the wreck of happiness and home to do its duty to "La Patrie."
Only a short distance separates us from the battlefields, where the manhood of France and England are daily laying down their lives in defense of their countries. God grant that no such sacrifice may ever be demanded of America. To us who have remained in France, life has become a very solemn reality; as we go forth in sober garb and spirit to do what we can for these suffering hundreds, wounded men and boys, lonely young widows, stricken parents, we realize intensely that life in Europe has utterly changed. The old order of things has passed away. What will replace it? Who can tell?
Letter Written to Dr. Livingston Seaman,