Round about Bar-le-Duc

by Susanne R. Day

VI

However, you must not think that the canteen kept us in a state of soppy sentiment, or even of perfervid sympathy. Sanity was the mood that suited it best. Presence of mind the quality that made for success. A sense of humour the saving grace that made both the former possible. When a thin, dark individual leans upon the counter for half an hour or more, silent, ruminative, pondering—it is a quiet night, no rush—gather your forces together. His eyes follow you wherever you go, you see revelations hovering on his lips. You become absorbed in ham or sausage (horse-sausage is incredibly revolting), but your absorption cannot last. Even sausages fail to charm, and then the dark one sees his opportunity. He leans towards you ... His faith in himself must be immense.... Does he really think that a journey to Paris at 2 a.m. in an omnibus train and a snowstorm can tempt you? If we had consoled all the lonely poilus who offered us—temporarily—their hands, their hearts and their five sous a day we should now be confirmed bigamists.

Or it may be that you are busy and contemplation of sausage unnecessary. Then he sets up a maddening Dîtes, dîtes, dîtes, Mad'm'zelle, that drives you to distraction. To silence him is impossible. Indifference leaves him unmoved. He is like a clock in a nightmare that goes on striking ONE!

That he has an eye for beauty goes without saying. "Voilà, une jolie petite brune! Vas-y." So two vagabonds catching sight of a decorative canteener, and off they go to discuss the price of ham, for only by such prosaic means can Sentiment leap over the counter. He addresses you by any and every name that comes into his head. "La mère," "la patronne" (these before he grasped the fact that the canteen was an œuvre and not a commercial enterprise), "la petite," "la belle," "la belle Marguerite," "la Frisée," "la Dame aux Lunettes," "la petite Rose," and many others I have forgotten.

Indeed, the French aptitude for nicknames based on physical attributes was constantly thrust on us. The refugees, finding our own names uncomfortable upon the tongue, fell back on descriptive nomenclature. "La Blonde," "la Blanche," for the fair-haired. "La Grande," "la Belle," "la belle Dame au Lunettes," "la petite bleue," "la Directrice," "la grande dame maigre." And once when a bill was in dispute in a shop the proprietress exclaimed, "Is it that you wish to know who bought the goods? It was la petite qui court toujours et qui est toujours si pressée" (the little lady who always runs and is always in such a hurry). As a verbal snapshot it has never been equalled. It would have carried conviction in any court in the country.

But most of all the heart of the soldier rejoices when he can call you his marraine (godmother). That we, mere English, pursued by ardent souls, should sometimes be compelled to send out S.O.S. messages to our comrades; that, feeling the mantle of our dignity slipping perilously from our shoulders, we should cast aside our remote isolation and engage the worker in the "next department" in animated conversation, was only to be expected. But our hearts rejoiced and the imps in us danced ecstatically when Madame D. was discovered one day hiding in the office. She, splendid ally that she always was, volunteered to sit at the receipt of custom on certain afternoons each week, and, clad in her impenetrable panoply, at once suavely polite, gracious but infinitely aloof, to sell tickés with subdued but inextinguishable enjoyment. But a lonely poilu strayed by who badly needed a marraine, and so persistent was he in his demands, so irresistible in his pleadings, so embarrassing in his attentions, Madame, the panoply melting and dignity snatched by the winds, fled to the office, from whence no persuasions could lure her till the lonely one had gone his unsatisfied way.

It is the man from the pays envahi who, most of all, needs a marraine, e. g. a sympathetic, sensible woman who will write to him, send him little gifts and take an interest in his welfare. Because all too often he stands friendless and alone. His relatives, his family having remained in their homes, between him and them lies silence more awful than death. He is a prey to torturing fears, he endures much agony of mind, dark forebodings hang about him like a miasma poisoning all his days. No news! And his loved ones, in the hands of a merciless foe, may be in the very village the French or the British are shelling so heavily! From his place in the trenches he may see the tall chimneys, the church spire in the distance. He has been gazing yearningly at them for two years, has seen landmarks crumble and steeples totter as the guns searched out first one, then another.... A marraine may well save the reason of such men as these. She can assuredly rob life of much of its bitterness, and inspire it with hope and courage to endure.

One of these men who came from Stenay told us of his misery. He had done well in the army, had been promoted, might have been commissioned, but his loneliness, the vultures of conjecture that tugged at his heart, his longing and his grief overwhelmed him one night, and seeking distraction in unwise ways he fell into dire trouble, and was reduced to the ranks....

And yet, though I write of these poor derelicts, it is the gay and gallant who holds my imagination. The thing of the "glad eye," and the swagger, the jest, "Going en permission, Mad'm'zelle," the happiest thing in France! It is he, the irrepressible, who carries gaiety through the streets as he rolls by in his camions; he sings, he plays discordant instruments, he buys couronnes of bread, he shouts to the women. "Ah, la belle fille!" "Mad'm'zelle, on aura un rendez-vous là-bas." Sometimes he is more explicit:—intermittent deafness is an infirmity of psychological value in the War Zone! And he thoroughly enjoys the canteen. He likes "ploom-cak," he likes being waited on by Les Anglaises, he likes the small refinements (though now and then he "borrows" the forks), he appreciates generosity, he is by no means ungrateful (see him pushing a few coppers across the counter with a shamefaced "C'est pour l'œuvre"), and at his worst, least controlled, most objectionable, he can be shamed into silence or an apology by a few firm or tactful words.

A bewildering thing! If I wrote of him for ever I should not be able to explain him.