[3] A printed document was exposed afterwards in the village
recommending the Château X. to be respected.
_September 3rd, Thursday._
"_Monsieur Seegnal Box_" went this morning and everybody was sorry to
see him go, for he was a congenial spirit, and, like us, found nothing
attractive about war. He seemed a protection, too, from the beast that
is ever snarling at the door.
A young cousin of the family related to us to-day how much at home the
soldiers have felt in his château in the country; so much so, in fact,
that they have already sent off to Germany all his old family portraits
and the best rugs. Here is a bit of psychology for you to unravel. Why
should they want his family portraits?
I suppose you could not imagine such a thing happening in America. Well,
just try for a moment.
Fancy somebody's coming in and explaining to you that you cannot use
your own things and that your choice possessions will have a far better
setting in Germany than where they are. I think it would do the world a
lot of good if everyone tried such a mental drill for three minutes a
day.
A great depression hung over the Convent to-day--the men were quiet,
showing their consideration for the "_camarade_" as they always do.
Constant, who received internal injuries at Fort d'Embourg, is dying and
Augustin is worse. The latter's face has a gray-blue look and his poor
jaws are very stiff. But there is hope! Oh, yes, there is Hope in big
Jean's smile across the ward, as he follows us around with his great,
black eyes. One can find lots of sympathy in a "_Oui, Mademoiselle_," or
a "_Non, Mademoiselle_," (which is all he ever says) even when it has
nothing to do with the question.
Since the commandant has taken the auto we no longer go out. It is much
too complicated anyway, as one has to show a passport at every bridge
and corner. Every acre of land is infested with soldiers. It is
interesting, however, to see what they do and how they turn everything
to some use. Men are sent from Germany to repair railroads, build
bridges, put up telephones, institute food stations and to kill pigs and
wash the meat in porcelain bath tubs as we saw them do yesterday,
outside a free bath establishment near one of the factories. As we were
looking down on the road tonight, from a hill perhaps two hundred yards
away, we saw distinctly a column of soldiers in dark blue uniforms,
marching across country, and just behind them the ground seemed to
writhe and wriggle in a distressing manner. For a moment we could not
imagine what was happening, when soon a company of men in khaki began to
evolve itself from the landscape. Does that not prove the inestimable
value of earth-colored clothes? For as close as they were to us, we
could distinguish nothing.
This gray-green which the Germans wear is by far the best tone of khaki
that I have yet seen.
Soldiers are stripping the factories here of their fine machinery, but
one sort of chuckles in one's boots when he remembers that it was
originally bought in Germany and has not been paid for yet.
All day long, trains without ceasing were bringing back the wounded. We
do not know exactly where the fighting is, but probably near Charleroi.
A Baron de C. and his wife arrived here at ten P. M. from
Posen, one of the German provinces already taken by the Russians. Crazed
with anxiety, they are going in search of their son, who was wounded at
Namur, and have been three days in a military train--an excruciating
journey! At midnight, the soldiers and the _chef de cuisine_, who has
had his kitchen in the court, departed. Before going they sang softly
some of their songs and then the wagons, one by one, filed out of the
moonlight and were swallowed up in the shadows of the trees. I felt as
if the candle had been blown out for them.
_September 4th, Friday._
Monsieur J. came home today with bad news, though every day has its bad
news. His cousin Robert had been killed near Gand. The old butler's eyes
were sweet to see when Madame X. turned at table and said to him,
"François, Monsieur Robert is dead." This man of one syllable, according
to his custom, answered simply, quick tears visible, "_Oui, Madame_"
with that gentle upward intonation which says so much.
The longest sentence he probably ever constructed was uttered
thirty-five years ago when his young master had wished to dismiss him
for some reason and he had answered, "Oh no, Monsieur, we could not
live, either one of us without the other," which settled the question
for all time. And now the master is laid to rest and the servant must
serve the enemy in his house.
We took a little walk in the woods, this afternoon--as the coast was
clear and no strangers in the house for the first time in three weeks.
We had hardly finished a short promenade when we heard a violent
clanging on the gong to call us back, and when we returned in all haste
to the house found seven soldiers in the library going through all the
drawers and closets in search of firearms. Commencing there, they
searched the whole house from top to bottom, even fumbling in the
bureaus among the dainty lingerie of Madame X. Some of them took an
obvious pleasure in performing their duty, while others looked
uncomfortable and bored. It is true that many of the men hate this war,
whereby whole families of brothers and cousins have to leave their homes
to fight what they call the "Aristocrats' War," who in their arrogance
think to be masters of the whole world.
Some newspapers, two weeks old, were brought from Brussels in the
evening and we pounced upon them as a starved dog makes for a bone.
_September 5th, Saturday._ (At the ambulance.)
"_Constant, le pauvre Constant!_ What is in your tortured soul, these
three long days and nights, that chains it to earth and tosses your
poor body from one troubled thought to another?"
I did not think to have my question answered. At eleven o'clock this
morning a child of twelve years, beautiful as an angel with heavenly
blue eyes and a shock of golden hair, dashed breathlessly into the
courtyard of the Convent, almost too exhausted to ask if _Soldat_
Constant Martin, by any chance, were there. The gentle _Soeur Cecile_
led him in to the sick man's cot. The boy gazed a moment, bewildered at
the wasted form upon it; then with an agonizing cry of "_mon père_" fell
on his knees by the bedside. The man's eyelids trembled, half opened an
instant to look upon his son, and closed. In ten minutes he was at
peace.
Since the railroad has been reconstructed the soldiers have been passing
in trains instead of on foot. Today we saw hundreds of older men,
Bavarians and sailors--it looks as if something had miscarried when the
marines have to fight on land. In the opposite direction, thousands of
wounded were going back in ambulance cars. These ambulance trains are
admirable and are often made up of forty and fifty carriages of the
light, swinging, old-fashioned type, of uniform size, the roofs painted
white, with a big, red cross on the top and one on each side. The cots
are arranged one above the other, showing clean, white linen, while the
attendants are spotlessly uniformed in white. In the middle of each
train is a car which might be called the "ugly duckling," for it is a
decidedly clumsy looking affair, full of steam boilers with safety
valves and tubes sticking out at the top, and is, I fancy, a sterilizing
plant.
_September 6th, Sunday._
Oh, the peace of Sunday in a little village! And Augustin is better,
though he still fights his dressings. It takes the combined effort of
the ward to present duty in such an attractive guise that he will not
realize he is minding, but it is really the sympathetic Roger who can
insinuate comforting comparisons from his own recent acquaintance with
pain and the ever-ready Pierre, who with a "courage, camarade," and one
free hand to help me, actually put the thing through.
On my way home to lunch I glanced at the clock in the church tower and
saw that it was an hour ahead of time, having been made to coincide with
Teuton pendulums. This is the second time that it has happened, for the
villagers dared to climb up the long stairs and put it back, once, but
the soldiers were so ferocious in their threats that--well, one must
accept their insolence. Crossing the field I passed the farmer who must
have felt considerable perturbation of soul this particular day, for he
looked "worrited" and was mowing grass for his poor, thin cows, in a
blue gingham smock and a bowler hat. The war is not more vital to anyone
on earth than to him, for the soldiers have taken away his wagons and
most of his hay for their bedding and they ruined the grass in the
orchard where they were encamped.
Soldiers came to the Convent this morning to search for firearms. It
appears that the German military authorities are terrified of an
uprising among the inhabitants, particularly the factory hands, who will
not work for the Prussians and are getting a little restless. One can
readily imagine such an apprehension when from a population of 40,000
working men in the vicinity, only forty-two firearms were presented upon
requisition. If all the rest are buried in the woods, as many believe,
it will only be the story of another inspired "Cadmus, who sowed
dragons' teeth and there sprang up an army of armed men."
Madame de H. has left for Brussels. The third auto which was hidden away
was brought out and with Count Moltke's _laisser-passer_ and the
family's chauffeur, she will arrive safely, we hope, though we shall not
rest until the man gets back.
In Liége this afternoon, in front of the University, we saw squares and
squares which were burned out by the Germans, and also where those
eighteen civilians were shot, following a slight uprising of the people.
Madame X.'s niece, who lives quite near there, heard the screams of the
women, and such scenes of terror seem even yet to paralyze the
population. In the Place de la Cathédrale we saw soldiers pushing people
along with their saw-toothed bayonets to disperse a crowd which was
gaping, stupefied, at some unusual proceeding.
As we stood there, an automobile, with eight Prussian officers in it,
came banging down the street, loose bolts jingling, and was just
disappearing around a corner when Madame R. exclaimed "Oh, that's our
Reynaud!"
All the automobiles, as well as everything else, have been confiscated
by the invaders and it is a common occurrence to look up and see one's
own beautiful car bounding along over cobblestones and breaking with its
load of soldiers--the motors are driven so hard that in two weeks' time
they are practically worthless.
At the beginning of the war, many owners cunningly removed a tiny
necessary part of their machines, but in most cases the same owners were
given just two hours at the point of the bayonet to find those missing
parts, which was not always easy. And the farmers, too, who cut down the
big trees across the roads to impede the enemy's advance, had just the
same amount of time given them to clear the path again. So you see that
one is helpless.
Rumors come from France that the fortified town of Mauberge still
resists, but that the Germans are at Compiégne, which is so near to
beautiful Paris. It is impossible to believe. Yet we all experienced a
feeling of absolute faintness when that report came, for Compiégne, or
anywhere within one hundred kilometres of it, is too near. But if--_Bon
Dieu_, keep us from thinking!
_September 8th, Tuesday._
There is a possibility of our going to Brussels. Oh, the joy of it! That
may find me the means, through the American Ambassador, of getting back
to my beloved France.
The youngest gardener, the little one, Charles, who is only eighteen
years old, has left for "the front." Not with his regiment, for he
hasn't one (this year was to have been his class), but as a private
individual who could not stay at home when his country needed him. His
old mother, with a little catch in her throat, sent him off proudly, her
baby, her _petit Charles_, to serve with his four brothers, already
gone.
But how can he get away with the eye of the arrogant usurper on every
corner and road?
A Belgian soldier will play his rôle after his own interpretation.
Instead of going off in his best smock and a tiny bundle on a stick, _le
petit Charles_ bade us a smiling _au revoir_ in his old blue apron and
torn hat. He will wander aimlessly over the hills which he knows so well
and, unsuspected, will creep through the friendly hedges into the very
arms of hospitable Holland and then, "All's well."
Trains were passing all day loaded with provisions, as well as soldiers
and sailors who were sticking on like caterpillars all over the roofs,
the sides, the steps and almost the wheels. I saw two of them dancing
the tango on the top of one carriage. Then came car after car of prairie
wagons, we call them, with voluminous, white, canvas hoods, loaded with
provisions; after these, countless, giant cannon decorated with
branches, flowers and flags, mounted on open trucks without sides. All
this procession was a weird phenomenon gliding by in the sky like a
mirage, for the road-bed at the rear of the château is very high and is
hidden by intervening shrubs and bushes so that the wheels of the cars
are quite concealed. It reminded me of those Amazon warriors in "_Die
Walküre_" who slid up to Heaven so smoothly on their wooden horses at
the Opéra in Paris.
Dropping from the poetical plane to common cause and effect, the whole
gave the impression of being well lubricated--like the wheels of Destiny
which turn steadily on with few jerks or hitches.
_September 9th, Wednesday._
The word is said. We are packing our bags to leave for Brussels
tomorrow. When I went to the Convent this morning, I found all the
soldiers in bed and looking so wretched. Merciful Heaven! What blight
could have fallen on our children over night? But it was a farce. They
had heard that the officers of the regiment, here, were coming to
inspect the wounded with the idea of sending those who are well enough
on to Germany as, of course, they are prisoners. So the moment the
Germans entered the courtyard, all the _blessés_--even those who are
quite well--hopped into bed with their clothes on, pulled the covers up
to their chins and with a wet compress on their heads, looked as ill as
possible. It was comical to see; one can be a soldier and comedian at
the same time--and even the dear Sisters enjoyed it. But I was paralyzed
with fear. They had not thought of another side of the question to which
the very impudence of their ruse might subject them.
I was very sad to say good-bye to these brave fellows who have been to
all the world such a lesson in bravery and patience during their
suffering. One big, lanky _garçon_--Jean, in fact--was quite undone at
our departure. He refused to be consoled with the promise of postal
cards in some future era and wept and sobbed, but I managed to
understand between the sobs that he was saying, "_Mais, Mademoiselle, je
vous suis habitué._" (But, Mademoiselle, I am used to you.) I do not
know if this was meant for a compliment, but I took it as such and wept
too.
_September 10th, Thursday._
This morning was spent in finishing packing, which usually is the
biggest part of it, I find.
There appears to be violent fighting at Malines, Louvain and Tirlemont.
Nevertheless we are setting out from the château, at two o'clock, bag
and baggage. Everybody felt sorry to leave the servants (_Liégeois_)
who have been staunch and comforting friends through all the misery of
these terrifying times. Will an eager Fate close them in? Let us hope
they will absorb the effervescent optimism of the fat old cook who
continually reiterates in her awful French, "They cannot hurt me. I am a
Hollander."
2 P. M.--Well, off we started. It was a moment I shall never
forget, for it was as if we had taken up something solid and heavy (an
experience, for example) in our two hands and put it behind us. There
were in the party our two autos and Monsieur H. with Signor K., an
Italian consul, in his. Monsieur H. has a passport from the military
Governor, Field Marshal von der Golz, to go anywhere in Belgium, so we
felt very safe to be with him. No ancient stage-coach with a dozen
passengers on the top could have made as precarious a flight as our
machines, packed and jammed full inside and crowned on the roof with an
overhanging cornice of every sort of bundle. You can imagine that there
was an idea at the back of our minds of never returning, perhaps, or of
keeping what we could in immediate possession.
It was interesting in leaving the city to see the disposition of troops;
we passed through Seraing, where are those tremendous Cockerill
factories, and soon arrived opposite the famous Fort Hollogne which did
such wonderful work in the defense of Liége, August 5th. At present it
flies the German flag and but for one or two sentinels pacing near, one
would never dream that a tremendous fort was there. Like the others, it
is built three stories underground, with just a slight rising of earth
defining the cupolas. Along the road on both sides, for miles and miles,
lay splendid trees which were cut down for cannon range. Just before
arriving at Jauche we met three automobiles with Prussian officers, who
shouted "_Nicht weiter_" and made violent signs which we did not
understand. But why "_nicht weiter_" with the _Herr Feld Marschall's_
permission in our pocket? We soon learned at the railroad crossing. An
hour before there had been an alarm and the station had received orders
to allow no one to pass, as there was fighting not far beyond in the
direction of Tirlemont. Then and there arose a mighty discussion and the
_esprits_ of many nations (Belgian, Italian, Russian, French and German)
entered into the argument while one meek American looked on at the
sparring. Even the little slip of paper ladened with the name of von der
Golz in much ink, had no weight. Then we tried another route, that lay
right through the heart of a dirty, squalid, little village to
Ramillies, the same Ramillies of Louis XIV.'s time, famous in the
"_Batailles des Flandres_." We arrived there by a sudden turn of the
road which brought us up standing, onto a bridge spanning the railroad.
Below, perhaps two hundred feet distant, was the station, out of which,
upon our sudden apparition, swarmed a hundred soldiers in alarm, quite
as if the surprising toe of a boot had inadvertently kicked over an ant
hill. At Ramillies we were not more successful than at Jauche, for as
the officials explained, if we passed the railroad station we were in
danger of being caught between two battlelines. So, sadly indeed, we
retraced our way and returned in the dark and the pouring rain to a
dismantled house and forlorn hopes.
_September 12th, Saturday._
We are in the depths of despair today for we hear that they are fighting
at Meaux--Meaux, which nearly is Paris. If I were a French woman I could
not feel more poignantly about it. But we always think that it is not
true, as we have no real means of knowing--all is hearsay.
A messenger brought news from Monsieur N., "Uncle Maurice," in the
Ardennes. It appears that in August when the German troops went through
Belgium on foot, the regiment of Count Otto von M. passed his villa.
Count Otto is "Uncle M's" nephew--the son of his sister, who married a
"high official of the Imperial Court," of whom I have already spoken. So
it happened that the young officer went to call on his esteemed uncle,
who frankly shut the door in his face. The Count burst into tears and
cried, "Uncle, Uncle, won't you speak to me? It is not my fault. When my
brothers and I received orders to come through Belgium, we begged other
commissions but to no avail."
Certainly not! who better than the Counts von M. who have hunted from
childhood, thro' every lane and secret path, to lead the armies thro'
Belgium.
Trains are passing with every known thing therein--first thousands of
soldiers, then wagons of provisions, cannon, boats for pontoon bridges
mounted on wheels ready for unloading, material for building, trucks of
hay, portable houses and in one car were hundreds of tiny wheels
sticking up which we discovered belonged to wheelbarrows. It is a droll
procession, that never ceases before one's eyes. To offset it, we have
taken to playing Patience morning, noon and night, and if this monotony
keeps up much longer we shall certainly become imbeciles. From time to
time, in the trains going back to Germany one sees French prisoners,
easy to tell by their red _képis_, boxed up in cattle cars, peering out
from a narrow slit at the top. From the terrace can be heard the dull
thud of distant cannon; the fighting is at Warrem, thirty kilometres
from here.
_Monday, September 14th._
Somebody came into possession of a newspaper, the "Figaro" from Paris,
dated September 6th. We were delighted to have it loaned us for an hour,
greasy and dirty as it was, for in these days a newspaper is the most
precious article on earth. It is brought in on a silver tray--then
somebody feverishly reads aloud for the benefit of the others, while the
servants run out to invite the neighbors to come in and listen. Just as
the reader is in the middle of a grand eulogy on glorious victories,
etc., an unknown person raps on the door to reclaim the precious journal
and we all relapse into a general interchange of impressions, ideas,
complaints, inspirations--"They say"; "It appears"; "Why"; "Must";
"Ought"; "Should"; etc. In a German paper we read to-day, they are
preparing their men for "slight defeats" by saying that, "The French
army is no longer the army of 1870, but one worthy to combat with our
own." That was very condescending and was doubtless inspired by the
formidable battleline from the coast to Nancy, before their noses.
_September 16th, Wednesday._
Natural laws are demonstrating themselves very plainly these days, for
when we were sitting on the terrace just before lunch to-day, a curious
thing happened--a sound wave, from a cannon shot literally hit our ear
drums. I felt as if somebody had struck mine with a padded club. There
was no noise, you understand, but we all looked up, aware of the impact
at the same moment, so that it could not have been imagination. It must
be that the terrible experiences of the past weeks have developed us to
a highly sensitized degree, for many things are strikingly clear which
were not so before.
Nearly every afternoon we go up over the hill to a high cliff
overhanging the river which makes a sounding board for those sounds,
which never abate, of a distant battle across the valley.
Heaven above! how are there men enough left after all these weeks of
killing to continue a battle? At times the reports come as thick and
fast as hail, making one long roar of awfulness, and our hearts sink
like lead at the vision it conjures up.
And again, how readily and eagerly hope springs up when the shots become
interrupted and the noise fades away a little.
In this wooded spot where we so often go to find out the real truth of
things with our own ears, one meets nearly all one's friends from the
neighboring villas who have come for the same purpose, morbidly
attracted as we all, no doubt, are by these dreadful signs of a world of
torture.
We huddle together like sheep lost in the storm, we confide our personal
misfortunes and we recount the barbarous tales we have recently heard,
the story ever interrupted by fresh evidence of the reviving fury of the
never-ending struggle.
When we arrived home we heard that a company of soldiers had arrested,
as espions, four or five men who, like ourselves, were taking a little
promenade in the wood across the valley. Our liberties are being
curtailed more and more. Thank goodness there is a large garden and a
private wood to wander in. A month ago the order was that every
inhabitant must be in the house and lights out at eight P. M.
Now it is seven o'clock and as the days grow shorter it will soon be six
or five--and perhaps three. The soldiers are in such a blue fear of
being shot that recently in Aerschot all the villagers were put into the
church on bread and water. Some of the men were shot before their wives
and most of the houses burned. And they say, "the heart of the Imperial
Empire bleeds." It is not surprising that it does when one considers
what is happening right here at Liége, where houses are burned and
innocent men shot for murder. Afterward one finds German bullets in
German soldiers, which proves what you will.
What a story we heard to-day--such a pitiful little story of somebody's
blue-eyed boy who ran out with his toy gun and aimed it at the passing
troops.
They shot him dead, the little fellow, but he will sleep in a hero's
grave as truly as another, for his loyal wee might.
_September 18th, Friday._
A memorable day! We went in the auto to Spa. As we drove out of the
court yard we were obliged to let some horsemen pass, who were out for
their morning exercise. I think it is somebody's body guard, for we see
them often at a distance. There are about thirty of them and at close
range they are rather beautiful, that is, their uniforms of spotless
white broadcloth with gold trimmings. _En route_ we passed by Fort
d'Embourg, which still has some of its cupolas, and Fort Chaudefontaine,
which our burned soldiers defended and which is demolished. For miles
around the country has been flattened, one may say, from the operation
of the cannon and looks as if a cyclone had hurried across it. Every bit
of shrubbery has been swept off the soil as if by a blast of magic and
the singed earth has a very shorn-lamb aspect.
Our route was a veritable _via dolorosa_--destruction on both sides, in
front and behind. Many houses and trees had eight inch shells half
sticking in them which have not exploded and nobody knows when they may.
The churches were without fail demolished more or less and the most
astonishing thing was to see, again and again, the marble statue of the
Christ standing intact on the crumbling remains of an altar. It fills
one with awe and reverence to see this figure repeatedly spared by a
supernatural power from an otherwise pitiless devastation. We passed
through the now famous Louvigné which was entirely burned by the
Prussians on their way to Liége. It was the same old story of the
"civilians firing on the troops," or rather the excuse of the
delinquents to martyr innocent villagers who instinctively took up a
rifle to defend their homes, as any one of us would. And revenge came
quickly.
As we neared this spot which scarred the face of Nature, we were seized
with silent horror. If, in the smiling sunshine and in the quiet of the
beautiful country, we shivered at the sight of such destruction and the
thought of that dastardly work which marked the destiny of hundreds of
human beings, what must the awful realization have been to the
inhabitants themselves? Fancy the helplessness of them and their
consternation at the approach of a great army bearing down, of men
maddened with the love of conquest, of the wild beast seeking what it
may devour! Imagine the distant rumbling of wheels, drawing nearer and
nearer, the thud of horses' hoofs, the rhythmic tramp of feet, first
wafted on the wind, and finally the frightful dread confirmed by a
sudden explosion from the forts. Then the arrival--the dark--the
noise--the confusion--the terror of the women--the screams of little
children clinging to their mothers--the despair of the old ones, ill and
bedridden--fire everywhere and men torn from the arms of their loved
ones and stood up in a row and shot. What ghastly scenes, illumined
still more by those rockets of flame from the forts which cut across the
plain to stay the brutal invaders!
I saw a little girl come out from the débris to draw water from a
pump--for what? For whom? There did not seem to be a living creature in
the vicinity, though perhaps some of the poor things who fled out into
the night across the fields for safety, have come back to dig out a
little home under the crumbled stone. One or two houses remained
standing, which seems a miracle, as pétrole-soaked fire-brands were
thrown systematically into every habitation. As we passed, rather
quickly, I counted ninety houses in ruins and about half a mile from the
road, a magnificent château, a victim as well as the meanest hovel. The
façade only was standing, though on approaching directly, the building
seemed intact, except for a curious impression of daylight shining
through the windows.
Coming back in the twilight the effect of all this misery was
accentuated, the sentinels every few hundred yards were more suspicious
than ever and when we came upon a few isolated "_Hussars de la Mort_"
with the death's head leering out from those elegant fur turbans, I
thought all was finished. Happily the men were more peaceable than their
aspect.
Spa, the lovely, indolent _ville d'eaux_, which we visited, was filled
with the "military" and bristling like a porcupine with saw-edged
bayonets and pointed helmets.
_September 22nd, Tuesday._
The doctor has gone to Neufchateau in the Ardennes to bring back the
French and Belgian wounded. I wish I could have gone with him, for we
seem so useless here now that our soldiers are well, and the days are
long, since the wild excitement of a giant army on the wing has cooled
down. "On the wing" is not an idle expression when we remember those
forced marches and how they lashed the poor artillery horses which
galloped and strained in the traces without making much impression on
the wheels. It was rather like that famous chariot race in the play,
"Ben Hur," when the landscape rolled around too fast for the horses.
Certain Imperial Esprits have doubtless already arrived, but without the
baggage--an item somewhat important.
May the Fates preserve beautiful Paris! There is a dear little French
sister at the Convent (this Sisterhood was transferred from Metz after
the War of 1870) who says that we must pray the Blessed Virgin every day
to "_écraser_ (smash) _les Allemands_," and she says it so fervently
that one does not observe the lack of Christian spirit.
Very little is passing through the city at present except perhaps this
eternal line of trains, and oh, how we are thirsting for news! Can you
imagine, dear people at home, you who have hundreds of newspapers, how
we are straining every nerve to know the real truth of things as they
are, to pierce through this thick wall, with which an arrogant despotism
has cut us off from the whole world? But we cannot. It is wadded on both
sides with deceptions and our only privilege is to surmise. What poor
things we are, in truth, though born and reared in the common
independence of the age. Everywhere (else) the poorest farmer has his
one old horse to take him to and fro, where he will, and he has his acre
of God's country, where he may muse in the sun or dream with the stars,
while we, conquered by numbers, must walk in a straight line without
loitering and we must go into our houses at seven P. M. and
close the door. Do you think that is amusing?
_September 24th, Thursday._
We heard five booms of cannon in an hour this morning and bad and
inhuman as it sounds, we were quite pleased--any little sign from an
outside world that one lives, one breathes, to drag us out of this
inertia, this eternal silence!
_September 28th, Monday._
There was quite a demonstration in Liége yesterday when they brought
back from Neufchateau some Belgian and French wounded. The people all
shouted, "_Vive la France._" Today we have a new military governor, who
has given the order to shoot, without hesitation, any person attempting
such an indiscretion again.
The scene of operations is gradually swinging back into Belgium and the
stories of atrocities are increasing. The sacking and burning of
Louvain, with its art treasures and its world-famous library of rare
books and old manuscripts, is only another blot on a shield already
stained. In fact, it is said that the general who permitted it is most
discontented with himself for having been so stupid and that he has been
relieved from active service on account of ill health.
Monsieur Max, the burgomaster of Brussels, has been taken prisoner and
is in confinement at Namur, because he was not able nor willing to meet
the demands of the Prussians, who want gold. We hear that the women of
Germany have been required to give up all their jewelry, except wedding
rings, for fighting money.
_September 30th, Wednesday._
We went again to Spa in the auto. Passing again through the pitiful
village of Louvigné, we saw, in a meadow, the graves, covered with
wayside flowers, of the farmers who were shot. The soldiers picked out
forty of the villagers, stood them up in a line, then shouted, "Save
yourselves." Thirteen were shot in the back and the rest escaped. What
words to find for this barbarism? But is it barbarism and not rather the
refined cruelty of civilization? Is it not better then to remain a
primitive, with a beautiful faith in the Sun-god?
_October 1st, Thursday._
The siege of Antwerp has begun. Here is a dialogue between the Kaiser
and his _belle armée_.