The house where we took tea was the "big house" of the place,
old and massive, a treasure house of ancient furniture. It
had everything that the moderate heart of man could desire
--gardens, garages, outbuildings, and the air of peace that goes
with beauty in age. It stood over a high cellarage, and
opposite the cellar door was a brand-new blindage of earth
packed between timbers. The cellar was a hospital, with its
beds and stores, and under the electric light the orderly
waited ready for the cases to be carried down out of the
streets.
"Yes, they are all civil cases," said he.
They come without much warning--a woman gashed by falling
timber; a child with its temple crushed by a flying stone; an
urgent amputation case, and so on. One never knows.
Bombardment, the Boche text-books say, "is designed to terrify
the civil population so that they may put pressure on their
politicians to conclude peace." In real life, men are very
rarely soothed by the sight of their women being tortured.
We took tea in the hall upstairs, with a propriety and an
interchange of compliments that suited the little occasion.
There was no attempt to disguise the existence of a
bombardment, but it was not allowed to overweigh talk of
lighter matters. I know one guest who sat through it as near
as might be inarticulate with wonder. But he was English, and
when Alan asked him whether he had enjoyed himself, he said:
"Oh, yes. Thank you very much."
"Nice people, aren't they?" Alan went on.
"Oh, very nice. And--and such good tea."
He managed to convey a few of his sentiments to Alan after
dinner.
"But what else could the people have done?" said he. "They
are French."