it is altogether bad; and he will have no dealings
with it. He may have to endure it; but he endures
gravely and tensely with a sad Latin dignity, and
so it is that this Frenchman endures the war from first
to last. For that reason the Germans, after their
failure on the Marne, counted on the nervous exhaustion
of the French. It was a favourite phrase with
them—one of those formulae founded on knowledge
without understanding which so often mislead them.—Their
formula for us was that we cared for nothing but football
and marmalade.—But reading these letters
one can understand how they were deceived. The
writer of them seems to be always enduring tensely.
It is part of his French sincerity never to accept
any false consolation. He will not try to believe
what he knows to be false, even so that he may endure
for the sake of France. Yet he does endure, and
all France endures, in a state of mind that would mean
weakness in us and utter collapse in the Germans.
The war is to him like an incessant noise that he
tries to forget while he is writing. He does
not write as a matter of duty, and so that his mother
may know that he is still living; rather he writes
to her so that he may ease a little his desire to
talk to her. We are used to French sentiment about
the mother; it is a commonplace of French eloquence,
and we have often smiled at it as mere sentimental
platitude; but in these letters we see a son’s
love for his mother no longer insisted upon or dressed
up in rhetoric, but naked and unconscious, a habit
of the mind, a need of the soul, a support even to
the weakness of the flesh. Such affection with
us is apt to be, if not shamefaced, at least a little
off-hand. Often it exists, and is strong; but
it is seldom so constant an element in all joy and
sorrow. The most loving of English sons would
not often rather talk to his mother than to any one
else; but one knows that this Frenchman would rather
talk to his mother than to any one else, and that
he can talk to her more intimately than to any woman
or man. One can see that he has had the long
habit of talking to her thus, so that now he does
it easily and without restraint. He tells her
the deepest thoughts of his mind, knowing that she
will understand them better than any one else.
That foreboding which the mother felt about her baby
in Morris’s poem has never come true about him:
’Lo, here
thy body beginning, O son, and thy soul and thy life,
But how
will it be if thou livest and enterest into the strife,
And in love
we dwell together when the man is grown in thee,
When thy
sweet speech I shall hearken, and yet ’twixt
thee and me
Shall rise
that wall of distance that round each one doth grow,
And maketh
it hard and bitter each other’s thought to know?’