A large sign was stretched across the portico of the Hôtel:

Hôpital Anglo-Belge,
173 Auxiliaire.

On Sunday afternoon, when all the world walked in the Champs Élysées, it attracted a great deal of notice. And M. Aubry, smoking his cigarette on the doorstep, was gratified by many inquiries about ‘les blessés’ and the hospital.

With characteristic affability he bowed and made every one welcome, and sent a stream of unknown and curious people to see the wards. The visitors made him so many compliments upon his ‘installation si parfaite’ that the following Sunday found him again on the doorstep. Before long he was surrounded by a large and friendly crowd; for all who had seen the hospital the previous week had returned, bringing with them their families and friends to enjoy the ‘épatant’ spectacle! Even M. Aubry perceived that it was impracticable to admit a seething mass of two hundred or more people; and the staff promptly came to his support and closed the grille in the face of a protesting, gesticulating throng. After this incident, M. Aubry was persuaded to smoke elsewhere on Sundays.

The wards were visited regularly by many kind friends, who took infinite trouble to get to know the men personally and entertained them with talk or reading. The Rev. Mr. Blunt, of the British Embassy Church, came often, and his curate, Mr. W. Bennett, was a daily visitor. The latter visited the sick and talked football round the brazzeros whilst he roasted chestnuts and made toast. On Sundays he held a service, with the help of the Baroness Geysa de Braunecker and Mrs. Henley, who made music for the hospital every evening. Their sing-songs in the big central hall were delightful: English songs, Scotch songs, French songs, one after the other. ‘Tipperary’ was the favourite then, but ‘Thora’ had a great vogue, and a heavy bass would thrill the company with:

‘Speak! speak! speak to me, Thora!’

Most popular, too, was ‘The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond.’ And the ‘Marseillaise’ united everybody in one great roar.

A natural comedian among the patients, called Ginger by his comrades on account of the colour of his hair, mounted the platform readily to give his song: ‘With my little wiggle waggle in my hand.’ He received so many encores that he felt encouraged to make a speech. He began by saying how much he enjoyed the appreciation of the audience because he knew how well he deserved it; and then he wandered off into praise of his feats with the Army, ending up with kindly comments on the comfort of the hospital.

From the neighbouring church of S. Philippe du Roule came l’Abbé Charles Ablin to care for the Roman Catholics. M. l’Abbé was as tenderhearted and sympathetic as St. Francis himself. His spiritual face radiated gentleness and piety. His heart ached for the wounded and the dying. To go round a screen with him and see him raise his hands and murmur, ‘Ah! nos braves, nos braves!’ called up a vision of suffering, bleeding France. In every delirious or dying infantryman he saw his country, and he poured out his love and pity on each one. He lamented that he could not speak to the English, but he visited them all the same: ‘At least I can bless them,’ he said.

And day by day he passed among them, raising his hand and murmuring gentle words: so that they learned to love him, and missed him if he did not come. He had his own anxieties too: for a niece who lived with him had gone to a Belgian convent for a holiday in August, and he had had no news of her since the war broke out. In January he heard that she had reached England, and in a tremor of joy and relief he set out for London to bring her home.

Mr. Chester Fentress, the well-known tenor, was at that time living in Paris. When the work on which he was engaged at the American Embassy came to an end, he found that the American hospital had more workers than it needed, and fortunately he was able to attach himself to ‘Claridge’s.’ He came every day, ready to do anything, until he was regarded as an orderly of the Corps, and helping in the wards he suffered some things at the hands of the Sisters and patients.

‘There is a lamp there,’ one Sister was heard to say to him. ‘I cannot get it to burn. Would you have the sense now to put it right?’

Nor was his genius always recognised! An irritable patient, hearing him sing as he performed some menial task, exclaimed:

‘God help him, if he had to earn his living by his voice!’

Mr. Fentress’s knowledge of Paris and of the shops was of great use. He was an expert shopper and guide, and very kind about undertaking commissions. Later in the autumn he brought his friend, Mr. Hubert Henry Davies, the playwright, to the hospital, and made him so interested that when work pressed and helpers were few he also would don a white coat and enter the wards. It appealed to his sense of fun to fetch and carry for the Sisters, and the men were a constant interest and pleasure to him. He was dearly loved by everybody for his sensitive nature, his refinement, his humour and the way in which he threw himself into the hospital life.

Amongst the nurses was one elderly lady who had once nursed for Mrs. Garrett Anderson and who never failed to impress the fact on any doctor who ventured to comment on disorder or want of management in her ward. If reminded that the men should breakfast at 8 A.M. and not 9 A.M., she would reply:

‘Well, I have nursed for Mrs. Garrett Anderson, and she always said it was a mistake for patients to breakfast early.’

If it were pointed out that dinner was over in other wards and had not yet begun in hers, the answer was:

‘When I nursed for Mrs. Garrett Anderson, she always said that patients should not be pressed to eat till they were hungry.’

If asked to put an extra jacket on the man whose bed was near the passage way, the doctor was informed:

‘Mrs. Garrett Anderson did not approve of muffling up patients, and I nursed for her long enough to know.’

Or she would remark crushingly:

‘Well, doctors are not what they were when I nursed for Mrs. Garrett Anderson.’

The medical staff bore itself humbly, for it was already conscious of its inferiority to the great Pioneer; and try as they might, they never succeeded in learning when and where the nurse had had this great experience. Her quaint habits of mind and plainness of speech made her a joy to Mr. Davies. Meeting him one day on the Boulevards, she attacked him for not having emptied her dressing-bin that morning, and drew such a pathetic picture of her plight in consequence of his negligence that she moved herself to tears. Both he and Mr. Fentress were horrified to find themselves and the weeping nurse objects of public interest. They hastily pushed her into the nearest shop, hoping to propitiate her with coffee. But the shop turned out to be a bookshop, and she never read books. It took some time before a suitable offering could be found and friendly relations be re-established.

Nearly every afternoon saw Lady Robert Cecil in the wards. She was always a most welcome visitor. No one knew better than she did how to make the time pass pleasantly. Mrs. Kemp came too, with generous supplies of English bread, which the men regarded as a great treat after the French loaves. And at Christmas time Mrs. Pankhurst was in Paris, and her first visit made an equal sensation among French and British. They would gather round her while she talked to them of their homes and the education of their children, or encouraged them to consider how the heavy daily toil of their wives might be lightened.

‘I would rather have seen that lady than that Queen who came the other day,’ said one, referring to the visit of Queen Amelie of Portugal. And the roughest diamond, a bricklayer, not unaccustomed to beer drinking, delivered himself:

‘I do declare to you, lady, that this war has shown me that the “spear” of woman is something different to what I thought it had been.’

But very often there were more visitors than was desirable; men suffered from too much attention and grew weary of the repeated inquiries as to wounds and progress. The sick would gladly accept the suggestion to have screens put round them, and even then they were not always safe from intrusion. A lady in ‘a shepherd’s plaid frock’ upset a Cameron Highlander by commenting on his lemonade and grapes and calling him ‘one of the pampered ones.’

‘I would have ye know, mem,’ he retorted, ‘I’m a Brrritish soldier man and not a toy dog. What should I want to be pampered for more nor other men—and me a Cameron?’

And to his nurse afterwards he confided:

‘She fair maks me seeck.’

Two days later the same tactless lady again gave him cause for complaint.

‘She offered me a cake an’ I took it, for she was vera polite. An’ then she starts her sauce. “There’s naething the matter wi’ ye,” she says. An’ I says, “Ye’re right, there’s naething wrang wi’ me an’ so I’m no’ needing ony mair visitors.” An’ I never touched her cake; I’ll never touch her cake again—wi’ her shepherd’s tartan frock an’ a’,’ he growled wrathfully.

At a later stage the Cameron was met in a corridor, with his uninjured arm fondling a Belgian girl. The doctor who met him remarked upon his affectionate manner.

‘Och, Doctor, she’s got the toothache an’ I canna speak French.’ And in complete understanding they wandered undisturbed down the corridor.

It was difficult to make kindly-intentioned people understand that the wards must close at certain hours or that the men were really ill and must have quiet. Concert parties and people with views on recitation would arrive unexpectedly at a late hour, and fail to see any reason why performances could not be given during supper or with the sleeping draughts. A lady brought a French poet to recite his works to a ward which held principally Englishmen, at the time when general washing and blanket bathing was in full swing. The sight alone of the poet caused catastrophes among the basins; for his appearance was as advanced as his verse, and his long hair and bow tie and very full-skirted coat were more than startling to British eyes.

Other hospital units, waiting in Paris for a location, called to see round Claridge’s, and amongst such visitors were the Duchess of Westminster, Lady Sarah Wilson and Lady Dudley. The surgeons belonging to these units were restive at being kept waiting so long and inclined to be envious of the Women’s Hospital Corps, which had been running for some weeks; but their hospitals had a large personnel, for which quarters were not so easy to find as they had been for the women’s smaller unit.

In December a cordial welcome was extended to Dr. Elsie Inglis and Dr. Frances Ivens, who, with a Scottish Women’s Hospital, were on their way to L’Abbaye Royaumont, to open the hospital which became so famous. At an earlier date Dr. Elsie Inglis had written to Dr. Garrett Anderson to ask if there were a vacancy for a surgeon in the Women’s Hospital Corps; but the Unit had its full complement of surgeons; and her suggestion to join it was regretfully declined. In view of what she afterwards initiated and accomplished, this was not the matter of regret which it seemed at the time. It was splendid to have another women’s hospital established under the French Red Cross, and to hear also of the other Scottish units which were going farther afield.

The presence of their English colleagues was stimulating to the French medical women, and they did not fail to contrast their own position unfavourably with that accorded to their foreign sisters. Whereas English women were established in control of hospitals under the French Red Cross, the French women were serving in military hospitals as dressers, or as night orderly officers. They had no responsible work, and no professional position. One afternoon, Madame Paul Boyer brought a number of them to ‘Claridge’s,’ when a free discussion took place over the coffee cups.

Although the Paris University had opened its degree to women many years before the Universities of the United Kingdom, the number of women on the register fell far below the number in England. Educational facilities were equal in Paris for men and women, but after qualification the resident posts and staff appointments were still given to men, and women could only secure very subordinate work. They were not combined in any society, as the British women are. They had no association or council to promote their interests, and they had no hospitals of their own, staffed and supported by women, through which they might obtain responsible surgical work and experience.

When war broke out, their Government scorned their offer of service, and it was only as the result of the shortage of doctors that a few had obtained any footing at all in military hospitals. Dr. N.-K., a Russian lady of great ability and many years’ experience, was working as a dresser under a lieutenant of twenty-two years in the officers’ section at ‘St. Louis.’ Her work seemed to be largely that which a nurse would do in England. She took temperatures, dressed wounds, kept notes, directed the male orderlies, but was denied all responsibility in professional matters. Mme. Boyer was permitted to sleep in the ‘Val de Grace’ and attend to night calls. She lamented the absence of women, whether as nurses or doctors, in the French hospitals, and described in graphic terms the confusion and discomfort to be found there. Another, who spoke Polish, had been told that she might join a hospital on the eastern frontier if she were disguised as an infirmière, but that she must promise not to disclose to the Médecin-en-Chef that she was a doctor.

Most of these women doctors were married and very much domesticated, but they complained unanimously of having no opportunities, and were even a little bitter about the unfairness of their position. Dr. Garrett Anderson and Dr. Flora Murray pointed out that women must make their own opportunities, and told them of the societies, schools and hospitals for women in England. At last, stirred to emulate, they declared that they also must ‘faire un mouvement.’ Then one said that her husband did not like her to concern herself with ‘mouvements,’ and another that, if a ‘mouvement’ meant attending meetings at night, she could not come, because her husband could not bear to be left alone. And the enthusiasm began to dwindle. Pressed to consider the possibility of a hospital staffed by women, they admitted that it would be an advantage, and that such a scheme might be feasible, till Mme. Boyer said that they had had no chance of surgical experience and asked dramatically what they should do ‘if the first patient came with an énorme fibrome.’

But there were at least two silent onlookers, young women, one of whom had not yet finished her medical course but knew English, had been in England and had some knowledge of the women’s movement there. She and her comrade were not married, and they obviously had personal ambition. They had been touched by the modern spirit. Through them and through their contemporaries progress might come. They sat listening to their seniors with decorum and in silence. But their eyes were critical and in their hearts they judged them and found them wanting.

The English doctors realised that the new element was present, and that the advance had sounded for professional women in France.