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Portrait of a Little Lady

My War Experiences in Two Continents. — By S. Macnaughtan

In the beginning of this book there is a portrait of a little lady sitting upright and graceful in a high-backed chair. She wears an old-world, silk brocade gown fastened with a row of little buttons. There is fine lace at the neck, and a delicate scarf slips from her shoulders. As she leans her cheek on two fingers her intent, unsmiling gaze is very gentle. But her eyes and lips—typical Northern eyes and lips—challenge her air of sheltered leisure. It would be hard to deceive those eyes—they are steady, shrewd and far-seeing; and one feels that the word that issues from those firm determined lips would be her bond.

It is the portrait of Miss Macnaughtan, who gave the last two years of her life, from July 1914 to September 1916, to suffering humanity, and died as the result of the hardships she endured.

There were women whom nobody had ever ‘wanted,’ young women who longed to put their untried strength to the test, women who never kindled except at the sight of helplessness and suffering, vain women whose one desire was to be important, and unimaginative women who craved a sporting adventure—for all of them the war unlocked the gates of Life, and they entered in and breathed the richer air and were content at last.

How different was Miss Macnaughtan's case! She was one of those admirable single Englishwomen whose lives seem strangely fulfilled and complete. She had a home she loved, many friends, leisure for her work, a feeling for life that was a passion, and an immense capacity for happiness. But the war came to her, locking the gates of Life. ‘I think something in me has stood still or died,’ she confessed.

Except for a few family letters, her experiences in page 12 Belgium, North France, Russia, and on the Persian front are written in the form of a diary. But though one feels that her deliberate aim was to set down faithfully what she saw—the result is infinitely more than that. It is a revelation of her inner self which would perhaps never have been revealed in times less terrible and strange. For though her desire for expression was imperative and throughout the book there are signs of the writer's ‘literary’ longing to register the moment, the glimpse, the scene, it is evident that she had no wish to let her reserved, fastidious personality show through. It happened in spite of her, and there she is for all time, elderly, frail, with her terrible capacity for suffering, her love for humanity, her pride in being ‘English,’ and her burning zeal to sacrifice herself for those who are broken; not because of their weakness, but because they have been strong. Perhaps above all things she loves the Northern courage, not only to endure, but to hide suffering behind a bright shield. But the war makes her cry:

It isn't right. This damage to human life is horrible. It is madness to slaughter these thousands of young men. Almost at last, in a rage, one feels inclined to cry out against the sheer imbecility of it. The pain of it is all too much. I am sick of seeing suffering.

And:

… Above all, one feels—at least I do—that one is always, and quite palpably, in the shadow of the death of youth—beautiful youth, happy and healthy and free. Always I seem to see the white faces of boys turned up to the sky, and I hear their cries and see the agony which youth was never meant to bear. They are too young for it, far too young; but they lie out on the field … and bite the mud in their frenzy of pain; and they call for their mothers and no one comes…. Who can listen to a boy's groans and his shrieks of pain? This is war.

Again:

A million more men are needed—thus the fools page 13 called men talk. But youth looks up with haggard eyes, and youth, grown old, knows that Death alone is merciful.

As one reads on one becomes more and more aware how unfitted by nature Miss Macnaughtan was for the great part which she accepted and played so magnificently. Nothing short of rude youth could have stood the wet and cold, lack of sleep, horrible food, agonizing discomfort at the little railway station where she chopped up vegetables for soup, journeys that (only to read of) are a torment. But she was always ill; she loathed communal life with its meanness, pettiness, scandal and muddling untidiness. How can people behave like this—at such a time? she seems to cry. And little by little her weariness turns to disgust and she cannot bear it. She sorrowfully turns aside—all her love goes out to suffering youth. Nothing else matters.

I wish I could give my life for some boy who would like to live very much, and to whom all things are joyous. But alas! one can't swop lives like this….

When she writes that, she is dying. Her journal ends with the words:

I should like to have left the party—quitted the feast of life—when all was gay and amusing. I should have been sorry to come away, but it would have been far better than being left till all the lights are out. I could have said truly to the Giver of the feast, ‘Thanks for an excellent time.’ But now so many of the guests have left, and the fires are going out, and I am tired.

What is heroism? There was a time when one had the easy belief that heroes and heroines were a radiant few who were born brave, and the reason why they did not shrink or turn aside from their lonely, perilous path was that they were blind to the shado ws [sic: shadows]. They had lifted their eyes; they had seen their star, and their joyful feet ran in the light of it to some high, mysterious triumph.

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But our silver heroes and heroines glitter no longer. Gone is that shining band of knights and ladies. We know better, turning aside from their lifeless perfections as ‘bad’ children do from a ‘good’ fairy book that has all the old stories, but with the wolves and witches and wicked giants left out. We have learned that the final sticking of the dragon counts for almost nothing; it is in the righting that has gone before against Fear and his shadowy army, against the dark hosts of Imagination and the blacker hosts of Reality, that true heroes and heroines are discovered. They are not born brave, and perhaps the burning star is not other than their own spirit, bright and solitary in the incomprehensible darkness of their being. For common men there is a star that beckons; these chosen ones live by a light, yet they are not led.