[1] Not heard of again.
_August 7th, Friday._
More or less booming from the forts all day. As communications of every
kind have been cut off, we cannot know what is happening. But where is
the assistance so direfully needed, promised by both France and England
to poor little Belgium with the great German army moving on Liége?
Everybody has faith, however, in the Allies, and in the streets it is
pathetic to hear people assuring each other, "_O, oui, les Français
viennent ce soir_" (Oh, yes, the French are coming to-night). There are
many German troops in town already, who somehow have pushed their way
in between the firing, but the city will not cede the forts, so the
bombardment may begin at any moment. I cannot define my
impressions--some day I may be able to, but just now I do not know what
they are. Happily the château is on the edge of the city and there is a
certain quiet at present, but in town pandemonium reigns. Men, women and
children are fleeing in all directions with their few most precious
possessions tied up in a bundle. And where are they going to, the poor
things, with all roads in the country choked up, soldiers and trenches
everywhere?
_August 8th, Saturday._
This morning we walked through the garden to service in the little
village church. For a short moment a welcome calm stole over us in the
quiet of those walls, but how sinister to hear the eternal boom of
cannon between the words of the Mass. All the bridges of the city are
mined and guarded. The five days given Liége by the Prussians to
surrender are up tonight. What will tomorrow bring forth? The Belgians
have blown up the tunnel at Trois Ponts, near the German frontier, as
well as the railroad in many places, which will impede the enemy's
advance considerably, and great trees have been cut down across the
roads in all the country roundabout.
Mère Gavin came hobbling down the path from the top of the hill this
evening to tell us of the astonishing experience she had this afternoon
when a peasant came to her old hut and offered to buy her cow. Now as
her cow is her most precious possession and her sole support she refused
at once, tho' frightened at her own boldness. The stranger, however, was
rather insistent and asked if she would rent the cow, then, for fifty
francs an hour? Was there ever a queerer offer? Of course fifty francs
was a gold-mine to Mère Gavin, so she accepted, and was fairly overcome
when the man laid down three hundred francs on the table and told her to
keep them for him. Then he drove the cow away over the hills while Mère
G. sat staring stupidly at her gold. After a time he came back (with the
cow) and said, "Old One, three hours after I have gone, you can tell
your people that the red _pantalons_ (French soldiers) will be here in
forty-eight hours." Was that not a clever way for a French Scout to find
out the lie of the land?
_August 9th, Sunday._
Some of the Prussians have succeeded in penetrating into the city, tho'
the forts have not surrendered, and are already establishing martial
rule. Aeroplanes, with the wings turned back, _Taubes_, have been flying
about all the morning. In the afternoon we went up over the hill to the
plain of Sartilmont, the battlefield of Wednesday night. All along the
road were heaps of uniforms, some quite new, probably taken from the
dead. Those horrid limp things made me shiver with their lifelessness,
and the spirit of death, everywhere, seemed to close us in. Countless
numbers of haversacks were strewn about, doubtless cast away by the
soldiers to disencumber themselves in falling quickly back from one
position to another. In them, generally, was a change of underwear,
light boots, hard biscuit, canned meats and confiture. Already a flock
of human ravens was collected about the piles of débris, sorting out
what was good to take and collecting fragments of bread for a happy
repast. It was sickening to see, when possibly some of those brave, dead
soldiers were lying, yet unburied, in the nearby hedges and ravines.
Arrived at the little village we saw destruction a plenty. The
inhabitants all had terror-stricken countenances and yet in their desire
to please, literally fell over each other in haste to tell and show.
Some of the buildings were entirely demolished, others with doors hacked
up and windows broken, while everywhere houses and trees were riddled
with bullets. One old peasant woman told me that she and fifty others
were imprisoned for twenty-four hours by the Germans in a tiny stable,
without food or drink, and for no apparent reason.
The battlefield on the top of a ridge of hills between the Ourthe and
the Meuse is a large plain, around the edges of which lay scores of
magnificent trees cut down in haste to give unobstructed range. Their
branches had been previously soaked in _pétrole_ and set on fire. The
effect of those prostrate, charred monsters added to the desolation all
around. Across the end of the plain were those famous open trenches of
"two stories," that is, with about a two-foot elevation of earth in the
bottom against the front wall of the ditch, forming a kind of platform
for the soldiers when taking aim.
These were dug by the soldiers and men from the factories of Liége. In
front of the trenches were constructed those marvellous, barbed wire
fences, about one and one half metres apart and perhaps five rows deep,
with the wire twisted and wound in every conceivable fashion. Thirty
feet in front of this barrier was buried a string of mines, connected
with the trenches by an electric wire, to be exploded at a given
moment. Dark as the night was, the enemy found and severed some of
these communications so that most of the mines were rendered
ineffective. We saw the cut wire in several places. What hope can those
poor soldiers have, enemy or no, the advance guard of the besiegers, who
are pushed forward often at the point of the bayonet, armed only with
huge scissors to cut through such an almost impenetrable defense?
A most touching sight was the graves of thirty Belgians in one end of
these trenches. Does that not seem a terrible irony to be buried in
one's own trenches? A few common, wayside flowers were strewn on the
graves, in front of which was an old prayer-stool and a wooden cross
surmounted with a Belgian _képi_ (military cap). This cap seemed a
living thing almost and reminded me of the red fez so often seen on the
Moslem tombs in the cemeteries of Constantinople, which seemingly
strives to evoke a vital spirit from the frigid marble. Nailed to the
cross was a fragment of those well-known lines of the Immortal Cæsar,
"Of all the peoples of Gaul, the Belgians are the bravest." You see, the
old warrior knew that long ago.
Near by was a small, shrapnel gun carriage, by which stood a toothless,
old man who told, in that excruciating _Wallon_ tongue, a pathetic story
of one of the dogs which had probably drawn it. His mate doubtless was
killed in battle, but he returned three days later, lay down beside the
broken wheels and defied anyone to approach.
_Monday, August 10th._
Monsieur S. came home to-day laden down with bags of gold like Ali Baba.
How he is going to do away with it so that the ferret eyes of the enemy
will not spy it out, is a problem to me. And I do not want it explained
for I am sure I should look right into the forbidden corner at the wrong
moment and give the secret away.
Although there are thousands of German soldiers who have come into the
city and who control it, they are like rats in a trap. On account of the
twelve surrounding forts they cannot leave it and for the same reason no
one can come to their aid. So they have mounted machine guns in corner
houses of many streets and it is horrible to see those deadly mouths
gaping out of the windows. In case of an uprising among the civilians
the soldiers' revenge will be to kill the women and children. But no!
that is not possible in these days, from men who are neither savages nor
Turks.
A heavy cannonading began at 4.30 A. M.--it literally tore us
from sleep, for it seemed as if the very house were tumbling down about
our ears and the singing and whizzing of those big shells was _bizarre_,
to put it mildly. One did not know whether to get up or efface one's
self in the blankets. I remember having the utmost confidence in the
headboard of my bed, which was toward the window. But that did not
obliterate the siren whistle of those big shells and the moment of
suspense between the lightning and the thunder. After each deafening
burst I kept reiterating to myself, "Saved again," as one would repeat a
chronological table of something important. About 8.00 A. M. we
straggled into the breakfast room--all of us rather lifeless and with
very white faces and little appetite for either eating or talking. There
seemed to be only one thing to say, which was, "Did you hear that?" It
was the same sensation again of the thread between heaven and earth. I
wonder if it will break!
This afternoon we took a little walk into the city along the river,
Madame X., her two sons--Monsieur S. and Monsieur J., her daughter,
Baronne de H., and myself. We passed several Prussian guards on the
bridges and Monsieur S. talked with one of them. It appears that the men
are very disheartened. This man said he had started with a company of
seven hundred soldiers and entered Liége with sixty four. That's what it
means to "take cities without difficulty"--and nobody remembers the
seven hundred mothers, or wives, or children that are left. The
burgomaster has received some most sensational news from Brussels, but
it is too ridiculous to be believed.
Tonight is still and Nature is beautiful in the moonlight. Is it the
calm before the storm? Here in the château we are comfortable with
plenty to eat and faithful servants. In town one is not so lucky as a
cousin of Madame X. is quartering forty soldiers and ten officers at
table who are not--or rather, who are a little argumentative, and we
have heard of some instances where the "host" and "hostess" have had to
sleep in the garret or the cellar or wherever they could, while the best
rooms are appropriated by the _militaires_. Blankets, etc., are also
being requisitioned from many houses.
It is reported that Général Léman narrowly escaped being captured
recently when he was lunching in the court of the Café ---- in town. His
companions-in-arms suddenly became aware of four men in strange uniform
who were approaching, and gave the alarm. Général Léman succeeded in
getting over the wall of the garden while the others engaged the spies
in a hand-to-hand fight and overcame them.
_August 11th, Tuesday._
Invincible Liége! People are still firm in their faith, encouraged by
the peace of the morning. The day was quiet until 6.00 _P. M._, when
furious shooting into the valley began. We saw the great shells bursting
in the air and between the clouds of smoke we could distinguish an old
monastery on the other side of the valley which was being shot to pieces
by the enemy's field-cannon. The structure changed shape half a dozen
times before our eyes and the setting sun concentrated, as if purposely,
all its rays on the windows which made them blaze forth through all that
fury like the veritable Hand of God, writing in fire. It seemed almost
like a premonition.
Pressure from those tremendous guns could remodel mountains, and Nature
herself, sometimes, cannot hold out against the fiendish ingenuity of
man. And the city, itself! Can it hold out?
In the garden, very near the foot of the mountain, is the old farmhouse,
in one corner of which is a little chapel whose door stands open the
year round. It is of particular interest to the peasants, being the
last relic of a certain superstitious legend of the countryside. The
people come from miles around, crossing the fields by a little path
which they themselves have beaten down, to kneel before this tiny altar;
and on the last Sunday in May, the annual fête, the priests, leading a
religious procession which starts from the church, say Mass there. This
year, May 31st, 1914, the head gardener, who is the indisputable
authority on floral subjects in the village, borrowed everything from
the conservatory and gardens that he could lay his hands on in the way
of decoration. He arranged the semi-circle in front of the little chapel
very artistically with branches of leaves, palms and hundreds of pansies
which the day before had been uprooted from the terraces of the château
to make room for the red, summer geraniums.
At ten o'clock this Sunday morning the usual fusillade and tolling of
bells announced the departure of the procession from the church. It
passed slowly along by the highroad and presently we heard a chorus of
young voices singing hymns--the girls and boys of the village: the music
was soft and illusive in the distance, developing a sweet crescendo as
they turned into the pasture, fairly plowing their way through a sea of
daisies. Behind them came two little acolytes, fair as angels, swinging
their golden incense lamps; then followed six choir boys, chanting the
Mass, like veritable della Robbias, in their red soutanes and exquisite,
white, lace surplices. Next were the clergy, in robes of cloth of gold
and rare Flemish lace, carrying the Host under a purple velvet canopy.
The village people followed on in quiet devoutness and, arrived at the
chapel, placed lighted candles in the sconces at each side of the grille
door. When the Mass was said and the last plaintive notes had died away,
little children came forward and heaped their thousand-colored bouquets
before the altar. It was an impressive ceremony and must, by its
charming simplicity, leave a mark on many a worldly heart.
Today, August 11th, 1914, at dusk, as the cannon had ceased firing, we
took a little recreation, following the paths on the mountainside;
looking down from a height of perhaps one hundred feet through the
trees, we saw the little chapel gleaming like a beacon in the dark,
dozens of blinking candles pinioned against the black walls. The grille
door was woven with nosegays, making a curtain of flowers which
partially concealed the altar beyond.
Before it, stretching up supplicating hands, many women knelt, bowed
down with grief and despair, and children, awed by recent memories,
stood immovable in their places. Poor, poor people! Some of them in
spite of their unwavering faith must drink the bitter cup so near at
hand.
_August 13th, Thursday._
It is true that one gets inured to danger (particularly if one has not
so far been hit) and after a week of the bombardment, we have a distinct
feeling of annoyance at being disturbed at an unearthly hour every
morning by the screeching and bursting of shells.
About four A. M. we were awakened by another terrifying
whizzing and exploding of bombs as if we were in the very midst of a
battlefield. This lasted about three hours and all we could do was wait.
I often wonder if it's as hard for the men to go off to war as it is for
the women to stay. The battle was inconceivably furious this morning. If
you could imagine five hundred of the worst thunderstorms, shaken up
together, that you ever experienced, you would arrive at a mild notion
of the tumult, not counting the apprehension, the danger and that
terrifying voice in the whistling trail of every shell which sings,
"This time I'll get you." At four this afternoon the Fort of
Chaudefontaine fell, blown up by the Prussians. Between four and six
o'clock the firing ceased.
It was an evening of ineffable beauty and the garden looked so lovely in
its mantle of roses, the little lake at the foot with its white swans
and the wooded mountain rising up almost from its waters--a picture of
calm and contentment. We were there taking a long breath after the
nightmare of the day, when the young gardener rushed in from the village
with the news that thirty of the soldiers in the fort, wounded and
burned beyond recognition, were being brought into the Sisters' Convent,
which had been turned into a Red Cross Ambulance hospital.
The shells from the great field pieces of the enemy falling upon the
forts had shattered the cupolas and had caused them to fall in upon the
Belgians who were thus imprisoned and barely escaped suffocation from
the poisonous gases of the exploding shells. The electric wires were cut
immediately so that the poor things who were entrapped three stories
underground groped about in the dark some time before they at last found
the stairs which led them up through shot and flame and gas to the air.
Gathering some old linen together we fairly flew across the field to the
convent and stopped short, staggered by what we saw. Never on this
earth could one imagine so horrible a sight as those thirty charred
bodies with no suggestion of faces--just a flat, swollen, black surface,
with no eyes, nose nor mouth. Some of the wounded lay on beds, others in
the middle of the floor or wherever there was space, and each was
holding up hands burned to the bone. The room was dimly lighted, a
hushed quiet reigned except for an occasional stifled groan of pain or a
sigh of concern from the villagers or the swish of the black garments of
those ministering angels, the nuns, as they fluttered about among the
suffering; their white coifs, like a halo, contrasting them with that
other Angel, whose black wings, indeed visible, already shadowed his
chosen.
_August 14th, Friday._
One has hoped against hope, but the worst has happened and the people
are despondent. Liége is certainly in the hands of the Prussians. They
have been pouring into the city all day and most of the forts have
either been destroyed by the German field artillery or been blown up by
their defenders rather than surrender. We nursed the soldiers all
day--if last night was horrible I could not find the words to describe
what the daylight revealed, or the awful odor of burned flesh when the
wounds were redressed. It was pitiful to see the courage of the poor
men--the Belgians are brave not only on the battle field. With lips too
seared to articulate, they would try to speak and one could occasionally
catch an indistinct "_de l'eau_," or a half-formed "_Merci, chère
Soeur_," but never a moan or a groan.
At night, as we were wearily returning home, the young footman, with
ashen face, met us half-way down the steps and announced that there
would be Prussian officers at dinner who were already quartered in the
château. We were nearly too tired to be impressed at this as one
naturally would, at least, be moved in one sense or another, but we did
inwardly wonder what the keynote might be at table.
At eight o'clock dinner was served. Madame X.'s daughter and I, after
such a scrubbing and disinfecting, came down the last ones and stepped
into a veritable playworld of the Middle Ages with the most beautiful
setting--a large salon, opening out onto the terrace, with old,
Flemish-wood fire-place and raftered ceiling, Japanese bronzes, rugs
from the Orient, soft lamps and portraits of dear grandmothers, in the
beauty of their youth, smiling out from their golden frames on the
walls. As we came into the room from the brightly lighted hall, a
semi-circle of gray-green coats rose right up out of the dimness and we
were blinded by a vision of shining buttons, polished boots, gleaming
swords and a military salute accompanied by clinking spurs. At the end
of the room stood Madame X. and her sons waiting for us. Naturally there
were no presentations and the moment was unique in the extreme--nobody
moved for a second which seemed like a decade and nobody spoke, so all
there remained to do was to acknowledge the salute with a semi-circular
bow.
Dinner was an odd affair tho' it went off not so badly. Madame X., in
her proud Russian beauty and her admirable control of the conditions,
was superb. I never admired anybody so much, for it is not easy to
entertain at one's board an enemy who has just usurped home and country,
but her extraordinary charm and dignity gave the situation its note and
the "guests" were everything that was agreeable. We talked of
generalities, as well as "War," in four languages (Russian, French,
English and German) with much the same _sang-froid_ as the juggler who
tosses knives and, when the meal was done, thanked Heaven that nobody
had launched a tactless bomb which might have plunged us into a boiling
sea. There was nothing particularly boastful in their conversation,
though at times a certain assured reference to "Paris in a fortnight"
crept in, which we found difficult to digest--in fact I was furious.
Paris, indeed! Beautiful Paris! My neighbor at table on the right was a
man of perhaps fifty-eight years, rather gray and grandfatherly, with
such nice, blue eyes. Prefacing all his remarks with a nervous little
cough to fix my attention, he would launch with difficulty one or two
phrases in restricted French followed by a few straggling words in
English and finally finished up with a burst of voluble German. It was a
work of art to understand him, but I arrived panting--at least I had
that sensation, and it is not the first time I have given thanks for a
woman's natural intuition. Then I decided to lead out next--anyway I
wanted to get him started on "War" without precipitating an
international difficulty and I asked him as stupidly as possible
(perhaps I did not need to simulate that) if he liked "War." He
hesitated just a second and I was prepared for the usual self-respecting
denial when he horrified me by answering a simple "Yes." _Voilà, le
sentiment prusse!_
Afterward when we went into the salon all the officers, commencing with
the superior, came up to Madame X. and kicking their spurs together with
the habitual "_Danke, Frau_," kissed our hands all around. The youngest
soldier among them was a handsome boy of about twenty-two years, who
interested me rather, because he was different--even his boots were
different and he truly had a striking manner, though very gracious. I am
convinced that he was a prince of a reigning house. The atmosphere had a
way of parting in rapid waves when he came in and dropping behind him
like an impervious shield when he went out. Fair, young Achilles! Will a
fatal arrow attain his charméd person?
_August 15th, Saturday._
We took care of the wounded all day: it is the most heartrending
spectacle to see those poor, black heads lying there on their pillows.
They were so shapeless and immovable, I had almost begun to look upon
them as without life like charred logs, when, after finishing a dressing
this morning, I was startled by a hearty, "_Merci, chère Soeur._" Oh,
the joy of it! That brightened the whole scene and flooded me with hope.
Then they have not lost their intelligences, they aren't mere pieces of
wood and one day when their poor flesh has rejuvenated itself, they will
be given back to real life--and their country, again.
The village people and the Sisters were so ardent in their desire to
help that dressings well covered with ointment sometimes fell from their
eager fingers onto grimy blankets or flopped, butter side down, so to
speak, upon the floor; which did not disconcert anyone but me, whose
modern prophylactic soul rattled and shook with horror as the
recalcitrant bandage was gaily redeemed from its dusty resting-place and
applied as originally intended.
It seemed as if I must remonstrate, but the dear whole-hearted helper
was so sure that her dressing would cure and the patient was so
overwhelmingly grateful for the trouble she took to pick it up for him,
that I was dumb before their exquisite faith.
Here was something too big for my stilted aseptic advice and it occurred
to me, suddenly, that perhaps there _are_ many things yet undreamed of
in our philosophy.
All day long the troops in an endless chain have been passing on the
highroad before the château. The air was full of mingled sounds, as, for
example, the singing of the soldiers in the distance, which sounds like
the droning of bees far away and always heralds an advance of troops;
the rhythmic shuffling of feet, the thud of horses' hoofs, the chugging
of autos which carry the superior officers, and the heavy wheels of the
gun carriages with their clanking chains. Their order, equipment and
discipline are admirable to see.
All their apparel is new, as one of the officers told Monsieur D. at
Spa. Uniforms, boots, belts, saddles, bridles and even buttons--all new
and spic and span for a triumphal entry into Paris. Each man carries two
sets of buttons, one for field service (negligible) and the other,
shining brass ones, for the review down the Champs Elysées.
All the officers wear a tiny card-board map of Belgium about (3" x 4"),
hung on their coat buttons and every soldier has embossed on his belt
plate "_Gott mit Uns._" At dinner the officers were very entertaining;
the ice was somewhat broken, at least, we knew better what piece was
safe clinging to and we managed to exchange some ideas. It is rather odd
how few of these educated men speak French. In fact, it is so odd that
it makes us suspicious and cautious. Monsieur J. attacked the captain
with this question, as a leader, "when he thought the war would be
over?" (This being the second week of it.) His answer was _net_ and
forbade argument--"We shall be 'home' by Christmas, or Easter at the
latest." But he did have the grace to congratulate the Belgian army on
its stout defense of Liége, for instead of the two days given the
Germans by their Emperor to capture it, they had been constrained to
take nearly two weeks at it.
_August 16th, Sunday._
A warm, beautiful morning. As Madame de H. and I walked through the
garden and the wood to the little convent ambulance, it was difficult
not to contrast smiling Nature with the frightful scenes of which, in a
few minutes, we would be a part. The awful stench of burned flesh met us
half a block away and congealed my courage as I walked, for it permeates
everything. We can even taste it, it clings in our hair when we go home
and we are obliged to hang our nursing clothes out of the window all
night. I felt as if I must run away from it and those terrible
dressings, reeking with purulence, where ears and eyelids and lips come
off and fingers and hands peel like a glove.
Then I thought of the patience of those brave fellows and the pain and
awfulness of living it. The fortitude and devotion of the village men
and women are beyond praise--they come day after day to help in the
nursing, some spending the night, turn and turn about. Especially the
tenderness of the men for their "_camarades_" is one of the sweetest
things I ever saw, for they are as gentle and capable in their care as
any woman could possibly be.
Prussian troops continue to pass and it is a wonderfully impressive
sight; infantry in gray-green khaki, singing, always singing their
famous "_Wacht am Rhein_" and other folk songs: the _Uhlans_, on
beautiful prancing horses, with their long lances and gray-blue capes
fluttering in the wind; _chasseurs_ in light green; "_Hussars de la
Mort_" with the death's head emblem in the front of their high fur hats
and endless companies of artillery with their huge field cannon, each
drawn by six magnificent horses. On the gun carriages sit four gunners
back to back, still as statues, with arms folded as if on parade. It was
for all the world like a circus when the procession goes twice around
the ring before commencing the serious business of the entertainment.
Dinner was gay tonight (one is obliged to make the best of a bad affair)
and the officers as men of the world were interesting and in unusually
good spirits.
The Captain, a little facetiously, took up the menu and, drawing a tiny
note-book and pencil from his pocket, proceeded to copy it in French,
soliciting Madame X.'s aid _en passant_.
A curious fact occurred to me as I sat there looking down both sides of
the table, how much alike they were--it seems as if they must even think
the same thoughts to resemble each other so much. As their heads were
closely cropped, outlines were baldly apparent, low forehead sloping
back to a narrow crown and all set upon a bulwark of neck. They must
surely have been struck in the same mould. Though forceful, none of them
were good-looking except the young one, of whom I have spoken, and his
face in repose was shockingly cruel. They are expecting marching orders
in the morning and are probably eager to ride on to victory (?). They
bade us good night and good-bye by kissing our hands as usual, a click
of spurs, a military bow and very gracious thanks to Madame X. for her
hospitality.
_August 17th, Monday._
About half-past three in the morning I was wakened from a sound sleep by
a commotion in the court under my window. Impatient horses were pawing
the ground and a voice exactly like a snarling dog was hurling out
orders--I peeped out cautiously and saw that the snarling dog was the
amiable captain who copied the menu last night.
The officers left at four A. M. Fort Lançin fell today and
Général Léman, commander-in-chief of the army here, was taken prisoner.
Thousands of soldiers have passed as usual. In the afternoon a company
of Prussians arrived, whose captain had mistaken the route, which put
him in an abominable humor, having made his men march fifty miles out of
their way and also risking a court-martial on his own account. He
ordered Monsieur S. to open the garage door, in the hope of lodging his
men there for the night. Unluckily the chauffeur, being absent, had the
key, which plunged his Military Highness into a towering rage and he
placed Monsieur S. at once under arrest between two soldiers,
_baionnette-au-canon_, while the others battered in the door with the
butt of their guns. Not finding sufficient quarters for two hundred men,
he marched Monsieur S. away, as guide, half a mile down the road to a
neighbor's.
That excitement had hardly quieted down when another batch of officers
arrived at dusk, demanding lodgings for the night. These men were a
rough type, altogether different from the preceding ones. About eight
o'clock as we, the women, were waiting in the library for dinner to be
announced, we heard a tremendous stamping of heavy boots and spurs and a
snarl of angry voices just over our heads. Baronne de H., brave little
woman as she always proved herself to be, flew up the stairs in a flash
and found her brothers at the end of the hall between two orderlies with
fixed bayonets, trying to pacify seven officers who were disputing
angrily and were just about to enter one of the private apartments--in
fact their father's room. She addressed them in a few vehement words--"I
forbid you to enter the room of my father, who has been dead only a
week." Then she added that the other soldiers who had been here were
gentlemen and that she expected them to be. They were cowed at once and
all humility, begging pardon properly. They pleaded fatigue for their
rudeness and said "certainly they expected to be gentlemen, too." Wasn't
that comical? They were ill at ease and rather sullen at dinner: and
such a dinner as we had!--glacial does not express it. The captain of
the band spoke English, French, Russian and German, but he could not
coax anybody into conversation, for we clung to "_Oui_," or "_Non_," and
stopped there. More than that, a kind of rigid fascination fixed our
attention on one of their number--the tallest and lankiest, who sat down
at least two feet from the table and endeavored to serve himself like
that. Every mouthful was fraught with tense anxiety (for us). Happily
they went to bed early, the captain kissing our hands and asking Madame
X. if she were used to that, it being the custom in Germany.
Hardly had they got under cover and we were alone again, when a hoarse
cry arose in the court--it was blood-curdling to us, as every sound
these days is full of terror and possibilities. But it turned out to be
only the cry of the sentry. There had been promiscuous shooting along
the railroad in the village and all our brave soldiers tumbled out of
bed, fell down the stair-case one after the other, buckling on swords as
they went. It is the greatest wonder to me that we were not all shot on
the spot when we stood there staring up, as one very young lieutenant
descended three steps at a time with a revolver in one wobbly hand which
was shaking like an aspen leaf, and a pair of field glasses in the
other. I think the sudden excitement may have unnerved him and there is
no doubt, this time, that the gods favored the innocent. That was the
last we saw of our guests.
_August 18th, Tuesday._
This morning one of them came back for some personal things, principally
his watch, which, in the true, novel style, could not be found anywhere.
So the _Herr leutnant_ ordered a thorough search and said, with a grand
air, to the housekeeper that if it could not be found he would be
obliged to take one of the servant's as a forfeit. Fancy!
I can see the butler's poor, old, bowed legs, now, flying up the
stair-case, with a bayonet stuck in his back to expedite matters. I do
not know if this threat lent an added zest to the search, but
fortunately someone had the happy thought to look under the mattress
(where the officer had put it himself) and there was the ill-fated
timepiece calmly ticking off German minutes. I think I forgot to tell
you that since the invasion we retire at ten instead of eleven o'clock,
having been advised to adopt Celtic time.
Prussian troops in khaki continue to pass; will they never cease? One's
spine shivers at the sight of the endless, green snake which crawls
along, insinuating its greedy length into the gardens of plenty. This
morning four new officers came to the château; three of them were
nondescript, but the fourth, to all appearances, was an Englishman, pure
blood. He spoke English absolutely without accent and had a perfect
English drawing-room air. It was as funny as an impersonation and as he
had appeared on the scene alone, I believe his brothers-in-arms were
almost suspicious of him. After a little the story came out. He is
really a German, but has lived fifteen years in London. At the début of
the war he had been obliged to take up arms against a sea of troubles,
or relinquish forever his right to go back to Baden, where his parents
live. Naturally he chose the former (also probably thinking that "War"
was a word only) and allowed himself to be bored by circumstances. He
told us some amusing tales of his having been already arrested three
times for an English spy. Everybody here likes him very much and I
welcomed him personally as the nearest approach to an Anglo-Saxon that I
have seen in many months.
Monsieur J. and several of the representative men of the village,
including _Monsieur le Curé_ (a little, fat, rosy-cheeked man, adored by
his flock), were taken as hostages for twenty-four hours and had to
sleep in the railroad station. It was nervously comical to see Monsieur
J. starting off, his valet following with a mattress on his back and a
box of sandwiches in his hand against the misery of the night. But it is
not so amusing to be the victim of even a threat which at any moment may
take the form of a sudden reality for no reason except to terrorize
honest people who are defending their homes. The enemy's way of
punishing and evading future insurrection among the civilians is to take
people as hostages and shoot them if necessary, or burn the houses.
This they have already done in several quarters in Liége. A few nights
ago several students fired on some German officers in a café and the
latters' revenge was instantaneous and terrible; they just stood
eighteen men up in front of the University and shot them like dogs--then
burned that section for blocks around.
Austrian artillery was passing today with their great cannon drawn by
automobiles. The wheels of the gun carriages are enormous and the cannon
are the biggest things we have yet seen.
_August 19th, Wednesday._
Such an odd picking little noise, like a mouse, disturbed us at
breakfast this A. M. Madame X. opened the door and was astonished to see
a German soldier unscrewing the telephone from the wall. Her obvious
surprise moved the man to explain, which was unqualifiedly this--"Madame,
permit me, but we need your telephone for field service."
I suppose he may as well have it anyway for nothing so modern and useful
as telephones has existed for us since August 3rd.
A group of very surly officers have "taken over" Madame R.'s château
down in the country. The moment they arrived night before last, the
Colonel ordered her to bring out all her best wine, throwing her his
soiled gloves to wash at the same time.
The patients at the Convent are beginning to show a little life now,
though their poor, black faces are more grotesque than ever as an eye,
here and there, begins to peep out from a crack in the crusted surface.
They have begun to talk after a fashion, though their poor, dried lips
can hardly accomplish the task. Jean, the big fellow who jumped seven
metres into the ditch from Fort Chaudefontaine when it blew up, died
this morning, the result of a fractured skull.
French and German aeroplanes alike have been flying over the city,
dropping the most sensational circulars of the victories of their
particular armies. But the news is "_trop beau_"--one cannot believe it
and probably it is only destined to encourage the soldiers. It appears
that the officers tell their men all kinds of extraordinary tales, to
give them heart for the fight, and the poor things believe (hearing
French spoken here) that they are already in France, for yesterday one
of them in a passing train was heard demanding the Eiffel Tower. An
officer admitted to Monsieur S. that Germany prints three
newspapers--one for the officers, one for the soldiers, and one for
imbeciles. I suppose the latter means us.
_August 22nd, Saturday._
Bread is being rationed out now in the village and we are allowed only
two small pieces at a meal. It seems to me that I never wanted one more
slice so much in my life. The soldiers have cleared out the baker's
supply and he cannot get any more flour.
Monsieur S. has bought a bicycle and goes into town every morning to
find out about things. Sometimes it seems as if we could hardly wait
until he gets back to lunch for the news. And oh! such terrible things
are happening. Some funny incidents too, intersperse themselves from
time to time. During the recounting of some of these awful tales of
violence and revenge which we are hearing from the little villages the
young footman's knees doubled right up and nearly let him down while he
was serving the table and he is getting greener and greener from day to
day. He becomes absolutely petrified when the officers address him and
whispers out an unintelligible something as he vanishes through a door.
The horrible carnage at Namur has begun and we already have heard
sickening accounts of it. The story, as we have had it by word of mouth,
is that one of the seven forts capitulated (the city was evacuated),
allowing the enemy to enter in over a tract of land which was literally
sown with this famous, new _Poudre Turpin_ which exploded under the feet
of whole regiments at once, and the forts completed the slaughter.
Troops, troops, always troops plodding along. Their attitude could not
be called determined for there is not enough mental action in it, though
there does exist an indisputable tenacity which is appalling. How they
lack that infectious _ardeur_, that splendid _élan_ which characterizes
every little _poilu_! But they just plod on like a great machine,
lacking intelligence in its parts, each vital, however, to the
perfectly-fitted whole.
Madame X. and I felt as if we could not sit still another minute this
afternoon and, safe, or no, we decided to take a walk on the
mountainside. We could hear regiments approaching first by a faint
buzzing in the distance which rounded out into song as it drew near; as
an officer told us, the men often sing in four voices which is quite
beautiful. Then, we became aware of a different noise, a sort of loose
rumble, as if cohesion would presently not exist for the thing, whatever
it was, that caused this new note. But it was not a note, it was a
disturbance which grew and grew in proportions. Madame X. and I scurried
up and down the paths trying to find a vista through the trees that
would disclose this monster which was moving so protestingly along the
road.
I imagined it would be snorting flame and its eyes smouldering fires,
but instead its eyes were neat little windows with tidy curtains, for
the monster turned out to be three diminutive houses on wheels drawn by
a huge motor. What their end and purpose might be, is imaginable. If it
is for the comfort of the High Command _en campagne_, the great clumsy
procession rivaling the speed of a snail is a heap of trouble for a
little luxury.
_August 24th, Monday._
Namur is taken by the Germans. Practically nothing remains of the city.
A German major who was brought, wounded, to Liége, said the battle was
too frightful to narrate. He entered the city with one thousand men and
left it with sixty-five. Just outside the forts, where he had been
stationed with two hundred horses, three bombs fell upon them at the
same moment and only seven of the poor beasts remained. His admiration
for the pointing and firing of the Belgian and French cannon was
unlimited.
Just before lunch this morning, two very ragged-looking individuals
(Belgian civilians) came to the château. They were travel-stained
indeed, just having made the journey on foot from Brussels and in a
calmer era would have had some success in the rôle of common ordinary
tramps. As it was, they excited a little curiosity by the suspicious way
they had of looking about, and our first thought was spies until one of
them, edging toward the outside of the group, made Baronne de H.
understand that he had something to communicate to her. Inquiring if it
were safe, he suddenly leaned down and drew out from the sole of his
shoe, a piece of paper on which was written, "A banker of Brussels sends
greetings--all are well." The little woman burst into a flood of tears
for she realized that it was a message from her husband, one of the
_Garde Civique_ of Brussels. During the three, long, anxious weeks of
devotion to others, I had often remarked and wondered at her courage in
never mentioning her own longing and apprehension for her husband and
three little children. Before we had recovered from the first onslaught
of the army, she must have known, after it left here, that it would
pass their château three kilometres the other side of Brussels and what
would it leave in its wake? Can you imagine her anxiety, when every day
we were hearing frightful stories of children having their hands chopped
off and people's heads being paraded on bayonets? But I never remember
her uttering a single "I wonder," or an "I wish." Does this not bear out
what the illustrious Roman said about the "Belgians," which certainly
did not exclude the women? It is the grandest thing that ever could
be--this response of the women to the Nation's call, for it is not just
passive self-sacrifice, but impassioned co-operation.
In the afternoon Madame de H. and I went to Liége to arrange her
passport for Brussels. Two of the officers who are here offered to go
with us in order to facilitate an entrance into the "_Kommandantur_,"
which is the general headquarters and is in that ancient and beautiful
place of the _Princes-Evêques_, onetime feudal lords of the principality
of Liége. I wanted to rebel openly when I saw that wonderful court,
world-famous for its beauty, which has been turned into a dépôt of
supplies and barracks with horses stabled under those delicate, Gothic
arches, models of purity and beauty. But to what good? Will anything
ever expiate the offense? There are also horses in the theatre and
machine guns in all the upper windows.
While Madame de H. was waiting to see Count Moltke in his office, I
walked about the court with one of the soldier attendants who came with
us and had an opportunity of peeking through many doors which would
otherwise have been closed to me. My companion, who is a wholesale grain
merchant in peace times, enjoyed his authority immensely and dragged his
sword, half unbuckled, on the ground, which clanked behind us and made
merry music in his ears, I am sure. The whole place was a perfect
beehive though there was little confusion. The soldiers were diligently
counting supplies, feeding horses and sorting Belgian cannon and shells
which had been captured.
On the road from Angleur to Liége we were obliged to give way to some
troops which were returning from Namur. The auto stopped right in the
middle of a column, which, as we heard, was a conglomeration of the tag
ends of different regiments and I was almost afraid--the men peered in
at us so maliciously. I have never seen such a frightening spectacle of
humanity, for it was the personification of a rogues' gallery with every
kind of cut-throat, brigand and robber mixed up into a grand ensemble,
toiling and perspiring, limping and crawling along in the dust and heat.
Does battle blot out the soul of a man in one savage conflict?
Obviously, it is before a weary march that one finds exalted faces. But
perhaps they were not desperadoes--only tired and dirty and unshaven.
It is said, however, that when war was declared, the enemy opened the
doors of all the prisons and that the front ranks of the attacking
forces (which were sure to be lost) were entirely composed of convicts
and prisoners. And also, the officers in the regular army are so hated
by their men that when they started out to conquer the world every
officer was changed to a different regiment.
This evening we sat on the terrace enjoying the afterglow of the setting
sun and the calmness of the garden, listening to the soldiers singing in
the orchard, next. This singing in the twilight is heartbreaking and
particularly melancholy, as the music is slow and has more consolation
in it than the usual soul-inspiring quality of battle hymns. At
intervals we heard the captain speaking with great force and enthusiasm,
the hurrahs of the men, an occasional "_Vaterland, Vaterland_," and
again and ever, "_Die Wacht am Rhein._"
_August 26th, Wednesday._
Two new officers (not Prussians) of the _Landstürm_ arrived this
morning--men of fifty to fifty-five years of age. One is a hardware
merchant _en civil_ and has a brown beard and the asthma; the other is a
lawyer, with big, blinking eyes--and they both looked as if they hated
war. The "Englishman" is still here--his department is looking after
supplies at the dépôt. He has borrowed all the English books in the
house and sits reading all day up in the signal box at the station, so
the family have named him "_Monsieur Seegnal Box_," which, with a tiny,
French accent, sounds quite attractive.
We are so enthusiastic about our patients at the Convent, for they are
all improving and developing personalities now. Every morning at
eight-thirty we rush over there as quickly as we can to see how the poor
children are getting on and who has another eye open. Nature has begun
her restorative work and oh! what a satisfaction it is to see the new
skin stretching out tiny shreds to bridge over the martyred flesh.
The atmosphere of the ward is gay. 'Most everybody can laugh, at least
with their hearts, for stiffened lips do not all respond yet. The work
has arranged itself in admirable routine, where humanity is not entirely
swallowed up in duty. There are young girls and boys who fetch basins
of water, old women who roll bandages, faithful, sweet-faced matrons who
bind up dreadful wounds, and strong, young men who lift, so tenderly,
pain-racked bodies and who can toss a joke or a word of encouragement
with equal discretion, which never fails to infuse the down-hearted with
their own priceless vitality. Then there is the _Mère Supérieure_, of
thin, æsthetic face, who comes with a gentle word of the "Faith" for
each one; the austere _Soeur Félicité_, who counts the cups and searches
your soul and brings in hot coffee and a steaming ragoût; and the
pretty, young _Soeur Monique_, with her uplifted face, who cannot
conceal a shy admiration for big, blond Henri who rails at everything
and is as lovable as a baby. Then the villagers: in the middle of the
room, Monsieur B. (Secretary and Treasurer, I should say) cuts off gauze
with a calculating eye at one end of a long table and at the other,
rosy-cheeked Monsieur R. (painter of every house and barn in the
village) stands all day long with a spatula in his hand and slaps on the
ointment for dressings. There is a sort of professional twist in the
gesture and his merry, little eyes glance around, not seeking but rather
gathering in approval, and from under his bristling, white moustache
will burst a salute for one, a joke for another, or a reproach for
another.
Here, there and everywhere he is needed, is Monsieur F., whose great,
dark eyes are acquainted with pain; he is a frail, little person and the
substantial man of the village, a living paradox. Just when Monsieur R.
announces--dramatically waving his spatula--that that is the last ounce
of boric ointment and no more peroxide in the cupboard and we are raving
around and denouncing the pharmacist, Monsieur F. steps up and inquires
what the trouble is, knowing full well the difficulty and also "his
moment," wise man that he is. While we are swamping the situation with
words, he quietly dispatches a boy to his house, who quickly reappears
with huge bottles of this and that. Oh, blessed Monsieur F., who long
since had made a corner in peroxide and everything else we shall need
until after the war. But the despair of the moment, the heat and three,
long hours of unremitting "dressings" effect a faintness of soul and a
"queer" feeling we did not realize was there, until that dear, roly-poly
_Soeur Anastasie_ appears with a bottle of red wine, half concealed
under her cape, and with a motherly, "_Ça vous fera du bien_," (that
will do you good) pours us out a generous glassful. That puts the blue
in the sky again and keeps the shafts of golden sunshine from creating
zigzag patterns in our brain. Oh, Shades of my New England Ancestors!
Would you say, "Better to slip down in a swoon?"--and give everybody a
lot of trouble--
_August 27th, Thursday._
Madame de H. and I again went to Liége early this morning about her
passports. The hotels and cafés were just seething humanity, beds
improvised in every corner, and I saw officers paying their hotel bills
with cheques and notes. The poor proprietor blinked and swallowed hard
for a moment and said nothing. The city was literally packed with troops
going in all directions. _Uhlans_, _chasseurs_, artillery and the
infantry, singing and executing that foolish-looking goose-step--it
probably has its advantages, but at eight A. M. in the pouring
rain it did appear ridiculous.
In the afternoon we took a walk into the country, following the
railroad. The soldiers were working everywhere, putting up temporary
buildings for any emergency. We saw one of those open dining halls--only
three walls with a shed roof where a regiment can step out of a train to
eat while another jumps quickly in and no time lost. We passed the
lovely château of the Marquis de T. who is Minister Plenipotentiary
from Costa Rica. Of course, this is neutral property and flies a
neutral flag, but the place is filled with officers and, according to
the _maitre d'hotel_, the wine cellar is undergoing a thorough
inventory.
_August 28th, Friday._
This morning there was excitement at the Convent; someone was reading a
three weeks' old journal to the soldiers and for a moment everybody
forgot his particular aches and black heads lifted themselves from their
pillows and gaunt forms swayed to and fro on shaky elbows. The lust of
battle lit up wooden countenances, fire sprang from eyes yet heavily
veiled by crusted lids and a fervent "_bien fait_" or "_vivent les
Belges_," trembled from heretofore silent corners.
Madame André, who comes to see her boy every day, remarked my looking at
her dress which was all darned and mended in the most unaccountable
places, "O, Mademoiselle," she said. "I suppose you are wondering about
my waist? But wasn't it lucky I was here with André when the troops
passed through our village? The soldiers fired haphazard in the windows
and the wardrobe in which my clothes were hanging caught seven bullets
and the headboard of my bed, four."
All the afternoon troops were coming back from Namur in evident haste
and apparent rout, for they had such a tired, bedraggled look. About
five o'clock a company with ammunition wagons, Red Cross ambulances and
baggage trucks dashed madly into the orchard among the apple trees,
nearly wrecking themselves and everything else. Immediately after, three
officers came to the house to beg lodging for the night. They were
frightful-looking individuals covered with mud and dirt, with half-grown
beards and one could not tell what uniforms. They asked the most humble
apartment--a corner, the floor--anything, "and, Madame, a little hot
water, _s'il vous plait_." We were sitting on the terrace tonight just
before dinner when down came the three new arrivals, beautiful as the
morning, shaven and shining in their gray-green uniforms, polished boots
and bracelets set with precious stones--officers of the "Emperor's Own,"
though these men did not seem like Germans, but were much more the
lighter build and elegant type of the Austrians.
They were a bit haughty at first, but dinner thawed them out and then
what tales they told us; the most promising imagination could not rival
their flights in the air. They acted like people who walk in their sleep
and had that same vague expression of the eye. But it is not to be
wondered at, coming as they did from a frightful battlefield and
fatigued by a hard march. It must be true that battle intoxicates men
for these latter, being of a sensible age, did say very ridiculous
things. Hitherto the officers who have been here were fairly modest
though always showing an undeniable confidence, while these three openly
bragged. The young lieutenant who sat next to me spoke French fluently
and never stopped talking all the evening. Among countless other things,
he said, "We are being sent back from Namur as Paris is taken"
(ejaculation from me "I cannot believe it") "and they have no more need
of us in that direction," he went on without turning a hair. "So we are
_en route_ for England or Russia, in the morning, to conquer the seven
nations (he included Monaco in the list) who have declared war against
our beloved Vaterland."
"And, Mademoiselle," he continued, "they fired on our ambulances!"
"Ah?" I answered, nonchalantly, "the Germans have already done that
here."
He was a bit taken aback at this rejoinder; then with a prodigiously
sorrowful look he exclaimed in a hushed voice, "_Oui, la guerre est
terrible._"
The victories they exploited on land and sea were fantastic and the
funny part is, they believed thoroughly all they said. It is strange to
hear serious people fabricate such yarns as they did, with as much
dexterity as a spider spins its web.
_August 29th, Saturday._
The ambulance was as busy as a beehive this A. M. Except for
one or two, the patients are all feeling better. André, the third on the
left, whose sonorous "_Merci, chère Soeur_" nearly frightened me to
pieces one day, seems to be the wit and authority on all subjects--a
real leader, I should say, and _drôle_! Augustin, four beds from him, is
our difficult child, the only one of the twenty-nine who is spoiled and
fights his dressings, but we must be patient with him for he has been
very sick and that drawn look about the nose and a certain, startled
expression of the eyes, worry me. But the little _Soeur Victoire_ says
comfortingly that he will soon be well, though he does not wish to eat
and his jaws are a little stiff. O, _chère Soeur_, in your sweet faith,
are stiffened jaws such a trivial circumstance?
Next Augustin is Sylvestre, _le beau_. He was the splendid _pointeur_ of
Fort Chaudefontaine and was the least burned of the men; that is why I
know he is beautiful; also I catch many glimpses of him in the little
mirror in which he is constantly regarding himself, but he is _bon
garçon_, nevertheless--his honest blue eyes attest it.
At the end of the row is the big Flamand, who was always two feet too
long for his bed. He is sitting up now and that great, black head, with
features swollen three times their normal size, is a sight to frighten
the boldest. If he should roar at me I would drop everything and flee.
But he doesn't; nobody roars; for they are all the finest gentlemen in
the world, even in their trying moments.
At ten o'clock this evening, right out of the silence, issued sounds of
heavy, rolling carts, and horses' hoofs. Madame de H. and I stole out
into the court to see what it might be and, almost as if by magic, whole
regiments came pouring along in the greatest haste and disorder. A wing
of the servants' quarters hid the approach of the soldiers from us and
the strange, non-resonant quality of the atmosphere tonight deceived us
as to their nearness. In a moment they were upon us--not three feet
away, for some of the troops had taken, not the usual highroad two
hundred feet distant, but a short cut by the narrow path which directly
passes the court yard. Happily we had hidden ourselves behind the
grille, in the foliage, or we might have been shot without ceremony, as
by order of the military governor of the city "every civilian shall be
indoors and lights out at eight P. M."
We enjoyed the danger a little at first because we did not realize it;
all the same we obliterated ourselves as much as possible, though hardly
daring to move or breathe. Not an arm's length away, their nearness
oppressed us and the waves of heat which reeked from their toiling
bodies sickened us. But there we crouched in our light dresses, easily
seen if one had chanced to look, and separated only by an iron fence
with sparse, fluttering vines from a mass of tired, quarrelsome,
desperate men. Why! any of them might have run us through in a flash as
one would lunge at a white rag for the amusement of his companions.
Indoors the family were frantic, not daring to open a crack of the door
for fear of violent consequences to us.
The night was full of dull noises; even the clanking chains of the gun
carriages seemed muffled and the thud of horses' hoofs in the mud added
to the air of secrecy which pervaded the scene, while the moonlight
threw out shadows and drew crazy perspectives and showed up silhouettes
of men positively falling from their seats with fatigue. Some one was
twirling a French soldier's cap on a bayonet, we heard smothered yawns,
the words "_Russland_," "_Vaterland_," and finally the infantry
whistling in unison as they limped along.
_August 30th, Sunday._
At two o'clock in the morning the whole family was aroused by a
thundering rap from the butt of a gun on the big front entrance. The
poor old butler, who has been in service thirty-five years, was aghast
to open the door and find the Burgomaster, in white kid gloves, standing
between two Prussian soldiers, with fixed bayonets. They demanded
Monsieur J. (for the second time) as hostage. What could have happened
among the people, we could only guess. Had they been rash enough to
protest against strength and did they want to share the fate of the
pitiful Visé?
The forenoon brought us no news; after lunch we walked in the broiling
sun to the little railroad station at Kinklepois, to see Monsieur J.
(he had aged ten years over night) where he was under guard with several
others, including _Monsieur le Vicaire_ of A. and _Monsieur l'Abbé_ of
K. We sat around the table in the Concierge's tiny dining room and
listened to some amusing anecdotes told by the Vicar, while the gentle
old Abbot sent out to the vicarage for a bottle of his good old
Burgundy. To be sure, no one was much in the mood to be amused, but it
lessened the tension of the moment; the least unusual sound from the
street--and it was full of soldiers and horses--brought the tale to a
sudden end and we listened with blanched faces for perhaps--the worst.
_August 31st, Monday._
Monsieur J. was released as hostage at seven o'clock P. M. and
returned to the fold. This evening, as all was still, we played a little
game of Bridge, as in the old days when life was a pleasant dream.
Suddenly a dozen rifle shots, in quick succession, rang out in the air
and the cards fell from our nerveless fingers as a stray ball rattled
against the iron shutters of our windows. Instinctively we crouched into
sheltered corners and waited; another volley and another followed, until
finally Monsieur S. whispered in a hoarse voice, "À la cave." The
household, including the servants, delighted to be any place where we
were not, made a lightning dash, Indian file, for the cellar. Quite
unperturbed and loath to leave her cozy, warm kitchen, the old, fat cook
was the last to waddle down the stairs, repeating her usual "They cannot
hurt me. I am Dutch." She was the calmest of us all, for those
intermittent shots and the possibility of retrieving lost balls had
raised a tremor of excitement as well as our hasty descent into the
realms of Bacchus, in common words--the wine cellar. By the thin rays of
a candle the scene was comic; there we were, fourteen of us huddled
together in a twelve by twenty foot vault, earthen floor and stone
walls. Expecting at any moment an onslaught of we did not know what,
each one was bracing himself for the blow, in different attitudes of
mind and body. Madame X. was pale, her daughter stolid and ready for the
defensive--the true, fighting blood of the Belgians on fire: the old
butler, attentive to the slightest sound, was shaking his gray head with
ominous pessimism and one of the maids was weeping hysterically and
audibly in the arms of her husband, the young footman. At first we just
stood and looked at each other as periodic volleys resounded now and
again. Then we relaxed as well as we could on dusty cases and rounding
barrels or whatever was at hand. An hour passed before the shooting
ceased and then we discovered that we were cramped and uncomfortable and
cold--chilled through with that deathlike dampness which pervades
subterranean chambers. What misery for those who had to live in them for
days! Another hour elapsed before the danger was really over and we
dared to come out from cover; then we crawled upstairs to bed on our
hands and knees to keep below the level of the window ledges.[2]
Madame de H. made an attempt to go to Brussels by a military train
which, however, was derailed ten kilometres from here. Some disagreeable
officers took the second automobile for military service, in spite of
the signed permission which Count Moltke has given the family. Did I
tell you that Madame X.'s children are related by marriage to a high
official of the Imperial Court? I do not know at all if this fact
accounts for the extreme courtesy which they have always received from
the soldiers, but at any rate some of their friends have not been so
favored.[3]
Madame T., who had a charming Villa at S., was one of the unfortunate
ones. She was obliged to entertain the officers of some passing troops
at lunch recently, after which they had coffee in the garden. The
Captain glanced around at the flowers and said, "Madame, very pretty,
very pretty, tomorrow, nothing." That night her villa and several other
neighboring ones were burned to the ground.
The Germans are constantly forcing the Belgian old men, women and
children to march in front of their attacking armies. What kind of
soldiers can it be that does these things, but brutes and barbarians?
My revulsion for it all is so great that the words fairly scorch my
fingers as I write them.