SCOTTISH WOMEN'S HOSPITAL

Dominion, Volume 11, Issue 43, 14 November 1917, Page 3

SCOTTISH WOMEN'S HOSPITAL

IMPRESSIONS OF A FRENCH WOMAN WRITER

I wished to.visit-tho Scottish Women's Hospital, which ie oue of the curiosities of Salonika (writes Madame- llarcelle Tinayre, in the "Kovue dee JDuex Mondes"). We had in Paris, about 1900, a journal which was no less interesting thau many others, and which was directed, administered, edited, set up, and printed exclusively by women. The Scottish Hospital is, like "La Fronde," a feminist manifestation. It Jβ directed by a courageous woman, Mrs. Harley, a sister of Field-Marshal French. (S"inco this was written lire. Harley's life of heroism and charity haa ended in a glorious death. She was recently killed at Monnstir, while aesisting in ambulance work under the fire of the enemy. Mentioned in diepntches, ehe represented to nil who knew her an admirable example of the most beautiful feminine virtues combined with the tjoldior'e courage;) The hospital is situated in the Cnmpngna, on a vast plain, and quite close to No. 4 Temporary Hospital. The silo of these two hospitals is not very favour, able, but the health service, unceasingly embarrassed by the shuffling: of the Greeks, had no freedom of choice. At least they have accomplished the impossible by*remedying the inconveniences whicli are consequent on the hiunidityof the 6oil, which is low, saturated with water, and threatened by the sea. The medical staff of the No. i Hospital, under the direction of the head physicians, has dug canals for draining off these dangerous waters. Already flowers and vegetables flourish in the gardens around the barraoks. A little jetty stands amid the waves. .. The Scottish Women's Hospital is nearer to the street, you perceive, *n arriving, the tents with their flaps fastened back, and the blue gowns ot the nurses who bend over the beds, for willy-nilly everyone here has to live in the open air, whether it rains or blows. , Along the lane which separates the two hospitals a crowd of people moves, bright and gay; nurses in blue, with white stripes, French sisters with light floating veils and ivory coloured woollen cloaks, officers, civilians, convalescents in striped pjjamas, and Salonikan ladies. The breeze riees every evening at this limo, stirring and rinpling the greenish water, tinged with gold by the reflection of the heavens. In the distance Salonika lifts her cypresses and minarets, taper of white and black quenohed ill the red dust. At the hospital' the chief physician, surgeon, bacteriologist, chemist, manageress, and administrative officers—the whole personnel—are feminine. The patients alone''■belong to the male box. One enn well credit that certain men, enemies of novelty, are somewhat disconcerted by the super-feminism ot the Scottish w'omen. They admit that the doctors excel in their art, that the nurses are devoted' and punctual, that the patients find there an exquisite cleanliness, a discipline gentle but strict, and every possible comfort,, but—but— "They are rather extraordinary, those feminist ladies," said a Frenchman to me. "Have you seen the chauffeur? She is a person who wears trousers, smokes cigarettes, and'thinks nothing of lying flat under her machine to execute with vigorous arms the repairs that a mechanic makee." "Well, what of it, my friend? If the automobile runs well, if the patients are cured the sex and costume of doctor or chauffeur are of small importance. , The English are perfectly indifferent to theee details. They contend timt a woman may follow a rough calling, dress ae it miits her, and' make herself ugly if it pleases her. But the French iiever forget that , ' a-'woman is a woman. This Scottish chauffeur has been an. object of astonishment 'to a great number of my compatriots-. But there is a etill better one. ' . ~ "Look," says someone, there is tne 'sergeant.'" "Who?" , ~ „ "The lady sergeant if you prefer it. In front of us, on the edge of a group formed by Mrs. Harley, the head doctor Miss Macaura, and Mrs. Homsley, an indescribable person is laughing and joking. She wears the .long coat of an English officer, breeches, yellow leggings, and a turned-up felt hat. Her face is highly coloured,' and her grey hair cut short. This is -Miss Flora Sandes, who has manned a gun, and gained her stripes during the Serbian retreat. This is a heroine! Little Einilienne Aloreau, of Lens, who bravely won the Croix-de-Guerre, is also a heroine. Only, though she' performed ft soldierly action, she did not make herself a soldier. This heroine remained a young girl, while Miss Flora Sandea became a soldier, and is on the way to promotion to the rank of second lieutenant. The amiable lady doctor who guides me round the tents allows me to make a brief visit to the -unfortunate patients, nnd offer them consolation. "Very little is necessary to please the poor bedridden fellows, wasted witn suffering and fearfully bored. A word, a flower, a strange face, suffice to break during the evening the monotonous train of thought. Among the soldiers lying on the beds I notice a man of thirty-five, with furrowed brow and gentle expression, to which beard and eyeglasses add the look of , a university prolessor. A sympathetic face, and one whioh appears out of place in this military hospital, surrounded by these soldiers, who tiave the appearance of manual labourers, peasants. This invalid is paralysed with rheumatism, and i see at once that he is a little bored. I stop at his bed, and we exchange conversation. He tells me that he has travelled over . the country, that he is fatigued and suft'ering, but very happy in the good care he receives. regret is that he does not speak Eiiglish. In fact,, the only foreign 'language Hβ knows is Latin.

He questions me, in his turn. He speaks of Paris, where he lived in peace time, and I feel beneath, hie questions the tenderness which Parisians feel for their town. So in niy desire to distract and cheer him, I sit at.tha foot of his bed, my parasol across my knees, and describe the life of Paris, the-appearance of the streets, the alteration in the curtailment of gas, the reopening of the theatres, the last Zeppelin raid, and the iulvance of woman, who has become queen of, the tramways and the metropolitan railways. The sick man smiles. Evidently these little pictures of Paris amuse him, without causing him any regret that he is not among them. He is a philosopher. The tendency of manners interests him. He nearly forgets his rhoumntisil. And I, who know from experience that for a Parisian—even though he be a grave professor—the spectacle of the street is incomplete without gracious feminine silhouettes, do not wish him to remain ignorant of an event which has a certain importance—the fashions have changed. "You would not recognise, the Parisiennes. In 19U they resembled umbrellas. Now they look jnet like bells." "Indeed! ' That is curious."

I notice my friend considers with an astonished air, more perplexed than admiring, my full skirt of black taffeta, which is qnite fashionably bell-shaped. "Ah!" says he good-naturedly, "tho ladies take care of their appearance even in war time. It does not. prevent them from showing grand qualities and virtues —but—but—it is curious, very curious 1 !" He smiles indulgently, like a man who does not thoroughly understand, but does not wish to blnme his compatriots. Cer. ttiinly ,he prefers his nurses in white or blue to nil the "civilians" in short skirts. And he is quite right. I rise to take my leave; and as the invalid thanks me for my visit T osk him: "What do you do, monsieur, in peace tiim*?" He answers.gently: "Undnme. T am a priest." "Oil, monsieur l'abhe. excuse me! Tf T had known! And I talking to you atout fashions!" The priest, declared, that he was not. the least hit scandalised; that: my intentions were excellent, and of course T could not guess his vocation.