‘I want to see some good head cases. Have you got anything shot through the brain? Any paralysis? No fractures of skull! Nothing good. You don’t seem to have much in. Deaf and dumb! Hm—yes, that’s not bad. But I only want to see head cases.’
To women who kept the human side very much to the front this attitude was unsympathetic. They much preferred the stout old chief from the Hôpital St. Martin, who hated to see the French soldiers without their képis on, even when in bed, and who puffed himself out and frowned and said that the hospital was ‘curieux,’ but sent cases in all the same.
Each day seemed to bring fresh visitors. Amongst them were the American Ambassador and his predecessor, French députés, English Members of Parliament, Miss Jane Harrison, Mrs. Pankhurst, Lord Robert Cecil, Lord Lytton, French ladies and gentlemen, English and American people resident in or passing through Paris and representatives of the Press of all the allied nations.
The minds of the French journalists were severely exercised on the subject of operations; for they could not believe that women were equal to such work. It was one thing to ‘soigner les blessés’ and another to operate. It was conceivable that women might succeed as nurses; but as surgeons! never! These gentlemen would go admiringly over the hospital, listening to what the doctors told them and talking to the French patients, and then, before leaving, they would beg for permission to ask one more question. It was always the same question:
‘Who is it really who operates?’
One editor, to whom the surgeons were indicated in person, contemplated with serious attention Dr. Cuthbert, who was young and pleasing, and then said to her:
‘Et vous, mademoiselle, vouz coupez aussi?’
‘Oui, je coupe,’ she replied slowly; for her facility with the knife was greater than with the French tongue.
‘Incroyable!’ he gasped.
For the most part, ‘épatant’ was the word they used, and the older journalists would listen silently and shake their heads incredulously.