_July 30th, Thursday._
To-day has been warm, very warm and sultry, a day of surprises,
beginning with the sudden disappearance of Monsieur X.'s trusted head
clerk--a German boy who has been in the office for fifteen years and who
knew every phase of the situation. What reason on earth could he have
had for vanishing like that with all his personal belongings, not
leaving one trace behind to show that such a person had ever been? Odd,
but certainly done with studied thoroughness.
This afternoon we sat at the end of the garden by the little lake,
listless and content to do nothing. The air was ominously still, as I
remember it now, and the sun beat down through a yellow haze. Suddenly,
without the slightest warning, huge drops of rain began to fall. You can
imagine that we scurried up the path as fast as possible, past the old
oak, and reached the terrace just before the very heavens opened in a
flood and a great shaft of lightning, like a sword, swept down from the
sky straight to the oak tree, crushing it completely. My hand trembles a
little as I write tonight--it was the suddenness of the onslaught which
unnerved me, I suppose, for it was a curious thing that there were no
signs of approaching storm except the dull yellow light which we did not
notice then.
There was a small dinner this evening and the table was beautiful as
usual with old silver and candles which shed their warm light about--all
lovely and luxurious. Monsieur R., M.P., did his best to draw out the
political opinions of the party, but conversation, quite contrary to
custom, was fitful. I think every one was a little unstrung by the
afternoon's experience and the air even yet is full of electricity.
During one of the unwelcome pauses of the dinner a motor came panting up
the drive and "Uncle Henri" burst in, virtually hatless and coatless,
fairly bristling with political news and very much annoyed that
something, anything, had wrecked his normal existence for a moment. But
this something which has happened is terribly serious. The French trains
are not going beyond the frontier to-night, and part of "Uncle Henri's"
agitation was due to this fact as he had been obliged to walk a few
hundred yards to get the Belgian train. In the excitement of such an
unheard of proceeding he had plunged ponderously along in the dark and
mud with his fellow-travellers and incidentally lost his luggage and his
valet, the ineradicably English James. Nobody took in the seriousness of
such a strange tale at first, for Uncle Henri is, before all, _très
comédien_. But why was he not in Russia as he was expected to be? Very
good reasons indeed, for it appears that Austria and Serbia and Germany
and Russia are about to jump down each other's throats, according to
widespread rumor. France, too, is writhing in suppressed excitement
which one cannot understand, with conditions growing worse every minute.
It would seem rather left-handed for Germany and Russia to reach around
through France to cross swords.
Timid little Madame N. asked if these things might indicate War.
Everybody scouted the idea and ridiculed the thought of the hard-headed,
common-sense, Western world doing anything so absurd. So we will leave
it to the _diplomats_ to settle the difficulty. I am glad that they can.
_July 31st, Friday._
Yesterday was only a preliminary to the seething in the tea-pot which
exists as to-day's events show--everybody is bewildered at the
tremendous things that have started and the equally tremendous things
that have stopped. What does it all mean? There is the greatest
excitement aroused by the foreign news in the evening papers, announcing
in glaring headlines a diplomatic rupture between Germany and Russia. So
it's true! Probably your seismic stock market has already foretold
coming disturbance, but for Europe it is a positive bomb. Already here
in Liége not more than half of the daily four hundred and eighty trains
have passed the city, and it is reported that none of these go beyond
the frontier.
_August 1st, Saturday._
Today the papers announce the stunning news that Germany has declared
war against Russia. The report must be sufficiently authentic, for, as
if by magic, the Belgian army is already gathering itself together with
an almost superhuman rapidity, proof of which we have had in the masses
of troops that have been passing the château all day. Yesterday, trouble
was a newspaper rumor; today, deadly earnestness. And what excitement
all about! The air is positively charged and the whole community is
agog; people with anxious faces accost each other in the street;
farmers neglect their crops to come into town, bank clerks lay down
their pens and shop doors are beginning to close.
_August 2nd, Sunday._
The world has suddenly become nothing but people, and the transition
from the peaceful, care-free existence of four days ago is so great that
I cannot write intelligently, today, because so much is happening.
Following on His Majesty King Albert's magnificent discourse [_Vive le
roi!_], the spirit of a great and glorious decision has set the empire
in motion. The vast machine moves--though some of the bolts creak and
protest a little in their rusty coats and the earth trembles to the
rhythm of tramping feet. Hundreds of soldiers and cannon have been
passing all night, and this morning routes in every direction are
blockaded by detachments from different regiments. There are uniforms of
all types and colors, the ensemble looking like a variegated bouquet
snatched hurriedly by the wayside; the sorting will come later, one
doesn't ask how. The old farm at the end of the garden has been turned
into a barracks, and recruits are being drilled among the apple trees in
the orchard. The excitement is intense--one treads carefully fearing to
be the first to prick the bubble. The newspapers are disquieting, as it
appears now that Germany will probably declare war against France, too,
and is contemplating passing through Belgium by Namur or Luxembourg to
the French frontier. That is a rather offensive threat, as, of course,
there is the neutrality of Belgium and one cannot get away with that. We
consider ourselves most lucky to be here rather than in France.
A detachment of Belgian soldier boys slept in the stables last night.
Monsieur X. sent them his best cigars, and this morning, as soon as they
tumbled out, they made a straight line for the kitchen whence they
scented hot coffee. The good heart of the old, fat cook, who is a native
of Amsterdam, was melted at once and she gave unsparingly until they
flattered and coaxed her into such a state of bewilderment that even
Dutch patience was at last exhausted when she saw them pouring in and
pouring in and boldly attacking her sumptuous pantries _en masse_.
_August 3rd, Monday._
Preparations for war are going on rapidly; scores of automobiles are
racing past like mad things, carrying Governmental messages no doubt
and the Government itself, by its eternal prerogative, is commandeering
for its use everybody's private property--horses, cows, automobiles,
pigs, merchandise, provisions, etc. And how one gives for one's country!
The men, their goods; the women, their sons. The spirit of the people is
magnificent. Huge loads of hay in long processions like caravans are
coming in from the country along with immense droves of cattle. In the
orchard adjoining the château are already domiciled two hundred or more
cows and the discordant melody from this hoarse-throated chorus,
uninterrupted day or night, is driving us to madness. Indoors, we
ourselves are laying in a supply of things in case of necessity and the
kitchen is piled high with bags of flour, coffee, beans, tinned goods,
etc., and in the pasture is a new cow. Beef will probably be the _pièce
de resistance_ for many a day.
Monsieur X.'s old coiffeur came out from town today. He is French and by
far the most volatile person about the news of the moment that I have
seen. It is like a play to hear him declaim on the situation, but, poor
man, having endured the Siege of Paris for six months in 1870, he
doubtless has recollections. And he makes the most of them as well as of
his dramatic ability, describing in an eloquent manner how he fried
rats in a saucepan, which with some spice and plenty of onion all
around, he admitted, were "_pas mal du tout_." Madame X. herself was in
the "Siege of Paris" in 1870 and is therefore taking thought.
These details of the equipment and provisioning of the army will be as
interesting to you as they are engaging to us here in the midst of it,
for they are not commonly even included in a rapid conception of "War"
though being in reality the biggest part of it.
What masses of convoys and munitions! They must constitute that same
impressive "impedimenta" that one used to read about in Cæsar's Wars
which by its unfailing late arrival constantly threw the old Romans into
such a frightful _dépit_. But happily, in this case, it comes first
instead of last.
The whole world seems to be changing place like sand on a moving disc
and my mind is losing its grip on what is real--it's a curious feeling.
Madame X. and her family, like everybody else, are extremely anxious, as
one would naturally be with his country, his home and his future in
peril, but I, in my superb (what shall I say?) Americanism or optimism,
am sure it will come out all right: nevertheless I feel confused.
_August 4th, Tuesday._
The situation, already grave, has taken a definite turn. Germany is
going to attack France through Belgium. Completely ignoring the
neutrality of the latter, she demands to "just pass through peaceably,"
but being refused permission, so much the worse for those who are in the
road. Personally speaking, I should say we are decidedly in the
road--Aix-la-Chapelle--Liége--Namur. Don't you think the crow would
agree with me?
We saw a charming spectacle this morning if anything connected with war
can be so called,--a little company of _mitrailleuses-à-chien_, that is,
small, shrapnel gun carriages drawn by the famous Belgian dogs. It sort
of made my heart crinkle up to see those magnificent animals, detailed
for fatal duty without doubt, pushing on so joyously. Straining in the
traces and really smiling with their great tongues hanging out, they
were performing their work, proud as Punch, and eager to get on.
In the afternoon we were suddenly startled by the booming of nearby
cannon. I shall never forget the first sound of it! It might have been
the Last Trumpet and we didn't know that it was not. My soul turned sick
and seemed to be tumbling down a fathomless abyss while a pair of
unprejudiced eyes watched its descent. Please do not think I am not
serious--it is a moment when one meets things face to face and the
inevitable is happening. We hear that the firing is for the purpose of
demolishing houses and churches before the forts, which might in any way
obstruct the range of the guns. Did I explain that Liége is encircled by
twelve forts, built about twenty-eight years ago under the personal
direction of Général Brialmont? They are on the same principle as those
of Namur and Bucharest, and are large affairs of concrete, sunk three
stories under ground and furnished with elaborate electrical apparatus.
Covering and protecting the cannon are automatic, armored cupolas,
rising and falling with the modern, disappearing guns. Here is a tiny,
freehand map which will give you an idea of the country as well as the
situation of Château d'A----, where I am and which is just between the
city and the enceinte of forts. A shell overreaching this latter, from
the enemy's field cannon, would, I should say, tumble right into our
"zone." But we do not even admit of such a possibility in speaking to
each other. Isn't it funny how we continue to deceive ourselves and life
is a sham to the last throw?
[Illustration: MAP OF LIÉGE WITH THE TWELVE SURROUNDING FORTS]
Général Brialmont warned the Government when the forts were under
construction, that if it could not maintain an army sufficiently strong
to defend the open country between them, he was building them for the
Germans. That statement revived suddenly, gives rise to an apprehension
hitherto unfelt by the _Liégeois_, who have absolute faith in the
impregnability of Liége.
Madame X.'s oldest son, Monsieur S., and his wife, arrived tonight from
France by auto. They would never have been able to get here if Monsieur
S. had not the royal seal on some state papers which he was bringing
from the Belgian Embassy in Paris. Was there ever such a wildly exciting
ride, plunging through two battle lines (French and Belgian) into massed
formations everywhere? Nevertheless Madame S. said she used to fall
asleep from sheer fatigue during the long drives in the blackness of the
night or when they were stopped for hours at a time to identify even a
king's messenger.
_August 5th, Wednesday._
I wonder what you are thinking of events, at home? You will marvel that
I can write at such length when the very skies seem to be pressing down
upon us. But it is the greatest relaxation possible and a kind of
safety valve. It makes me think of some lines of Shakespeare where
different conditions "oft make the wise dumb and teach the fool to
speak." So I write on. The news we get may not be altogether authentic,
as we receive nothing now except by word of mouth. By report it seems
that England, France and Russia are prepared to defend the neutrality of
Belgium with their armies. Liége is now in a state of siege with the
Prussians before the forts. Commerce in the city has ceased completely
with the railroad, telegraph, telephone, post, tramcars, newspapers,
shops and factories. Can you understand what that means? At one time or
another in our lives most of us have been the victim of a social
condition called a "strike"--horribly inconvenient circumstances, when
the mail-man did not come, for instance, or train service was laid off
or the electric light went out for a time. But these instances were all
individual, that is, they happened separately, while here the whole
Universe has shut down together. I could not make you comprehend the
criticalness of our position. I feel as if we were suspended by the
finest thread between heaven and earth, for there is nothing very solid
under our feet and only a sea of ether over our heads. This description
is wholly inadequate to interpret the sensation or the uncertainty. Can
you imagine what it would be like? I cannot exactly say I feel "fear";
perhaps I cannot define fear; but a heaven-sent optimism buoys me up. In
our journeys 'round, having previously experienced cold plunges in the
dark, the fascination of "chance" lets us hope.
"War!" What other lone factor could bring about at the same moment, such
circumstances, the absolute cessation of every living element of our
existence? I know that you will be amused at my sudden plunging into the
psychological realm, but it all makes me wonder. Oh, our dear
civilization and the convenient things we are used to! A puff of smoke,
a hostile shot and they are gone. And here we are, groping like the
veriest savage for a hole to hide in and something to eat. I assure you,
nothing else occupies us for the moment. How is it that the whole house
of cards falls down together? In all these centuries of Struggle and
Learning and Science and Dissent has nobody found a common leaven for
bread?
It is not yet decided if we shall go to Brussels considering what is
rather sure to happen. Several days ago large quantities of gasoline
were buried in the garden under the shrubbery in the event of our
leaving quickly by automobile. However, Brussels is an open city and it
is a question if we would be as well off there as here in this strongly
fortified place.
But Dieu! If they do come--? There is the sub-cellar of the château
whose fine arches and solid vaulting two hundred years old, would hold
even if the house were burned down about our ears. But no! To be
suffocated under burning ruins, no, no! We will not think of that!
A moment of reckless mirth assails me: I want to scream! I feel like the
fair Dido mounting her funeral pyre.
One other hiding place has been thought of. Up in the woods on the
hill-side is a long tunnel about four feet in diameter which conducts a
tiny mountain stream down to the lake. It is dark and wet. Could we stay
there on our knees in the water for many hours, perhaps days? Heavens!
It is unthinkable. Let us die in the open, if die we must.
I am writing this morning in my room, which looks out on the highroad
and the hurrying troops. It is not a time that one would choose for
composition, but I want you to get as vivid an impression as possible of
events as they occur, _et enfin_, I must do something. The booming of
cannon has commenced again, which is sufficiently frequent and of a
certain terrifying decision to assure us that fighting has really
begun.
This ceased during the early evening and we went to bed in peace. That
is, we went to bed. Madame X.'s oldest son was detailed for sentinel
duty on the little road at the side of the château leading up to the
plateau from where the sound of guns came during the day. Monsieur J.,
the other son, with a friend of his, was carrying messages from one fort
to another in his auto, miraculously scooting between the shots.
About 10 P. M. we were violently awakened by furious sounds of
shots in the distance which must have been rifle fire and which grew
more and more distinct, gradually becoming incessant like a long,
uninterrupted drum roll--the machine guns, I suppose. These frightful
noises, increased in volume by the minute and coming on and on in our
direction, were shortly right over the hill above us. The bullets rained
like hail and shells shrieked and split the universe from end to end. We
lay in our beds, trembling, while utter terror seized us as the fracas
would subside a little and then roll nearer and nearer in a perfect
deluge of horrible sounds. Suddenly in the middle of it all a terrific
blast rent the air; the forts had entered into this hideous contest! Oh
the joy of it! I hardly breathed between their shots which seemed
centuries apart and in reality were only a few minutes, for I thought,
now, surely the struggle must end; no enemy can long withstand their
mighty will. But the battle lasted all night with increasing fury. The
roar and din were beyond words, the concerted effort of four forts, the
giant field cannon, machine guns and rifles. My heart stands still when
I remember the thundering of those forts, the premeditated destruction,
the finality which each boom! bespoke, and the thousands of human beings
up there fighting like madmen. The latter, in the wild confusion of
fire, battle and the blackness of the night, finished by shooting into
each other by mistake as their officers were cut down in their midst.
About 2 A. M. we all gathered in Madame X.'s sitting-room.
Suddenly, quite unconscious of any definite purpose, I remember pulling
on the light. Monsieur X., aghast, said, "Mademoiselle, put it out
quickly. They might see it through the dark and aim for it."
What a night! and what visions we conjured up of the invincible
Prussians, drunk with blood and battle ready for any atrocity, plunging
down the hill into our own garden. The sound of the guns was so near
that Monsieur X. thought the battle must be in the open on his own
property just above the hill. As a matter of fact it was only three
kilometres away, on the plain of Sartilmont.
_August 6th, Thursday._
Rain came with the light. That gentle pattering on the sod, after the
tumult of the night, was the sweetest sound I ever heard. It was just as
if Nature had put out Her mother's hand over the earth to soothe its
troubled breast. Was she pleading for that mercy which drops as Her own
gentle tears from Heaven?
During the morning the road in front of the château was filled with
Belgian troops, bedraggled with mud, trying to regain order. And there
they halted for hours and hours in the rain--an absolute picture of
dejection. Even the horses imbibed the general despair as they stood
there, heads drooping, their manes stirring in the wind. That must be
the hard part of it--waiting for orders; but they did it well, no
impatience nor fretting, just obeying the command, their very immobility
carving them a niche in the landscape. These men had been fighting for
several days and, bowed down as they were with the wet and misery of it
all, made a shocking contrast to fresh troops of cavalry which passed at
the same time, brandishing long, dramatic looking lances. And Felix,
the second gardener, who is one of these "_lanciers_," came to say
good-bye in the elegant uniform of his regiment and looking very smart
in white trousers and short blue jacket--in fact, a man transformed.
I had always seen him in wooden sabots and blue apron coaxing this
flower and that into bloom, but he had never been a great success at it.
When his elder brother died, he had wished, so much, to replace him as
head-gardener, so his master let him try for a little and he had failed,
indifferently. But here was a soldier-man, stout heart and valiant
sword, eager to serve his King. This time he will not fail but will meet
his opportunity more than half way.[1] All day Red Cross ambulances and
every kind of vehicle were hurrying by, bringing the wounded from the
battlefield. Madame X.'s family physician stopped in on one of his trips
for a moment's respite from the awfulness up there--his description of
those scenes is too terrible to write about. The carnage was
awful--pieces of bodies scattered about everywhere, the wounded writhing
in their death agony and the dead standing up straight against masses of
dead.
In the evening, indistinct sounds of a far off battle could be heard as
the struggle moved on to another quarter. Nearer, we heard the trailing
of heavy artillery down the mountain and against our will the thought
formulated itself, "Will that wave of terror roll back to us?" Our ears
have developed an abnormal acuteness, so that almost a pin falling will
make taut nerves scream, though in reality nobody moves--a glance is
enough to both ask and answer a question. A marvelous new
self-possession seems to have come to everybody which bridges over a
natural despair and forms, at least, a skeleton framework by which we
keep each other up.