I have known a hairdresser
who had nothing better to do than to make a portrait of the General
out of hair belonging to persons who were dear to him; a professional
penman had the same idea, but the features were composed of thousands
of little phrases in tiny characters which sang the praise of the
General. As to letters, he had them in all scripts, from all
countries, written in every dialect, affectionate letters, grateful,
overflowing with love, filled with adoration. They called him Savior
of the World, Father of his Country, Agent of God, Benefactor of
Humanity, etc.... And not only Frenchmen, but Americans, Argentinians,
Australians, etc. etc.... Thousands of little children, without their
parents' knowledge, took pen in hand and wrote to tell him their love:
most of them called him Our Father. And there was poignancy about
their effusions, their adoration, these sighs of deliverance that
escaped from thousands of hearts at the defeat of barbarism. To all
these naif little souls, Joffre seemed like St. George crushing the
dragon. Certainly he incarnated for the conscience of mankind the
victory of good over evil, of light over darkness.
Lunatics, simpletons, the half-crazy and the crazy turned their
darkened brains toward him as toward reason itself. I have read the
letter of a person living in Sydney, who begged the General to save
him from his enemies; another, a New Zealander, requested him to send
some soldiers to the house of a gentleman who owed him ten pounds and
would not pay.
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