France. Armée; Joffre, Joseph Jacques Césaire, 1852-1931; World War, 1914-1918
Life, none the less, was not altogether disagreeable behind the lines.
There were compensations during the rest moments. Concerts and
theatrical representations in which all the stars of the army appeared,
men who had been renowned artists "in the civil," made the audience
forget the dangers and discomforts of their actual life. And in these
_entr’actes_ in the villages, the subject of the war was taboo by a sort
of coquetry; one talked of anything else, and occupied one’s leisure in
acquiring relics from the ruined houses in the devastated villages, or
sought, in other ways, to import some variety into the monotony of
danger. The concerts revealed the singular talent of the French for
improvisation and gave occasion to a latent gaiety, which flickered and
flamed into pure joyousness. From the mind in those moments was
banished dull care, and badinage became the current coin. Whilst the
younger and more vigorous played games, the studious and literary
engaged in intellectual exercises. Impressive in their reality are some
of the books that have been written at the Front. There is a suggestion
of actual experience about them, of _chases vécues_, which one does not
feel in second-hand impressions.
Poems, too, flowed from the trenches—not poems, in general, concerned
with war, but love and the softer passions. Where war was treated, it
was as a mistress, stern and hard to woo. The Great War inspired
something of the lyricism that succeeded the Napoleonic era, when de
Musset, Hugo, Lamartine, and a pleiades of poets existed. Talent
certainly flourished in the trenches. An opera was a proof of it—words
and music of such startling excellence that the critics, before whom the
work was played, expressed a deep enthusiasm for it. It was reserved
for production at the Paris Opera House until the music of the trenches
should have given place to the music of peace. Like many a hero in the
fight, the author will remain anonymous until the war has ceased to be
anything but an ugly remembrance, and then we shall taste the quality of
the composition.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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