A Surgeon in Arms

by R. J. Manion

Two of the famous sights of Paris to which the tourist always goes are Napoleon's Tomb in the Invalides, and Notre Dame. At the former in ordinary times one will always find a crowd of sightseers of various nationalities, admiring the beauty of the immense porphyry sarcophagus and its surroundings; dreaming of Napoleon's days of greatness as a youthful general in Italy, or as dictator of the whole of Europe except Britain; or giving a pitying thought to his last days at St. Helena. Today, as I strolled in, few were there, and they were mostly the veterans who live in the Invalides, and I have no doubt their thoughts consisted of hopes that another would arise with the military genius of Napoleon to drive the invader from the soil of France, and to once more dictate terms from Berlin.

On my return I went for a moment into the Louvre from which most of the art treasures, such as the Venus of Milo, have been removed to underground vaults, safe from bombs dropped by the destruction-loving Hun. And a painting that I looked for, but did not find, was Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa, the lady of the mysterious smile, the stealing of which had caused such a furore in the world of art. It had just been returned before my last visit to the Louvre.

The following day I wandered across the Seine and viewed again that magnificent Gothic pile, the church of Notre Dame de Paris. It happened to be a holy day and immense crowds were entering. Someone said to me that the war seems to have brought back religion to the spirit of France. After all, there are few people in the world who, when beset by troubles, do not glance upward at times and utter a prayer that the Supreme Being will take notice of them and have pity on them. I joined those entering, and mingled with them as they made their way into the solemn interior of the great edifice. It seemed that thousands were there. Those entering were directed in such a way that they passed in order before two immense lifelike paintings arranged on one side of the church, one above the other—the Last Supper, and the Crucifixion. Before these paintings myriads of candles were burning, and as the people passed each took one or two or three more candles and lit them. It was a splendid, solemn, and impressive spectacle.

To send telegrams or cables from France was a most troublesome procedure. You had to get the written consent of the military police after they had interviewed you as to your objects in sending the message, and had scrutinized the message carefully to find if, perchance, you had hidden somewhere within it information that might be of service to the enemy.

But even this was an easy matter compared with getting out of Paris once you had entered. For to get out was very much more difficult than to get in. You had first to report to the police station nearest to your hotel that you were leaving the city. Then you had to go to the office of the Consul of the country to which you were going, explain the purpose of your change of residence, and have the consul or his representative visé your passport. Then finally you had to call at the Prefecture of Police—akin to our central police station in a large city—and again get your papers certified. Each of these moves meant considerable time lost, sometimes as much as a day, since long lines of people were at each of these places hours before they opened for business.

On my departure, during my visit to the British Consulate, I had an amusing experience that is worth relating. As I turned into the court of the building in which the consulate is situated, an automobile drove up, and out stepped a stylish and pretty woman of perhaps thirty years. She followed me into the court, and after looking about her doubtfully for a minute, she turned and asked if I could direct her to the office of the British Consul. I had walked there the day before to "learn the ropes," and so knew my way about. I replied that it was up a couple of flights of stairs, but as I was just going there I should be pleased to show her the way.

We went up the two flights of stairs, and reaching the waiting room found some thirty or forty people ahead of us. We took our place in the line to await our turn, which meant a delay of an hour or two. As the people waited conversation was quite free, as was also criticism of the consulate for not having more help at a time of pressure such as the present. The lady whom I had shown up was next to me in the line. She looked upon me as an American compatriot, for she was from New York, and apparently felt quite safe in carrying on a conversation with a stranger in a strange city. She mentioned that she was on her way back from Spain to England.

"Spain," I said in some surprise. "Might I be curious enough to ask why a young woman like yourself should be traveling in Spain in times like the present?"

"Oh, I'm a eugenist," she replied readily, "and I have been in Spain studying the effects of the war on the Spanish people in relation to eugenics for a book I am preparing for publication. I am going to spend some time in London, in the British Museum, looking up some data to complete my manuscript." And then quite voluntarily she went on to criticize the majority of all the cherished institutions of society, and as she became more enthusiastic her criticisms became more free, more radical, almost nihilistic. She ended in a tirade against civilization as we know it, not by any means becoming at all boisterous, but simply youthfully animated in her fault-finding with the world in general.

I could hardly believe my ears. Here was a pretty American woman of thirty, highly educated, whose outlook on life was more nihilistic than that of the most extreme German socialist. But finally she capped the climax by telling me frankly that she was an anarchist; had taken part in two anarchistic plots in Italy; and promised me that the next ruler who was going to pay the death penalty for his tyranny was King Alfonso of Spain. Beginning to feel certain that she was "ragging" me, I asked her jokingly if she expected me to believe her.