war is just a passing emotional disturbance in the normal life of
men. Even in France, even in the war zone, there is no glorifying
of war; men in war, at least on our side of the line, hate war
more than they hate the Germans. And with the whole heart of the
civilized world--if one frankly may call the Turk and the Prussian
the savages that they are--set upon maintaining this war to a
victory for the allies, civilization may be said to be in the war
as a make-shift. Everywhere one hears that it is a war against war.
Every one is "longing for the dawn of peace" when it shall come
with justice, and in the meantime France is as deeply devoted to
healing the wounds of war as it is in promoting the war. Six hundred
French societies are devoted to various war works of mercy! Every
man and woman in France who is not a soldier or a nurse is working
in one of these societies. And yet life goes on with all this
maladjustment of its cams and cogs and levers much as in its ordinary
routine. There never were more joyous dahlias and phlox and china
asters than we saw coming back from that training camp where men
were learning the big death game. And when we came to Paris the
real business of war seemed remote. Of course, Paris is affected by
the war. But Paris is not war-like. One doesn't associate Paris with
"grim-visaged war!" For if Paris is not gay, still it remains mighty
amiable. At noon the boulevard cafes are filled to the side-walks,
and until nine o'clock at night they give a fair imitation of
their former happiness. Then they close and the picture shows are
crowded, and the theaters are filled. One sees soldiers and their
women folk at the opera and at the vaudeville shows more than at
the other shows. During the summer and the autumn a strong man put
on a show at the Follies with the soldiers that was the talk of the
town. His game was a tug of war. He announced that he would give
fifty dollars to any soldier who could withstand him. The strong