CHAPTER VI

LAST DAYS IN FLANDERS

_19 May._--In order to get material for my lecture to munition-workers I

was very anxious to see more of the war for myself than is possible at a

soup-kitchen, and I asked at the British Mission if I might be given

permission to go into the British lines. Major ---- in giving me a flat

refusal, was a little pompous and important I thought, and he said it

was _impossible_ to get near the British.

To-day I lunched on the barge with Miss Close, and we took her car and

drove to Poperinghe. I hardly like to write this even in a diary, I am

so seldom naughty! But I really did something very wrong for once. And

the amusing part of it was that military orders made going to Poperinghe

so impossible that no one molested us! We passed all the sentries with a

flourish of our green papers, and drove on to the typhoid hospital with

only a few Tommies gaping at us.

I was amazed at the pleasure that wrong-doing gives, and regretted my

desperately strict past life! Oh, the freedom of that day in the open

air! the joy of seeing trees after looking at one wretched line of rails

for nine months! Lilacs were abloom in every garden, and buttercups

made the fields look yellow. The air was misty--one could hardly have

gone to Poperinghe except in a mist, as it was being so constantly

shelled--but in the mist the trees had a queer light on them which made

the early green look a deeper and stronger colour than I have ever seen

it. There appeared to be a sort of glare under the mist, and the fresh

wet landscape, with its top-heavy sky, radiated with some light of its

own. Oh, the intoxication of that damp, wet drive, with a fine rain in

our faces, and the car bounding under us on the "pavé"! If I am interned

till the end of the war I don't care a bit! I have had some fresh air,

and I have been away for one whole day from the smell of soup and

drains.

How describe it all? The dear sense of guilt first, and then the still

dearer British soldiers, all ready with some cheery, cheeky remark as

they sat in carts under the wet trees. They were our brethren--blue-eyed

and fair-haired, and with their old clumsy ways, which one seemed to be

seeing plainly for the first time, or, rather, recognising for the first

time. It was all part of England, and a day out. The officers were

taking exercise, of course, with dogs, and in the rain. We are never

less than English! To-morrow we may be killed, but to-day we will put on

thick boots, and take the dogs for a run in the rain.

[Page Heading: AT POPERINGHE]

Poperinghe was deserted, of course. Its busy cobbled streets were quite

empty except for a few strolling soldiers in khaki, and just here and

there the same toothless old woman who is always the last to leave a

doomed city. At the typhoid hospital we gravely offered the cases of

milk which we had brought with us as an earnest of our good conduct, but

even the hospital was nearly empty. However, a secretary offered us a

cup of tea, and in the dining-room we found Madame van den Steen, who

had just returned to take up her noble work again. She was at Dinant, at

her own château, when war broke out, and she was most interesting, and

able to tell me things at first hand. The German methods are pretty well

known now, but she told me a great deal which only women talking

together could discuss. When a village or town was taken, the women

inhabitants were quite at the mercy of the Germans.

Continuing, Madame van den Steen said that all the filthiness that could

be thought of was committed--the furniture, cupboards, flowerpots, and

even bridge-tables, being sullied by these brutes. Children had their

hands cut off, and one woman, at least, at Dinant was crucified. One's

pen won't write more. The horrors upset one too much. All the babies

born about that time died; their mothers had been so shocked and

frightened....

Of Ypres Madame said, "It smells of lilac and death." Some Englishmen

were looking for the body of a comrade there, and failed to find it

amongst the ruins of the burning and devastated town. By seeming chance

they opened the door of a house which still stood, and found in a room

within an old man of eighty-six, sitting placidly in a chair. He said,

"How do you do?" and bade them be seated, and when they exclaimed,

aghast at his being still in Ypres, he replied that he was paralysed

and couldn't move, but that he knew God would send someone to take him

away; and he smiled gently at them, and was taken away in their

ambulance.

Madame gave me a shell-case, and asked Mr. Thompson if he would bring in

his large piece to show us. He wheeled it across the hall, as no one

could lift it, and this was only the _base_ of a 15-inch shell. It was

picked up in the garden of the hospital, and had travelled fifteen

miles!

The other day I went to see for myself some of the poor refugees at

Coxide. There were twenty-five people in one small cottage. Some were

sleeping in a cart. One weeping woman, wearing the little black woollen

cap which all the women wear, told me that she and her family had to fly

from their little farm at Lombaertzyde because it was being shelled by

the Germans, but afterwards, when all seemed quiet, they went back to

their home to save the cows. Alas, the Germans were there! They made

this woman (who was expecting a baby) and all her family stand in a row,

and one girl of twenty, the eldest daughter, was shot before their eyes.

When the poor mother begged for the body of her child it was refused

her.

The _Times_ list of atrocities is too frightful, and all the evidence

has been sifted and proved to be true.

_20 May._--Yesterday I arranged with Major du Pont about leaving the

station to go home and give lectures in England. Then I had a good deal

to do, so I abandoned my plan of visiting refugees with Etta Close, and

stayed on at the station. At 5.30 I came back to La Panne to see

Countess de Caraman Chimay, the dame d'honneur of the Queen of the

Belgians; then I went on to dine with the nurses at the "Ocean." Here I

heard that Adinkerke, which I had just left, was being shelled.

Fortunately, the station being there, I hope the inhabitants got away;

but it was unpleasant to hear the sound of guns so near. I knew the

three Belgian Sisters would be all right, as they have a good cellar at

their house, and I could trust Lady Bagot's staff to look after her. All

the same, it was a horrible night, full of anxiety, and there seems

little doubt that La Panne will be shelled any day. My one wish

is--let's all behave well.

I watched the sunset over the sea, and longed to be in England; but,

naturally, one means to stick it, and not leave at a nasty time.

[Page Heading: SOCKS]

_21 May._--Yesterday, at the station, there was a poor fellow lying on a

stretcher, battered and wounded, as they all are, an eye gone, and a

foot bandaged. His toes were exposed, and I went and got him rather a

gay pair of socks to pull on over his "pansement." He gave me a twinkle

out of his remaining eye, and said, "Madame, in those socks I could take

Constantinople!"

The work is slack for the moment, but a great attack is expected at

Nieuport, and they say the Kaiser is behind the lines there. His

presence hasn't brought luck so far, and I hope it won't this time.

I went to tea with Miss Close on the barge, and afterwards we picked up

M. de la Haye, and went to see an old farm, which filled me with joy.

The buildings here, except at the larger towns, are not interesting or

beautiful, but this lovely old house was evidently once a summer palace

of the bishops (perhaps of Bruges). It is called "Beau Garde," and lies

off the Coxide road. One enters what must once have been a splendid

courtyard, but it is now filled indiscriminately with soldiers and pigs.

The chapel still stands, with the Bishops' Arms on the wall; and there

are Spanish windows in the old house, and a curious dog-kennel built

into the wall. Over the gateway some massive beams have been roughly

painted in dark blue, and these, covered in ivy, and with the old

dim-toned bricks above, make a scheme of colour which is simply

enchanting. Some wind-torn trees and the sand-dunes, piled in miniature

mountains, form a delicious background to the old place.

I also went with Etta Close to visit some of the refugees for whom she

has done so much, and in the sweet spring sunshine I took a little walk

in the fields with M. de la Haye, so altogether it was a real nice day.

There were so few wounded that I was able to have a chat with each of

them, and the poor "éclopés" were happy gambling for ha'pence in the

garden of the St. Vincent.

In the evening I went up to the Kursaal to dine with Mrs. Wynne. Our two

new warriors who have come out with ambulances have stood this

_absolutely_ quiet time for three days, and are now leaving because it

is too dangerous! The shells at Adinkerke never came near them, as they

were deputed to drive to Nieuport only. (N.B.--Mrs. Wynne continues to

drive there every night!) Eight men of our corps have funked, no women.

I am going to take a week's rest before going home, in the hope that I

won't arrive looking as ill as I usually do. I hardly know how to

celebrate my holiday, as it is the first time since I came out here that

I haven't gone to the station except on Sundays.

[Page Heading: SUNDAY]

_23 May, Sunday._--I went to Morning Service at the "Ocean" to-day, then

walked back with Prince Alexander. In the evening we drove to the

Hoogstadt hospital. The King of the Belgians was just saying good-bye to

the staff, after paying a surprise visit. He has a splendid face, and

the simplicity of his plain dark uniform makes the strength and goodness

of it all the more striking.

As I was waiting at the hospital the Germans began firing at a little

village a mile off. It is always strange to hear the shells whizzing

over the fields. We drove out to see the Yser and the floods, which have

protected us all the winter. With glasses one could have seen the German

lines.

Spring is coming late, and with a marvel of green. A wind blows in from

the sea, and the lilacs nod from over the hedge. The tender corn rustles

its soft little chimes, and all across it the wind sends arpeggio chords

of delicate music, like a harp played on silver strings. A great big

horse-chestnut tree, carrying its flowers proudly like a bouquet,

showers the road with petals, and the shy hedges put up a screen all

laced and decorated with white may. It just seems as if Mother Earth

had become young again, and was tossing her babies up to the summer sky,

and the wind played hide-and-seek, or peep-bo, or some other ridiculous

game, with them, and made the summer babies as glad and as mischievous

as himself. Only the guns boom all the time, and my poor little French

Marines, who drink far too much, and have the manners of princes, come

in on ambulances in the evening, or at the "poste" a hole is dug for

them in the ground, and they are laid down gently in their dirty coats.

Mother Earth, with her new-born babies, stops laughing for a moment, and

says to me, "It's all right, my dear; they have to come back to me, as

all my children and all their works must do. Why make any complaint? For

a time they are happy, playing and building their little castles, and

making their little books, and weaving stories and wreaths of flowers;

but the stories, the castles, the flowers I gave them, and they

themselves, all come back to me at last--the leaves next autumn, and the

boy you love perhaps to-morrow."

Oh, Father God, Mother Earth, as it was in the beginning will it be in

the end? Will you give us and them a good time again, and will the

spring burst into singing in some other country? I don't know. I don't

know.

Only I do know this--I am sure of it now for the first time, and it is

worth while spending a long, long winter within the sound of guns in

order to know it--that death brings release, not release from mere

suffering or pain, but in some strange and unknown way it brings

freedom. Soldiers realise it: they have been more terrified than their

own mothers will ever know, and their very spines have melted under the

shrieking sound of shells, and then comes the day when they "don't

mind." Death stalks just as near as ever, but his face is suddenly quite

kind. A stray bullet or a piece of shell may come, but what does it

matter? This is the day when the soldier learns to stroll when the

shrapnel is falling, and to look up and laugh when the murderous bullet

pings close by.

[Page Heading: SOUVENIRS]

War souvenirs! There are heaps of them, and I hate them all; pieces of

jagged shell, helmets with bullets through them, pieces of burnt

aeroplanes, scraps of clothing rent by a bayonet. Yesterday, at the

station, I saw a sick Zouave nursing a German summer casquette. He said

quietly, being very sick: "The burgomaster chez moi wanted one. Yes, I

had to kill a German officer for it--ce n'est rien de quoi--I got a ball

in my leg too, mais mon burgomaster sera très content d'avoir une

casquette d'un boche." Our own men leave their trenches and go out into

the open to get these horrible things, with their battered exterior and

the suggestion of pomade inside.

Yesterday, by chance, I went to the "Ierlinck" to see Mr. Clegg. I met

Mr. Hubert Walter, lately arrived from England, and asked him to dine,

so both he and Mr. Clegg came, and Madame van der Gienst. It was _so_

like England to talk to Mr. Walter again, and to learn news of everyone,

and we actually sat up till 10.30, and had a great pow-wow.

Mr. Walter attaches great importance to the fact that the Germans are

courageous in victory, but their spirits go down at once under defeat,

and he thinks that even one decisive defeat would do wonders in the way

of bringing the war to an end. The Russians are preparing for a winter

campaign. I look at all my "woollies," and wonder if I had better save

some for 1916. What new horrors will have been invented by that time? I

hear the Germans are throwing vitriol now! In their results I hate hand

grenades more than anything. The poor burnt faces which have been

wounded by them are hardly human sometimes, and in their bandages they

have a suggestion of something tragically grotesque.

_26 May._--We had a great day--rather, a glorious day--at the station

yesterday. In the morning I heard that "les anglais" were arriving

there, and, although the news was a little startling, I couldn't go

early to Adinkerke because I felt so seedy. However, I got off at last

in a "camion," and when I arrived I found the little station hospital

and salle and Lady Bagot's hospital crowded with men in khaki.

We don't know yet all that it means. The fighting has been fierce and

awful at Ypres. Are the hospitals at the base all crowded? Is there no

more room for our men? What numbers of them have fallen? Who is killed,

and who is left?

All questions are idle for the moment. Only I have a postcard to say

that Colin is at the front, so I suppose until the war is over I shall

go on being very sick with anxiety. At night I say to myself, as the

guns boom on, "Is he lying out in the open with a bullet through his

heart?" and in the morning I say, "Is he safe in hospital, and wounded,

or is he still with his men, making them follow him (in the way he has)

wherever he likes to lead them?" God knows, and the War Office, and

neither tells us much.

[Page Heading: GAS-POISONING]

The men at the station were nearly all cases of asphyxiation by gas.

Unless one had actually seen the immediate results one could hardly have

credited it. In a day or two the soldiers may leave off twitching and

shuddering as they breathe, and may be able to draw a breath fairly, but

an hour or two after they have inhaled the deadly German gas is an awful

time to see one's men. Most of them yesterday were in bed, but a few sat

on canvas chairs round the empty stove in the salle, and all slept, even

those in deadly pain. Sleep comes to these tired soldiers like a death.

They succumb to it. They are difficult to rouse. They are oblivious, and

want nothing else. They are able to sleep anywhere and in any position,

but even in sleep they twitch and shudder, and their sides heave like

those of spent horses.

It struck me very forcibly that what was immediately wanted was a long

draught for each of them of some clean, simple stimulant. I went and

bought them red wine, and I could see that this seemed to do good, and I

went to the barge and got bottles of whisky and a quantity of distilled

water, and we dosed the men. It seemed to do them a wonderful lot of

good, and in some way acted as an antidote to the poison. Also, it

pulled them together, and they got some quieter sleep afterwards.

Towards the afternoon, indeed, all but one Irishman seemed to be better,

and then we began to be cheery, and the scene at the station took colour

and became intensely alive. The khaki-clad forms roused themselves, and

(of course) wanted a wash. Also, they sat on their beds and produced

pocket-combs, and ran them through their hair. In their dirt and rags

these poor battered, breathless men began to try to be smart again. It

was a tragedy and a comedy all in one. A Highlander, in a shrunk kilt

and with long bare legs, had his head bound about with bandages till it

looked like a great melon, and his sleeve dangled empty from his

great-coat. Others of the Seaforths, and mere boys of the Highland

Territorials, wore khaki shirts over their tartan, and these were

bullet-torn and hanging in great rents. And some boys still wore their

caps with the wee dambrod pattern jauntily, and some had no caps to

wear, and some were all daubed about with white bandages stained

crimson, and none had hose, and few had brogues. They had breathed

poison and received shrapnel, and none of them had slept since Sunday

night. They had had an "awful doing," and no one knew how the battle at

Ypres had gone, but these were men yet--walking upright when they could,

always civil, undismayed, intelligent, and about as like giving in as a

piece of granite.

Only the young Scottish boys--the children of seventeen who had sworn in

as nineteen--were longing for Loch Lomond's side and the falls of

Inversnaid. I believe the Loch Lomond lads believed that the white burn

that falls over the rocks near the pier has no rival (although they have

heard of Niagara and the Victoria Falls), and it's "oor glen" and "oor

country" wi' them all. And one boy wanted his mother badly, and said so.

But oh, how ready they were to be cheery! how they enjoyed their day!

And, indeed, we did our best for them.

[Page Heading: A GARDEN-PARTY]

Lady Bagot's hospital was full, and we called it her garden-party when

we all had tea in the open air there. We fed them, we got them

handkerchiefs, our good du Pont got them tubs, the cook heaped more coal

on the fire, although it was very hot, and made soup in buckets, and

then began a curious stage scene which I shall never forget. It was on

the platform of the station. A band appeared from somewhere, and, out of

compliment to the English, played "God Save the King." All the dirty

bandaged men stood at attention. As they did so an armoured train backed

slowly into the station and an aeroplane swooped overhead. At Drury Lane

one would have said that the staging had been overdone, that the clothes

were too ragged, the men too gaunt and too much wounded, and that by no

stretch of imagination could a band be playing "God save the King" while

a square painted train called "Lou-lou" steamed in, looking like a

child's giant gaudy toy, and an aeroplane fussed overhead.

Everyone had stories to tell, but I think the best of them concerns the

arrival of the wounded last night. All the beds in Lady Bagot's little

hospital were full, and the Belgians who occupied them insisted on

getting up and giving their places to the English. They lay on the floor

or stood on their feet all night, and someone told me that even very

sick men leapt from their beds to give them to their Allies.

God help us, what a mixture it all is! Here were men talking of the very

_sound_ of bayonets on human flesh; here were men not only asphyxiated

by gas, but blinded by the pepper that the Germans mix with it; and here

were men determined to give no quarter--yet they were babbling of Loch

Lomond's side and their mothers, and fighting as to who should give up

their beds to each other.

Of course the day ended with the exchange of souvenirs, and the soldiers

pulled buttons off their coats and badges out of their caps. And when it

was all over, every mother's son of them rolled round and went to sleep.

Most of them, I thought, had a curious air of innocence about them as

they slept.

_27 May._--I took a great bundle of newspapers and magazines to the

"Jellicoe" men to-day. English current literature isn't a waste out

here, and I often wonder why people don't buy more. They all fall upon

my tableful, and generally bear away much of it.

The war news, even in the ever optimistic English press, is _not_ good,

but not nearly as bad as what seems to me the real condition of affairs.

The shortage of high explosives is very great. At Nieuport yesterday

Mrs. Wynne said to a French officer, "Things seem quiet here to-day," at

which he laughed, and said, "I suppose even Germans will stop firing

when they know you have no ammunition."

[Page Heading: SLACKERS IN GLASGOW]

In France the armament works are going night and day, and the men work

in shifts of 24 hours--even the women only get one day off in a

week--while in Glasgow the men are sticking out for strict labour

conditions, and are "slacking" from Friday night till late on Tuesday

morning, and then demanding extra pay for overtime. And this in face of

the bare facts that since October the Allies have lost ground in Russia;

in Belgium they remain as they were; and in France they have advanced a

few kilometres. At Ypres the Germans are now within a mile of us, and

the losses there are terrible. Whom shall we ever see again?

Men come out to die now, not to fight. One order from a sergeant was,

"You've got to take that trench. You can't do it. Get on!"

A captain was heard saying to a gunner subaltern: "We must go back and

get that gun." The subaltern said, "We shall be killed, but it doesn't

matter." The captain echoed heavily, "No, it doesn't matter," and they

went back.

Sir William Ramsay, speaking about the war, says that half the adult

male population of Europe will be killed before it is over. Those who

are left will be the feeble ones, the slackers, the unfit, and the

cowards. It is good to be left to breed from such stock!

It is odd to me how confusing is the want of difference that has come to

pass between the living and the not living. Cottages and little towns

seem to be part of nature. One regrets their destruction almost as one

regrets the loss of life. They have a tragic look, with their

dishevelled windows and stripped roofs and skeleton frames. Life has

become so cheap that cottages seem almost as valuable. "It doesn't

matter"--nothing matters. I rather dread going back to London, because

there things may begin to seem important and one will be in bondage

again. Here our men are going to their death laughing because it doesn't

matter.

There is a proud humility about my countrymen which few people have yet

realised. It is the outcome of nursery days and public schools. No one

is allowed to think much of himself in either place, so when he dies,

"It doesn't matter."

God help the boys! If they only knew how much it mattered to _us_! Life

is over for them. We don't even know for certain that they will live

again. But their _spirit_, as I know it, can never die. I am not sure

about the survival of personality. I care, but I do not know. But I do

know that by these simple, glorious, uncomplaining deaths, some higher,

purer, more splendid place is reached, some release is found from the

heavy weight of foolish, sticky, burdensome, contemptible things. These

heroes do "rise," and we "rise" with them. Could Christ himself desire a

better resurrection?

[Page Heading: LARKS]

_28 May._--I am busy getting things prepared for going home--my lecture,

two articles, etc. I did not go to the station to-day, but worked till 3

o'clock, and then walked over to St. Idesbald. How I wish I could have

been out-of-doors more since I came here. It is such a wonderful

country, all sky. No wonder there are painters in Belgium. During the

winter it was too wet to see much, and I was always in the kitchen, but

now I could kiss the very ground with the little roses on it amongst the

Dunes. Larks sing at St. Idesbald, and nightingales. Some fine night I

mean to walk out there and listen.

_29 May._--To-day, according to promise, Mr. Bevan took me into

Nieuport. It was very difficult to get permission to go there, but Mr.

Bevan got it from the British Mission on the plea that I was going to

give lectures at home.

"The worst of going to Nieuport," said Major Tyrell, "is that you won't

be likely to see home again."

Mr. Bevan called at 10 o'clock with the faithful MacEwan, and we went

first to the Cabour hospital, which I always like so much, and where the

large pleasure-grounds make things healthy and quiet for the patients.

Then we had a tyre out of order, so had to go on to Dunkirk, where I met

Mr. Sarrel and his friend Mr. Hanson--Vice-Consul at Constantinople--and

they lunched with us while the car was being doctored.

At last we started towards Nieuport, but before we got there we found a

motor-car in a ditch, and its owner with a cut on his head and his arm

broken, so we had to pick him up and take him to Coxide. It was a clear,

bright day, with all the trees swishing the sky, and Mr. Bevan and

MacEwan did nothing all the time but tell me how dangerous it was, and

they pointed out every place on the road where they had picked up dead

men or found people blown to pieces. This was lively for me, and the

amusing part of it was that I think they did it from a belated sense of

responsibility.

It is as difficult to find words to describe Nieuport as it is to talk

of metaphysics in slang. The words don't seem invented that will convey

that haunting sense of desolation, that supreme quiet under the shock of

continually firing guns. Hardly anything is left now of the little

homely bits that, when I saw the place last autumn, reminded one that

this was once a city of living human beings. _Then_ one saw a few

interiors--exposed, it is true, and damaged, but still of this world.

Now it is one big grave, the grave of a city, and the grave of many of

its inhabitants. Here, at a corner house, nine ladies lie under the

piled-up débris that once made their home. There some soldiers met their

death, and some crumbling bricks are heaped over them too. The houses

are all fallen--some outer walls remain, but I hardly saw a roof

left--and everywhere there are empty window-frames and skeleton rafters.

[Page Heading: NIEUPORT]

I never knew so surely that a town can live and can die, and it set one

wondering whether Life means a thing as a whole and Death simply

disintegration. A perfect crystal, chemists tell us, has the elements of

life in it and may be said to live. Destruction and decay mean death;

separation and disintegration mean death. In this way we die, a crystal

dies, a flower or a city dies. Nieuport is dead. There isn't a

heart-beat left to throb in it. Thousands and thousands of shells have

fallen into it, and at night the nightingale sings there, and by day

the river flows gently under the ruined bridge. Every tree in a wood

near by is torn and beheaded; hardly one has the top remaining. The new

green pushes out amongst the blackened trunks.

One speaks low in Nieuport, the place is so horribly dead.

Mr. Bevan showed me a shell-hole 42 feet across, made by one single

"soixante-quinze" shell. Every field is pitted with holes, and where

there are stretches of pale-coloured mud the round pits dotted all over

it give one the impression of an immense Gruyère cheese. The streets,

heaped with débris, and with houses fallen helplessly forward into their

midst, were full of sunshine. From ruined cottages--whose insecure walls

tottered--one saw here and there some Zouaves or a little French "marin"

appear. Most of these ran out with letters in their hands for us to

post. Heaven knows what they can have to write about from that grave!

Some beautiful pillars of the cathedral still stand, and the tower, full

of holes, has not yet bent its head. Lieutenant Shoppe, R.N., sits up

there all day, and takes observations, with the shells knocking gaily

against the walls. One day the tower will fall or its stones will be

pierced, and then Lieutenant Shoppe, R.N., will be killed, as the

Belgian "observateur" was killed at Oostkerke the other day. He still

hangs there across a beam for all the world to see. His arms are

stretched out, and his body lies head downwards, and no one can go near

the dead Belgian because the tower is too unsafe now. One day perhaps

it will fall altogether and bury him.

Meanwhile, in the tower of the ruined cathedral at Nieuport Shoppe sits

in his shirt-sleeves, with his telephone beside him and his observation

instruments. His small staff are with him. They are immensely interested

in the range of a gun and the accuracy of a hit. I believe they do not

think of anything else. No doubt the tower shakes a great deal when a

shell hits it, and no doubt the number of holes in its sides is daily

becoming more numerous. Each morning that Shoppe leaves home to spend

his day in the tower he runs an excellent chance of being killed, and in

the evening he returns and eats a good dinner in rather an uncomfortable

hotel.

In the cathedral, and amongst its crumbling battered aisles, a strange

peace rests. The pitiful columns of the church stand here and there--the

roof has long since gone. On its most sheltered side is the little

graveyard, filled with crosses, where the dead lie. Here and there a

shell has entered and torn a corpse from its resting-place, and bones

lie scattered. On other graves a few simple flowers are laid.

We went to see the dim cellars which form the two "postes au secours."

In the inner recess of one a doctor has a bed, in the outer cave some

soldiers were eating food. There is no light even during the day except

from the doorway. At Nieuport the Germans put in 3,000 shells in one

day. Nothing is left. If there ever was anything to loot, it has been

looted. One doesn't know what lies under the débris. Here one sees the

inside of a piano and a few twisted strings, and there a metal

umbrella-stand. I saw one wrought-iron sign hanging from the falling

walls of an inn.

Mr. Bevan and I wandered about in the unearthly quiet, which persisted

even when the guns began to blaze away close by us, whizzing shells over

our heads, and we walked down to the river, and saw the few boards which

are all that remain of the bridge. Afterwards a German shell landed with

its unpleasant noise in the middle of the street; but we had wandered up

a by-way, and so escaped it by a minute or less.

In a little burned house, where only a piece of blackened wall remained,

I found a little crucifix which impressed me very much--it stood out

against the smoke-stained walls with a sort of grandeur of pity about

it. The legs had been shot away or burned, but "the hands were stretched

out still."

As we came away firing began all round about, and we saw the toss of

smoke as the shells fell.

[Page Heading: STEENKERKE]

_31 May._--We went to Steenkerke yesterday and called on Mrs. Knocker,

and saw a terrible infirmary, which must be put right. It isn't fit for

dogs.

At the station to-day our poor Irishman died. Ah, it was terrible! His

lungs never recovered from the gas, and he breathed his last difficult

breath at 5 o'clock.

In the evening a Zeppelin flew overhead on its way to England.

[Page Heading: NIGHTINGALES]

There is a nightingale in a wood near here. He seems to sing louder and

more purely the heavier the fighting that is going on. When men are

murdering each other he loses himself in a rapture, of song, recalling

all the old joyous things which one used to know.

The poetry of life seems to be over. The war songs are forced and

foolish. There is no time for reading, and no one looks at pictures, but

the nightingale sings on, and the long-ago spirit of youth looks out

through Time's strong bars, and speaks of evenings in old, dim woods at

home, and of girlish, splendid drives home from some dance where "he"

was, when we watched the dawn break, and saw our mother sleeping in the

carriage, and wondered what it would be like not to "thrill" all the

time, and to sleep when the nightingale was singing.

Later there came the time when the song of the throbbing nightingale

made one impatient, because it sang in intolerable silence, and one

ached for the roar of things, and for the clash of endeavour and for the

strain of purpose. Peace was at a discount then, and struggle seemed to

be the eternal good. The silent woods had no word for one, the

nightingale was only a mate singing a love-song, and one wanted

something more than that.

And afterwards, when the struggle and the strain were given one in

abundant measure, the song of the nightingale came in the lulls that

occurred in one's busy life. One grew to connect it with coffee out on

the lawn in some houses of surpassing comfort, where (years and years

ago) one dressed for dinner, and a crinkly housemaid brought hot water

to one's room. The song went on above the smug comfort of things, and

the amusing conversation, and the smell of good cigars. Within, we saw

some pleasant drawing-room, with lamps and a big table set with candles

and cards, and we felt that the nightingale provided a very charming

orchestra. We listened to it as we listened to amusing conversation,

with a sense of comfortable enjoyment and rest. Why talk of the time

when it sang of breaking hearts and high endeavour never satisfied, and

things which no one ever knew or guessed except oneself?

It sings now above the sound of death and of tears. Sometimes I think to

myself that God has sent his angel to open the prison doors when I hear

that bird in the little wood close beside the tram-way line.

On Thursday, June 3rd, I drove in the "bug" to Boulogne, and took the

steamer to England. I went through a nasty time in Belgium, but now a

good deal of queer affection is shown me, and I believe they all rather

like me in the corps.

* * * * *

The following brief impression of Miss Macnaughtan's work at the

soup-kitchen forms the most appropriate conclusion to her story of her

experiences in Belgium. She cut it out of some paper, and sent it home

to a friend in England, and we seem to learn from it--more than from any

words of her own--how much she did to help our Allies in their hour of

need:

"It was dark when my car stopped at the little station of

Adinkerke, where I had been invited to visit a soup-kitchen

established there by a Scotchwoman. In peace she is a

distinguished author; in war she is being a mother to such of the

Belgian Army as are lucky enough to pass her way. I can see her

now, against a background of big soup-boilers and cooking-stoves,

handing out woollen gloves and mufflers to the men who were to be

on sentry duty along the line that night. It was bitterly cold, and

the comforts were gratefully received.

"For a long time this most versatile lady made every drop of the

soup that was prepared for the men herself, and she has, so a

Belgian military doctor says, saved more lives than he has with her

timely cups of hot, nourishing food. It is only the most seriously

wounded men who are taken to the field hospital, the others are

carried straight to the railway-station, and have to wait there,

sometimes for many hours, till a train can take them on. Even then

trains carrying the wounded have constantly to be shunted to let

troop trains through. But, thanks to the enterprise and hard work

of this clever little lady, there is always a plentiful supply of

hot food ready for the men who, weak from loss of blood, are often

besides faint with hunger."

PART II

AT HOME

HOW THE MESSAGE WAS DELIVERED

_October, 1915._--So much has happened since I came home from Flanders

in June, and I have not had one moment in which to write of it. I found

my house occupied when I returned, so I went to the Petrograd Hotel and

stayed there, going out of London for Sundays.

Everyone I met in England seemed absorbed in pale children with

adenoids. No one cared much about the war. Children in houses nowadays

require food at weird hours, not roast mutton and a good plain Christian

pudding, but, "You will excuse our beginning, I know, dear, Jane has to

have her massage after lunch, and Tom has to do his exercises, and baby

has to learn to breathe." This one has its ears strapped, and that one

is "nervous" and must be "understood," and nothing is talked of but

children. My mother would never have a doctor in the house;

"nervousness" was called bad temper, and was dosed, and stooping was

called "a trick," and was smacked. The children I now see eat far too

much, and when they finish off lunch with gravy drunk out of tumblers

it makes me feel very unwell.

I went to the Breitmeyers, at Rushton Hall, Kettering; it's a fine

place, but I was too tired to enjoy anything but a bed. The next Sunday

I stayed at Chenies, with the Duchess of Bedford--always a favourite

resort of mine--and another week I went to Welwyn.

I met a few old men at these places, but no one else. Everyone is at the

front. The houses generally have wounded soldiers in them, and these

play croquet with a nurse on the lawn, or smoke in the sun. None of them

want to go back to fight. They seem tired, and talk of the trenches as

"proper 'ell."

There is always a little too much walking about at a "week-end." One

feels tired and stiff on Monday. I well remember last summer having to

take people three times to a distant water garden--talking all the time,

too! People are so kind in making it pleasant that they wear one out.

[Page Heading: ERITH]

All the time I was in London I was preparing my campaign of lecturing. I

began with Vickers-Maxim works at Erith, on Wednesday, 9th June, and on

the 8th I went to stay with the Cameron Heads. There was great bustle

and preparation for my lecture, Press people in the house at all hours

of the day, and so on. A great bore for my poor friends; but they were

so good about it, and I loved being with them.

The lecture was rather a red-letter occasion for me, everyone praising,

the Press very attentive, etc., etc. The audience promised well for

future things, and the emotion that was stirred nearly bowled myself

over. In some of the hushes that came one could hear men crying. The

Scott Gattys and a few of my own friends came to "stand by," and we all

drove down to Erith in motor-cars, and returned to supper with the

Vickers at 10.30.

The next day old Vickers sent for me and asked me to name my own price

for my lectures, but I couldn't mix money up with the message, so I

refused all pay, and feel happy that I did so. I can't, and won't,

profit by this war. I'd rather lose--I am losing--but that doesn't

matter. Nothing matters much now. The former things are swept away, and

all the old barriers are disappearing. Our old gods of possession and

wealth are crumbling, and class distinctions don't count, and even life

and death are pretty much the same thing.

The Jews say the Messiah will come after the war. I think He is here

already--but on a cross as of yore!

I went up to Glasgow to make arrangements there, and my task wasn't an

easy one. Somehow I knew that I must speak, that I must arouse slackers,

and tell rotters about what is going on. One goes forth (led in a way),

and only then does one realise that one is going in unasked to

ship-building yards and munition sheds and docks, and that one is quite

a small woman, alone, and up against a big thing.

Always the answer I got was the same: "The men are not working; forty

per cent. are slackers. The output of shells is not what it ought to be,

but they _won't_ listen!"

In the face of this I arranged seven meetings in seven days, to take

place early in August, and then I went back to give my lecture in the

Queen's Hall, London. I took the large Hall, because if one has a

message to deliver one had better deliver it to as many people as

possible. It was rather a breathless undertaking, but people turned up

splendidly, and I had a full house. Sir F. Lloyd gave me the band of the

Coldstream Guards, and things went with a good swing.

I am still wondering how I did it. The whole "campaign" has already got

rather an unreal atmosphere about it, and often, after crowded meetings,

I have come home and lain in the dark and have seen nothing but a sea of

faces, and eyes all turned my way. It has been a most curious and

unexpected experience, but England did not realise the war, and she did

not realise the wave of heroism that is sweeping over the world, and I

had to tell about it.

Well, my lectures went on--Erith, Queen's Hall, Sheffield (a splendid

meeting, 3,000 people inside the hall and 300 turned away at the door!),

Barrow-in-Furness. I gave two lectures at Barrow, at 3 and 7.30. They

seemed very popular. In the evening quite a demonstration--pipe band

playing "Auld lang syne," and much cheering. After that Newcastle, and

back to the south again to speak there. Everywhere I took my

magic-lantern and showed my pictures, and I told "good stories" to

attract people to the meetings, although my heart was, and is, nearly

breaking all the time.

[Page Heading: GLASGOW]

Then I began the Glasgow campaign--Parkhead, Whiteinch, Rose-Bank,

Dumbarton, Greenock, Beardmore's, Denny's, Armour's, etc., etc.

Everywhere there were big audiences, and although I would have spoken to

two listeners gladly, I was still more glad to see the halls filled. The

cheers of horny-handed workmen when they are really roused just get me

by the throat till I can't speak for a minute or two!

At one place I spoke from a lorry in the dinner-hour. All the men, with

blackened faces, crowded round the car, and others swung from the iron

girders, while some perched, like queer bronze images, on pieces of

machinery. They were all very intent, and very polite and courteous, no

interruptions at any of the meetings. A keen interest was shown in the

war pictures, and the cheers were deafening sometimes.

After Glasgow I went to dear Clemmie Waring's, at Lennel, and found her

house full of convalescent officers, and she herself very happy with

them and her new baby. I really wanted to rest, and meant to enjoy five

days of repose; but I gave a lecture the first night, and then had a

sort of breakdown and took to my bed. However, that had to be got over,

and I went down to Wales at the end of the week. The Butes gave me their

own rooms at Cardiff Castle, and a nice housekeeper looked after me.

[Page Heading: CARDIFF]

There followed a strange fortnight in that ugly old fortress, with its

fine stone-work and the execrable decorations covering every inch of it.

The days passed oddly. I did a little writing, and I saw my committee,

whom I like. Colonel Dennis is an excellent fellow, and so are Mr.

Needle, Mr. Vivian Reece{7}, and Mr. Harrison. A Mr. Howse acted as

secretary.

The first day I gave a dock-gate meeting, and spoke from a lorry, and

that night I had my great meeting at Cardiff. Sir Frank Younghusband

came down for it, and the Mayor took the chair. The audience was

enthusiastic, and every place was filled. At one moment they all rose to

their feet, and holding up their hands swore to fight for the right till

right was won. It was one of the scenes I shall always remember.

Every day after that I used to have tea and an egg at 5 o'clock, and a

motor would come with one of my committee to take me to different places

of meeting. It was generally up the Rhondda Valley that we went, and I

came to know well that westward drive, with the sun setting behind the

hills and turning the Taff river to gold. Every night we went a little

further and a little higher--Aberdare, Aberystwyth, Toney Pandy,

Tonepentre, etc., etc. I gave fourteen lectures in thirteen days.

Generally, I spoke in chapels, and from the pulpit, and this seemed to

give me the chance I wanted to speak all my mind to these people, and to

ask them and teach them what Power, and Possession, and Freedom really

meant. Oh, it was wonderful! The rapt faces of the miners, the hush of

the big buildings, and then the sudden burst of cheering!

At one meeting there was a bumptious-looking man, with a bald head, whom

I remember. He took up his position just over the clock in the gallery.

He listened critically, talked a good deal, and made remarks. I began to

speak straight at him, without looking at him, and quite suddenly I saw

him, as I spoke of our men at the war, cover his face and burst into

tears.

The children were the only drawback. They were attracted by the idea of

the magic-lantern, and used to come to the meetings and keep older

people out. My lectures were not meant for children, and I had to adopt

the plan of showing the pictures first and then telling the youngsters

to go, and settling down to a talk with the older ones, who always

remained behind voluntarily.

We had some times which I can never forget; nor can I forget those dark

drives from far up in the hills, and the mists in the valley, and my own

aching fatigue as I got back about midnight. From 5 till 12.30 every

night I was on the stretch.

In the day-time I used to wander round the garden. One always meets

someone whom one knows. I had lunch with the Tylers one day, and tea

with the Plymouths. It was still, bright autumn weather, and the trees

were gold in the ugly garden with the black river running through it. I

got a few lessons in motor driving, and I spoke at the hospital one

afternoon. I took the opportunity of getting a dress made at rather a

good tailor's, and time passed in a manner quite solitary till the

evenings.

Never before have I spent a year of so much solitude, and yet I have

been with people during my work. I think I know now what thousands of

men and women living alone and working are feeling. I wish I could help

them. There won't be many young marriages now. What are we to do for

girls all alone?

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Keays-Young._

CARDIFF CASTLE, CARDIFF,

_31 August, 1915._

DEAREST BABY,

Many thanks for your letter, which I got on my way through London. I

spent one night there to see about some work I am having done in the

house.

I have a drawer quite full of press-cuttings, and I do not know what is

in any of them. It is difficult to choose anything of interest, as they

are all a good deal alike, and all sound my trumpet very loudly; but I

enclose one specimen.

We had meetings every night in Glasgow. They were mostly badly organised

and well attended. Here I have an agent arranging everything, and two of

my meetings have been enormous. The first was at the dock-gates in the

open air, and the second in the Town Hall. The band of the Welch

Regiment played, and Mr. Glover conducted, but nothing is the same, of

course. Alan is at Porthcawl, and came to see me this morning.

The war news could hardly be worse, and yet I am told by men who get

sealed information from the Foreign Office that worse is coming.

Poor Russia! She wants help more than anyone. Her wounded are quite

untended. I go there next month.

The King of the Belgians has made me Chevalier de l'Ordre de Léopold.

Love to all.

Yours ever,

S.

* * * * *

Press-cutting enclosed in Miss Macnaughtan's letter:

"STORIES OF THE WAR."

CARDIFF LECTURE BY MISS MACNAUGHTAN.

AUTHORESS'S APPEAL.

TESTING-TIME OF NATIONAL CHARACTER.

[Page Heading: A CROWDED MEETING]

A large and enthusiastic audience assembled at the Park-hall,

Cardiff, on Monday evening, to hear and see Miss Macnaughtan's

"Stories and Pictures of the War." Miss Macnaughtan is a well-known

authoress, whose works have attained a world-wide reputation, and,

in addition to her travels in almost every corner of the globe, she

has had actual experience of warfare at the bombardment of Rio, in

the Balkans, the South African War, and, since September last, in

Belgium and Flanders. In her capacity as ministrant to wounded

soldiers she has gained a unique experience of the horrors of war,

and in order to bring home the realities of the situation, at the

instigation of Lady Bute, she consented to address a number of

meetings in South Wales.

At the meeting on Monday night the Lord Mayor (Alderman J. T.

Richards) presided, and in introducing Miss Macnaughtan to the

audience announced that for her services in Belgium the honour of

the Order of Leopold had been conferred upon her. (Applause.) We

were engaged, he said, in fighting a war of right. We were not

fighting only for the interests of England and our Empire, but we

were fighting for the interests of humanity at large. ("Hear,

hear.")

Miss Macnaughtan, in the course of her address, referred to the

origin of the war, and how suddenly it came upon the people of this

nation, who were, for the most part, engaged in summer holidays at

the time. She knew what was going on at the front, and knew what

the Welch Regiment had been doing, and "I must tell you," she

added, "of the splendid way in which your regiment has behaved, and

how proud Cardiff must be of it." We knew very well now that this

war had been arranged by Germany for many years. The Germans used

to profess exceeding kindness to us, and were received on excellent

terms by our Royal House, but the veil was drawn away from that

nation's face, and we had it revealed as an implacable foe. The

Germans had spoken for years in their own country about "The Day,"

and now "The Day" had arrived, and it was for everyone a day of

judgment, because it was a test of character. We had to put

ourselves to the test. We knew that for some time England had not

been at her best. Her great heart was beating true all the time,

but there had crept into England a sort of national coldness and

selfishness, and a great deal too much seriousness in the matter of

money and money-getting. Although this was discounted in great

measure by her generosity, we appeared to the world at large as a

greedy and money-getting nation.

However this might be, in all parts of the world the word of an

Englishman was still as good as his bond. ("Hear, hear.") Yet

England, with its strikes and quarrels and class hatred, and one

thing and another, was not at its best. It was well to admit that,

just as they admitted the faults of those they loved best.

Had any one of them failed to rally round the flag? Had they kept

anything back in this great war? She hoped not. The war had tested

us more than anything else, and we had responded greatly to it; and

the young manhood had come out in a way that was remarkable. We

knew very well that when the war was begun we were quite unprepared

for it; but she would tell them this, that our army, although

small, was the finest army that ever took the field. (Applause.)

Miss Macnaughtan then related a number of interesting incidents,

one of which was, that when a party of wounded Englishmen came to a

station where she was tending the Belgian wounded, every wounded

Belgian gave up his bed to accommodate an English soldier. The idea

of a German occupation of English soil, she said, was the idea of a

catastrophe that was unspeakable. People read things in the papers

and thought they were exaggerated, but she had seen them, and she

would show photographs of ruined Belgium which would convince them

of what the Germans were now doing in the name of God. However

unprepared we were for war, the wounded had been well cared for,

and she thought there never was a war in which the care of the

wounded had been so well managed or so efficient. (Applause.) They

had to be thankful that there had been no terrible epidemic, and

she could not speak too highly of the work of the nurses and

doctors in the performance of their duties. This was the time for

every man to do his duty, and strain every nerve and muscle to

bring the war to an end and get the boys home again. (Applause.)

[Page Heading: SIR FRANCIS YOUNGHUSBAND, K.C.I.E.]

Sir Francis Younghusband, K.C.I.E., spoke of Miss Macnaughtan as a

very old friend, whom he had met in many parts of the Empire. In

this crisis she might well have stayed at home in her comfortable

residence in London, but she had sacrificed her own personal

comforts in order to assist others. They must realise that this war

was something much more than a war of defence of their homes. It

was a fight on behalf of the whole of humanity. A staggering blow

had been dealt by our relentless enemy at Belgium, which had been

knocked down and trampled upon, and Germany had also dealt blow

after blow at humanity by the use of poison-gas, the bombardment of

seaside towns, and bombs thrown on defenceless places by Zeppelins.

She had thrust aside all those rights of humanity which we had

cherished as a nation as most dear to our hearts. What we were now

fighting for was right, and he would put to them a resolution that

we would fight for right till right had won. In response to an

appeal for the endorsement of his sentiments the audience stood en

masse, and with upraised hands shouted "Aye." It was a stirring

moment, and must have been gratifying to the authoress, who has

devoted so much of her time and energy to the comfort of the

wounded soldiers.

The Lord Mayor then proposed a vote of thanks to Miss Macnaughtan

for her address, and this was carried by acclamation.

Miss Macnaughtan briefly responded, and then proceeded to

illustrate many of the scenes she had witnessed by lantern-slides,

showing the results of bombardments and the ruin of some of the

fairest domains of Belgium and France.

The provision of stewards was arranged by the Cardiff Chamber of

Trade, under the direction of the President (Mr. G. Clarry). During

the evening the band of the 3rd Welch Regiment, under the

conductorship of Bandmaster K. S. Glover, gave selections.

[Page Heading: POISON-GAS]

A statement having been made that Miss Macnaughtan was the first to

discover a remedy for the poison-gas used by the Germans, a

_Western Mail_ reporter interviewed the lady before the lecture on

her experiences in this direction. She replied, that when the first

batch of men came in from the trenches suffering from the effects

of the gas, the first thing they asked was for something to drink,

to take the horrible taste out of their mouths. She obtained a

couple of bottles of whisky from the barge of an American lady, and

some distilled water, and gave this to the soldiers, who appeared

to be greatly relieved. Whenever possible, she had adopted the same

course, but she was unaware that the remedy had been applied by the

military authorities. Even this method of relieving their

sufferings, however, was rejected by a large number of young

soldiers, on the ground that they were teetotallers, but the

Belgian doctors had permitted its use amongst their men.

* * * * *

SHOULD THE GERMANS COME.

FORETASTE OF HORRORS FURNISHED BY BELGIUM.

During the dinner-hour Miss Macnaughtan gave an address to workmen

at the Bute Docks. An improvised platform was arranged at the back

of the Seamen's Institute, and some hundreds of men gathered to

hear the story that Miss Macnaughtan had to give of the war.

Colonel C. S. Denniss presided, and amongst those present were

Messrs. T. Vivian Rees, John Andrews, W. Cocks, A. Hope, S. Fisher,

and Robinson Smith.

Colonel Denniss, in a few introductory remarks, referred to Miss

Macnaughtan's reputation as a writer, and stated that since the

outbreak of war she had devoted herself to the noble work of

helping the wounded soldiers in Belgium and France. She had come

to Cardiff to tell the working-men what she had seen, with the

object, if possible, of stimulating them to help forward the great

cause we were fighting for.

Miss Macnaughtan said she had been speaking in many parts of the

country, but she was especially proud to address a meeting of Welsh

working-men. Besides coming of a long line of Welsh ancestors, her

brother-in-law, Colonel Young, was in command of the 9th Welch

Battalion at the front, and she had also four nephews serving in

the Welch Regiment. Only the day before Colonel Young had written

to her: "The Welshman is the most intensely patriotic man that I

know, and it is always the same thing, 'Stick it, Welch.' His

patriotism is splendid, and I do not want to fight with a better

man." Miss Macnaughtan then explained that she was not asking for

funds, and was not speaking for employers or owners. She simply

wished to tell them her experiences of the war as she had seen it,

and to describe the heroism which was going on at the front. If

they looked at the war from the point of view of men going out to

kill each other they had a wrong conception of what was going on.

She had been asked to speak of the conditions which might prevail

should the Germans reach this country. She did not feel competent

to speak on that subject, as the whole idea of Germans in this

country seemed absolutely inconceivable. If the Germans were to

land on our shores all the waters which surrounded this isle would

not wash the land clean. She knew what the Germans were, and had

seen the wreck they had made of Belgium and part of France. She

knew what the women and children had suffered, and how the churches

had been desecrated and demolished. It was said that this was a war

of humanity, but she believed it was a war of right against wrong;

and if she were asked when the war would finish, she could only say

that we would fight it right on to the end until we were

victorious.

The Germans were beaten already, and had been beaten from the day

they gave up their honour. She spoke of the heroism of the troops,

and stated that since September last she had been running a

soup-kitchen for the wounded. In this humble vocation she had had

an opportunity of gauging the spirit of the soldiers. She had seen

them sick, wounded, and dying, but had never known them give in.

Why should humble villages in France without soldiers in them be

shelled? That was Germany, and that was what they saw. The thing

was almost inconceivable, but she had seen helpless women and

children brought to the hospitals, maimed and wounded by the cruel

German shells. After this war England was going to be a better

country than before. Up to now there had been a national

selfishness which was growing very strong, and there was a terrible

love of money, which, after all, was of very little account unless

it was used in the proper direction. She could tell them stories of

Belgians who had had to fire upon their own women and children who

were being marched in front of German troops. The power of Germany

had to be crushed. The spirit of England and Wales was one in this

great war, and they would not falter until they had emerged

triumphant. (Applause.)

[Page Heading: A CLARION CALL]

Mr. Robinson Smith said the clarion call had been sounded, and they

were prepared, if necessary, to give their last shilling, their

last drop of blood, and their very selves, body, soul, and spirit,

to fight for right till right had won. (Applause.)

Cheers were given for the distinguished authoress, and the

proceedings terminated.

* * * * *

After Cardiff (and a most cordial send-off from my committee) I came

back to London, and lectured at Eton, at the Polytechnic, and various

other places, while all the time I was preparing to go to Russia, and I

was also writing.

In the year that has passed my time has been fully occupied. To begin

with, when the war broke out I studied district-nursing in Walworth for

a month. I attended committees, and arranged to go to Belgium, got my

kit, and had a good deal of business to arrange in the way of

house-letting, etc., etc. Afterwards, I went to Antwerp, till the siege

and the bombardment; then followed the flight to Ostend; after that a

further flight to Furnes. Then came the winter of my work, day and night

at the soup-kitchen for the wounded, a few days at home in January, then

back again and to work at Adinkerke till June, when I came home to

lecture.

During the year I have brought out four books, I have given thirty-five

lectures, and written both stories and articles. I have gone from town

to town in England, Scotland, and Wales, and I have had a good deal of

anxiety and much business at home. I have paid a few visits, but not

restful ones, and I have written all my own correspondence, as I have

not had a secretary. I have collected funds for my work, and sent off

scores of begging letters. Often I have begun work at 5.30 a.m., and I

have not rested all day. As I am not very young this seems to me a

pretty strenuous time!

[Page Heading: THE DEATH OF YOUTH]

Now I have let my house again, and am off "into the unknown" in Russia!

I shouldn't really mind a few days' rest before we begin any definite

work. Behind everyone I suppose at this time lurks the horror of war,

the deadly fear for one's dearest; and, above all, one feels--at least I

do--that one is always, and quite palpably, in the shadow of the death

of youth--beautiful youth, happy and healthy and free. Always I seem to

see the white faces of boys turned up to the sky, and I hear their cries

and see the agony which joyous youth was never meant to bear. They are

too young for it, far too young; but they lie out on the field between

the trenches, and bite the mud in their frenzy of pain; and they call

for their mothers, and no one comes, and they call to their friends, but

no one hears. There is a roar of battle and of bursting shells, and who

can listen to a boy's groans and his shrieks of pain? This is war.

A nation or a people want more sea-board or more trade, so they begin to

kill youth, and to torture and to burn, and God himself may ask, "Where

is my beautiful flock?" No one answers. It is war. We must expect a

"list of casualties." "The Germans have lost more than we have done;"

"We must go on, even if the war lasts ten years;" "A million more men

are needed"--thus the fools called men talk! But Youth looks up with

haggard eyes, and Youth, grown old, learns that Death alone is merciful.

One sees even in soldiers' jokes that the thought of death is not far

off. I said to one man, "You have had a narrow squeak," and he replied,

"I don't mind if I get there first so long as I can stoke up for those

Germans." Another, clasping the hand of his dead Captain, said, "Put

plenty of sandbags round heaven, sir, and don't let a German through."

The other day, when the forward movement was made in France and Belgium,

Charles's Regiment, the 9th Welch, was told to attack at a certain

point, which could only be reached across an open space raked by

machine-gun fire. They were not given the order to move for twelve days,

during which time the men hardly slept. When the charge had to be made

the roar of guns made speaking quite impossible, so directions were

given by sending up rockets. When the rockets appeared, not a single man

delayed an instant in making the attack. One young officer, in the

trench where Charles was, had a football, and this he flung over the

parapet, and shouting, "Come on, boys!" he and the men of the regiment

played football in the open and in front of the guns. Right across the

gun-raked level they kicked the ball, and when they reached the enemy's

lines only a few of them were left.

Charles wrote, "I am too old to see boys killed."

Colonel Walton, with a handful of his regiment, was the only officer to

get through the three lines of the enemy's trenches, and he and his men

dug themselves in. Just in front of them where they paused, he saw a

fine young officer come along the road on a motor bicycle, carrying

despatches. The next minute a high-explosive shell burst, and, to use

his own words, "There was not enough of the young officer to put on a

threepenny bit." Always men tell me there is nothing left to bury. One

minute there is a splendid piece of upstanding, vigorous manhood, and

the next there is no finding one piece of him to lay in the sod.

[Page Heading: A LESSON FOR TURKS]

The Turks seem to have forsaken their first horrible and devilish

cruelties towards English prisoners. They have been taught a lesson by

the Australians, who took some prisoners up to the top of a ridge and

rolled them down into the Turks' trenches like balls, firing on them as

they rolled. Horrible! but after that Turkish cruelties ceased.

Our own men see red since the Canadians were crucified, and I fancy no

prisoners were taken for a long time after. We "censor" this or that in

the newspapers, but nothing will censor men's tongues, and there is a

terrible and awful tale of suffering and death and savagery going on

now. Like a ghastly dream we hear of trenches taken, and the cries of

men go up, "Mercy, comrade, mercy!" Sometimes they plead, poor caught

and trapped and pitiful human beings, that they have wives and children

who love them. The slaughter goes on, the bayonet rends open the poor

body that someone loved, then comes the internal gush of blood, and

another carcase is flung into the burying trench, with some lime on the

top of it to prevent a smell of rotting flesh.

My God, what does it all mean? Are men so mad? And why are they killing

all our best and bravest? Our first army is gone, and surely such a

company never before took the field! Outmatched by twenty to one, they

stuck it at Mons and on the Aisne, and saved Paris by a miracle. All my

old friends fell then--men near my own age, whom I have known in many

climes--Eustace Crawley, Victor Brooke, the Goughs, and other splendid

men. Now the sons of my friends are falling fast--Duncan Sim's boy,

young Wilson, Neville Strutt, and scores of others. I know one case in

which four brothers have fallen; another, where twins of nineteen died

side by side; and this one has his eyes blown out, and that one has his

leg torn off, and another goes mad; and boys, creeping back to the base

holding an arm on, or bewildered by a bullet through the brain, wander

out of their way till a piece of shrapnel or torn edge of shell finds

them, and they fall again, with their poor boyish faces buried in the

mud!

Mr. ---- dined with us last night. He had been talking of his brother

who was killed, and he said: "I think it makes a difference if you

belong to a family which has always given its lives to the country. We

are accustomed to make these sacrifices."

Thus bravely in the light of day, but when evening came and we sat

together, then we knew just what the life of the boy had cost him. They

tell us--these defrauded broken-hearted ones--just how tall the lad was,

and how good to look at! That seems to me so sad--as if one reckoned

one's love by inches! And yet it is the beauty of youth that I mourn

also, and its horribly lonely death.

"They never got him further than the dressing-station," Mr. ---- said;

"but--he would always put up a fight, you know--he lived for four days.

No, there was never any hope. Half the back of his head was shattered.

But he put up a fight. My brother would always do that."

PART III

RUSSIA AND THE PERSIAN FRONT

CHAPTER I

PETROGRAD

Mrs. Wynne, Mr. Bevan, and I left London for Russia on October 16, 1915.

We are attached provisionally to the Anglo-Russian hospital, with a

stipulation that we are at liberty to proceed to the front with our

ambulances as soon as we can get permission to do so. We understand that

the Russian wounded are suffering terribly, and getting no doctors,

nurses, or field ambulances. We crossed from Newcastle to Christiania in

a Norwegian boat, the _Bessheim_. It was supposed that in this ship

there was less chance of being stopped, torpedoed, or otherwise

inconvenienced.

We reached Christiania after a wonderfully calm crossing, and went to

the Grand Hotel at 1 a.m. No rooms to be had, so we went on to the

Victoria--a good old house, not fashionable, but with a nice air about

it, and some solid comforts. We left on Wednesday, the 20th, at 7 a.m.

This was something of a feat, as we have twenty-four boxes with us. I

only claim four, and feel as if I might have brought more, but everyone

has a different way of travelling, and luggage is often objected to.

Indeed, I think this matter of travelling is one of the most curious in

the world. I cannot understand why it is that to get into a train or a

boat causes men and women to leave off restraint and to act in a

primitive way. Why should the companionship of the open road be the

supreme test of friendship? and why should one feel a certain fear of

getting to know people too well on a journey? The last friends I

travelled with were very careful indeed, and we used to reckon up

accounts and divide the price of a bottle of "vin ordinaire" equally. My

friends to-day seem inclined to do themselves very well, and to scatter

largesse everywhere.

[Page Heading: STOCKHOLM]

_Stockholm. 21 October._--After a long day in the train we reached

Stockholm yesterday evening, and went to the usual "Grand Hotel." This

time it is very "grand," and very expensive. Mr. Bevan has a terrible

pink boudoir-bedroom, which costs £3 per night, and I have a small room

on the fourth floor, which costs 17s. 6d. without a bath. There is

rather a nice court in the middle of the house, with flowers and a band

and tables for dinner, but the sight of everyone "doing himself well"

always makes me feel a little sick. The wines and liqueurs, and the big

cigars at two shillings each, and the look of repletion on men's faces

as they listen to the band after being fed, somewhat disgust me.

One's instinct is to dislike luxury, but in war-time it seems horrible.

We ourselves will probably have to rough it badly soon, so I don't

mind, but it's a side of life that seems to me as beastly as anything I

know. Fortunately, the luxury of an hotel is minimised by the fact that

there are no "necessaries," and one lives in an atmosphere of open

trunks and bags, with things pulled out of them, which counterbalances

crystal electric fittings and marble floors.

We rested all this morning, lunched out, and in the afternoon went to

have tea with the Crown Prince and Princess of Sweden. They were very

delightful. The British Minister's wife, Lady Isobel Howard, went with

us. The Princess had just finished reading my "Diary of the War," and

was very nice about it. The children, who came in to tea, were the

prettiest little creatures I have ever seen, with curly hair, and faces

like the water-colour pictures of a hundred years ago. The Princess

herself is most attractive, and reminds one of the pictures of Queen

Victoria as a young woman. Her sensitive face is full of expression, and

her colour comes and goes as she speaks of things that move her.

This afternoon we went to tea at the Legation with the Howards. The

House is charmingly situated on the Lake, with lovely trees all about

it. It isn't quite finished yet, but will be very delightful.

_22 October._--It is very strange to find oneself in a country where war

is not going on. The absence of guns and Zeppelins, the well-lighted

streets, and the peace of it all, are quite striking. But the country is

pro-German almost to a man! And it has been a narrow squeak to prevent

war. Even now I suppose one wrong move may lead to an outbreak of

hostilities, and the recent German victories may yet bring in other

countries on her side. Bulgaria has been a glaring instance of siding

with the one she considers the winning side (Gott strafe her!), and

Greece is still wondering what to do! Thank God, I belong to a race that

is full of primitive instincts! Poor old England still barges in

whenever there is a fight going on, and gets her head knocked, and goes

on fighting just the same, and never knows that she is heroic, but

blunders on--simple-hearted, stupid, sublime!

_24 October._--I went to the English church this morning with Mr.

Lancelot Smith, but there was no service as the chaplain had

chicken-pox! So I came home and packed, and then lunched with Mr. Eric

Hambro, Mr. Lancelot Smith, and Mr. ----, all rather interesting men at

this crisis, when four nations at least are undecided what to do in the

matter of the war.

About 6 o'clock we and our boxes got away from Stockholm. Our expenses

for the few days we spent there were £60, although we had very few meals

in the hotel. We had a long journey to Haparanda, where we stopped for a

day. The cold was terrible and we spent the day (my birthday) on a sort

of luggage barge on the river. On my last birthday we were bolting from

Furnes in front of the Germans, and the birthday before that I was on

the top of the Rocky Mountains.

Talking of the Rockies reminds me (did I need reminding) of Elsie

Northcote, my dear friend, who married and went to live there. The

other night some friends of mine gave me a little "send-off" before I

left London--dinner and the Palace Theatre, where I felt like a ghost

returned to earth. All the old lot were there as of yore--Viola Tree,

Lady Diana Manners, Harry Lindsay, the Raymond Asquiths, etc., etc. I

saw them all from quite far away. Lord Stanmore was in the box with us,

and he it was who told me of Elsie Northcote's sudden death. It wasn't

the right place to hear about it. Too many are gone or are going. My own

losses are almost stupefying; and something dead within myself looks

with sightless eyes on death; with groping hands I touch it sometimes,

and then I know that I am dead also.

[Page Heading: LOVE AND PAIN]

There is only one thing that one can never renounce, and that is love.

Love is part of one, and can't be given up. Love can't be separated from

one, even by death. It comes once and remains always. It is never

fulfilled; the fulfilment of love is its crucifixion; but it lives on

for ever in a passion-week of pain until pain itself grows dull; and

then one wishes one had been born quite a common little soul, when one

would probably have been very happy.

_28 October._--We arrived at midnight last night at Petrograd. Ian

Malcolm was at the hotel, and had remained up to welcome us. To-day we

have been unpacking, and settling down into rather comfortable, very

expensive rooms. My little box of a place costs twenty-six shillings a

night. We lunched with two Russian officers and Mr. Ian Malcolm, and

then I went to the British Embassy, where the other two joined me. Sir

George Buchanan, our Ambassador, looks overworked and tired. Lady

Georgina and I got on well together....

The day wasn't quite satisfactory, but one must remember that a queer

spirit is evoked in war-time which is very difficult of analysis.

Primarily there is "a right spirit renewed" in every one of us. We want

to be one in the great sacrifice which war involves, and we offer and

present ourselves, our souls and bodies in great causes, only to find

that there is some strange unexplained quality of resistance meeting us

everywhere.

Mary once said to me in her quaint way, "Your duty is to give to the

Queen's Fund as becomes your position, and to get properly thanked."

This lady-like behaviour, combined with cheque-writing on a large scale,

is always popular. It can be repeated and again repeated till

cheque-writing becomes automatic. Then from nowhere there springs a

curious class of persons whom one has never heard of before, with skins

of invulnerable thickness and with wonderful self-confidence. They claim

almost occult powers in the matter of "organisation," and they generally

require pity for being overworked. For a time their names are in great

circulation, and afterwards one doesn't hear very much about them.

Florence Nightingale would have had no distinction nowadays. It is

doubtful if she would have been allowed to work. Some quite inept person

in a high position would have effectually prevented it. Most people are

on the offensive against "high-souled work," and prepared to put their

foot down heavily on anything so presumptuous as heroism except of the

orthodox kind, and even the right kind is often not understood.

There is a story I try to tell, but something gets into my throat, and I

tell it in jerks when I can.

[Page Heading: FOOTBALL UNDER FIRE]

It is the story of the men who played football across the open between

the enemy's line of trenches and our own when it was raked by fire. When

I had finished, a friend of mine, evidently waiting for the end of a

pointless story, said, "What did they do that for?" (Oh, ye gods, have

pity on men and women who suffer from fatty degeneration of the soul!)

Still, in spite of it all, the Voice comes, and has to be obeyed.

_30 October._--We lunched at the Embassy yesterday to meet the Grand

Duchess Victoria. She is a striking-looking woman, tall and strong, and

she wore a plain dark blue cloth dress and a funny little blue silk cap,

and one splendid string of pearls. At the front she does very fine work,

and we offered our services to her. I have begun to write a little, but

after my crowded life the days feel curiously empty. Lady Heron Maxwell

came to call.

We were telling each other spy stories the other night. Some of them

were very interesting. The Germans have lately adopted the plan of

writing letters in English to English prisoners of war in Germany.

These, of course, are quite simple, and pass the Censor in England, but,

once on the other side, they go straight to Government officials, and

whereas "Dear Bill" may mean nothing to us, it is part of a German code

and conveys some important information. Mr. Philpotts at Stockholm

discovered this trick.

On the Russian front a soldier was found with his jaw tied up,

speechless and bleeding. A doctor tried to persuade him to take cover

and get attention; but he shook his head, and signified by actions that

he was unable to speak owing to his damaged jaw. The doctor shoved him

into a dug-out, and said kindly, "Just let me have a look at you." On

stripping the bandages off there was no wound at all, and the German in

Russian uniform was given a cigarette and shot through the head.

In Flanders we used to see companies of spies led out to be shot--first

a party of soldiers, then the spies, after them the burying-party, and

then the firing-party--marching stolidly to some place of execution.

How awful shell-fire must be for those who really can't stand it! I

heard of a Colonel the other day--a man who rode to hounds, and seemed

quite a sound sort of fellow--and when the first shell came over, he

leapt from his horse and lay on the ground shrieking with fear, and with

every shell that came over he yelled and screamed. He had to be sent

home, of course. Some people say this sort of thing is purely physical.

That is never my view of the matter.

[Page Heading: MISS CAVELL]

Miss Cavell's execution has stirred us all to the bottom of our hearts.

The mean trickiness of her trial, the refusal to let facts be known, and

then the cold-blooded murder of a brave English woman at 2 a.m. on a

Sunday morning in a prison yard!

It is too awful to think about. She was not even technically a spy, but

had merely assisted some soldiers to get away because she thought they

were going to be shot. A rumour reached the American and Spanish

Legations that she had been condemned and was to be shot at once, and

they instantly rang up on the telephone to know if this was true. They

were informed by the Military Court which had tried and condemned her

that the verdict would not be pronounced till three days later. But the

two Legations, still not satisfied, protested that they must be allowed

to visit the prisoner. This was refused.

The English chaplain was at last permitted to enter the prison, and he

saw Miss Cavell, and gave her the Sacrament. She said she was happy to

die for her country. They led her out into the prison yard to stand

before a firing-party of soldiers, but on her way there she fainted, and

an officer took out his revolver and shot her through the head.

* * * * *

Petrograd! the stage of romance, and the subject of dazzling pictures,

is one of the most commonplace towns I have ever been in. It has its one

big street--the Nevski Prospect--where people walk and shop as they do

in Oxford Street, and it has a few cathedrals and churches, which are

not very wonderful. The roadways are a mass of slush and are seldom

swept; and there are tramways, always crowded and hot, and many rickety

little victorias with damp cushions, in which one goes everywhere. Even

in the evening we go out in these; and the colds in the head which

follow are chronic.

The English colony seems to me as provincial as the rest of Petrograd.

The town and its people disappoint me greatly. The Hôtel Astoria is a

would-be fashionable place, and there is a queer crowd of people

listening to the band and eating, as surely only in Russia they can eat.

It is all wrong in war-time, and I hate being one of the people here.

N.B.--Write "Miss Wilbraham" as soon as possible, and write it in gusts.

Call one chapter "The Diners," and try to convey the awful solemnity of

meals--the grave young men with their goblets of brandy, in which they

slowly rotate ice, the waiter who hands the bowl where the ice is thrown

when the brandy is cool enough, and then the final gulp, with a nose

inside the large goblet. Shade of Heliogabalus! If the human tummy must

indeed be distended four times in twenty-four hours, need it be done so

solemnly, and with such a pig-like love of the trough? If they would

even eat what there is with joy one wouldn't mind, but the talk about

food, the once-enjoyed food, the favourite food, is really too tiresome.

"Where to dine" becomes a sort of test of true worth. Grave young men

give the names of four or five favoured places in London. Others, hailed

and acknowledged as really good judges, name half-a-dozen more in Paris

where they "do you well." The real toff knows that Russia is the place

to dine. We earnestly discuss blue-point oysters and caviare, which, if

you "know the man," you can get sent fresh on the Vienna Express from

Moscow.

[Page Heading: BERNARD SHAW]

I once asked Bernard Shaw to dinner, and he replied on a postcard:

"Never! I decline to sit in a hot room and eat dead animals, even with

you to amuse me!"

I always seem to be sitting in hot rooms and eating dead animals, and

then paying amazing high prices for them.

_4 November._--I dined with the ----s the other night. Either the hot

rooms, or the fact that I am anæmic at present, causes me to be so

sleepy in the evenings that I dislike dining out. I sway with sleep even

when people are talking to me. It was a middle-class little party, such

as I often enjoy. One's friends would fain only have one see a few fine

blooms, but I love common flowers.

We have been to see "Peter's little house." There was a tiny shrine,

crowded with people in wraps and shawls, who crossed themselves

ceaselessly, to the danger of their neighbours' faces, for so fervid

were their gesticulations that their hands flew in every direction! They

shoved with their elbows to get near the wax candles that dripped before

the pictures of the black-faced Virgin and Child, who were "allowing"

soldiers to be painfully slaughtered by the million.

Ye gods, what a faith! What an acrobatic performance to try and

reconcile a Father's personal care for His poor little sparrows and His

indifference at seeing so many of them stretched bleeding on the ground!

Religion so far has been a success where martyrs are concerned, but we

must go on with courage to something that teaches men to _live_ for the

best and the highest. This should come from ourselves, and lead up to

God. It should not require teaching, or priests, or even prayer.

Humanity is big enough for this. It should shake off cords and chains

and old Bible stories of carnage and killing, and get to work to find a

new, responsible, clean, sensible, practical scheme of life, in which

each man will have to get away from silly old idols and step out by

himself.

There is nothing very difficult about it, but we are so beset by bogies,

and so full of fears and fancies that we are half the time either in a

state of funk, or in its antithesis, a state of cheekiness.

Schoolmaster-ridden, we are behaving still like silly children, and our

highest endeavour is (school-boy-like) to resemble our fellows as nearly

as possible. The result is stagnation, crippled forms, wasted energy,

people waiting for years by some healing pool and longing for someone to

dip them in. All the release that Christ preached to men is being

smothered in something worse than Judaism. We love chains, and when they

are removed we either turn and put them on again, or else caper like mad

things because we have cast them off. Freedom is still as distant as the

stars.

_5 November._--Yesterday we lunched with the English chaplain, Mr.

Lombard. He and I had a great talk walking home on a dark afternoon

through the slush after we had been to call on the Maxwells. I think he

is one of the "exiles" whom one meets all the world over, one of those

who don't transplant well. I am one myself! And Mr. Lombard and I nearly

wept when we found ourselves in a street that recalled the Marylebone

Road. We pretended we were in sight of Euston Station, and talked of

taking a Baker Street bus till our voices grew choky.

How absurd we islanders are! London is a poky place, but we adore it.

St. James's Street is about the length of a good big ship, yet we don't

feel we have lived till we get back to it! And as for Piccadilly and St.

Paul's, well, we see them in our dreams.

Our little unit has not found work yet. I was told before I joined it

that it had been accepted by the Russian Red Cross Society.

[Page Heading: "CHARITY" AND WAR]

I have been hearing many things out here, and thinking many things.

There is only one way of directing Red Cross work. Everything should

be--and must be in future--put under military authority and used by

military authority. "Charity" and war should be separate. It is absurd

that the Belgians in England should be housed and fed by a Government

grant, and our own soldiers are dependent on private charity for the

very socks they wear and the cigarettes they smoke. Aeroplanes had to be

instituted and prizes offered for them by a newspaper, and ammunition

wasn't provided till a newspaper took up the matter. To be mob-ridden is

bad enough, but to be press-ridden is worse!

Now, war is a military matter, and should be controlled by military

authorities. Mrs. Wynne, Mr. Bevan, and I should not be out here waiting

for work. We ought to be sent where we are needed, and so ought all Red

Cross people. This would put an end, one hopes, to the horrid business

of getting "soft jobs."

_7 November._--Whenever I am away from England I rejoice in the passing

of each week that brings me nearer to my return. I had hardly realised

to-day was the 7th, but I am thankful I am one week nearer the grey

little island and all the nice people in it.

Yesterday I went to Lady Georgina Buchanan's soup-kitchen, and helped to

feed Polish refugees. They strike me as being very like animals, but not

so interesting. In the barracks where they lodge everyone crowds in.

There is no division of the sexes, babies are yelling, and families are

sleeping on wooden boards. The places are heated but not aired, and the

smell is horrid; but they seem to revel in "frowst." All the women are

dandling babies or trying to cook things on little oil-stoves. At

night-time things are awful, I believe, and the British Ambassador has

been asked to protect the girls who are there.

_8 November._--This afternoon I went to see Mrs. Bray, and then I had an

unexpected pleasure, for I met Johnnie{8} Parsons, who is Naval Attaché

to Admiral Phillimore, and we had a long chat. When one is in a strange

land, or with people who know one but little, these encounters are

wonderfully nice.

The other night I dined with the Heron Maxwells, and had a nice evening

and a game of bridge. Some Americans, called de Velter, were there. I

think most people from the States regret the neutrality of their

country.

[Page Heading: VISIONS OF PEACE]

Everyone brings in different stories of the war. Some say Germany is

exhausted and beaten, others say she is flushed with victory, and with

enormous reserves of men, food, and ammunition. I try to believe all the

good I hear, and when even children or fools tell me the war will soon

be over, I want to embrace them--I don't care whether they are talking

nonsense or not. Sometimes I seem to see a great hushed cathedral, and

ourselves returning thanks for Peace and Victory, and the vision is too

much for me. I must either work or be chloroformed till that time comes.

_9 November._--I think there is only one thing I dislike more than

sitting in an hotel bedroom and learning a new language, and that is

sitting in an hotel bedroom and nursing a cold in my head. Lately I have

been learning Russian--and now I am sniffing. My own fault. I would

sleep with my window open in this unhealthiest of cities, and smells and

marsh produced a feverish cold.

Out in the square the soldiers drill all the time in the snow, lying in

it, standing in it, and dressed for the most part in cotton clothing.

Wool can't be bought, so a close cotton web is made, with the inside

teased out like flannelette, and this is all they have. The necessaries

of life are being "cornered" right and left, mostly by the commercial

houses and the banks. The other day 163 railway trucks of sugar were

discovered in a siding, where the owners had placed it to wait for a

rise. Meanwhile, sugar has been almost unprocurable.

Everyone from the front describes the condition of the refugees as being

most wretched. They are camping in the snow by the thousand, and are

still tramping from Poland.

And here we are in the Astoria Hotel, and there is one pane of glass

between us and the weather; one pane of glass between us and the

peasants of Poland; one pane of glass dividing us from poverty, and

keeping us in the horrid atmosphere of this place, with its evil women

and its squeaky band! How I hate money!

I hope soon to join a train going to Dvinsk with food and supplies.

_13 November._--I have felt very brainless since I came here. It is the

result, I believe, of the Petrograd climate. Nearly everyone feels it. I

had a little book in my head which I thought I could "dash off," and

that writing it would fill up these waiting days, but I can't write a

word.

The war news is not good, but the more territory that Germany takes, the

more the British rub their hands and cry victory. Their courage and

optimism are wonderful.

To-day I spent with the Maxwells, and met a nurse, newly returned from

Galicia, who had interesting tales to tell. One about some Russian

airmen touched me. There had been a fierce fight overhead, when suddenly

the German aeroplane began to wheel round and round like a leaf, when it

was found that the machine was on fire. One of the airmen had been shot

and the other burnt to death. The Russians refused to come and look at

the remains even of the aeroplane, and said sadly, "All we men of the

air are brothers." They gave the dead Germans a military funeral, and

then sailed over the enemy's lines to drop a note to say that all

honour had been done to the brave dead.

[Page Heading: BULGARIA]

I met Monsieur Jecquier, who was full of the political situation--said

Bulgaria would have joined us any day if we had promised to give her

Bukowina; and blamed Bark, the Russian Finance Minister, for the terms

of England's loan (the loan is for thirty millions, and repayment is

promised in a year, which is manifestly impossible, and the situation

may be strained). He said also that Motono, the Japanese Ambassador, is

far the finest politician here; and he told me that while Russia ought

to have been protecting the road to Constantinople she was quarrelling

about what its new name was to be, and had decided to call it

"Czareska." Now, I suppose, the Germans are already there. Lloyds has

been giving £100 at a premium of £5 that King Ferdinand won't be on his

throne next June. The premium has gone to £10, which is good news. If

Ferdie is assassinated the world will be rid of an evil fellow who has

played a mean and degraded part in this war.

We dined at the British Embassy last night. I was taken in to dinner by

Mr. George Lloyd, who was full of interesting news. I had a nice chat

with Lady Georgina.

_20 November._--It has been rather a "hang-on" ever since I wrote last,

nothing settled and nothing to do. No one ever seems at their best in

Petrograd. It is a cross place and a common place. I never understood

Tolstoi till I came here. On all sides one sees the same insane love of

money and love of food.

A restaurant here disgusts me as nothing else ever did. From a menu a

foot long no one seems able to choose a meal, but something fresh must

be ordered. The prices are quite silly, and, oddly enough, people seem

to revel in them. They still eat caviare at ten shillings a head; the

larger the bill the better they are pleased.

Joseph, the Napoleon of the restaurant, keeps an eye on everyone. He is

yellow, and pigeon-breasted, but his voice is like grease, and he speaks

caressingly of food, pencils entries in his pocket-book, and stimulates

jaded appetites by signalling the "voiture aux hors d'oeuvres" to

approach. The rooms are far too hot for anyone to feel hungry, the band

plays, and the leader of it grins all the time, and capers about on his

little platform like a monkey on an organ.

Always in this life of restaurants and gilt and roubles I am reminded of

the fact that the only authentic picture we have of hell is of a man

there who all his life had eaten good dinners.

[Page Heading: STAGNATION]

I have been busy seeing all manner of people in order to try and get

work to do. I hear of suffering, but I am never able to locate it or to

do anything for it. No distinct information is forthcoming; and when I

go to one high official he gives me his card and sends me to another.

Nothing is even decided about Mrs. Wynne's cars, although she is

offering a gift worth some thousands of pounds. I go to Lady Georgina's

work-party on Mondays and meet the English colony, and on Wednesdays and

Saturdays I distribute soup; but it is an unsatisfactory business, and

the days go by and one gets nothing done. One isn't even storing up

health, because this is rather an unhealthy place, so altogether we are

feeling a bit low. I can never again be surprised at Russian "laissez

faire," or want of push and energy. It is all the result of the place

itself. I feel in a dream, and wish with all my heart I could wake up in

my own bed.

_21 November._--Sunday, and I have slept late. At home I begin work at 6

a.m. Here, like everyone else, I only wake up at night, and the "best

hours of the day," as we call them, are wasted, à la Watts' hymn, in

slumber. If it was possible one would organise one's time a bit, but

hotel life is the very mischief for that sort of thing. There are no

facilities for anything. One must telephone in Russian or spend roubles

on messengers if one wants to get into touch with anyone. I took a taxi

out to lunch one day. It cost 16 roubles--_i.e._, 32s.

Dear old Lord Radstock used to say in the spring, "The Lord is calling

me to Italy," and a testy parson once remarked, "The Lord always calls

you at very convenient times, Radstock." I don't feel as if the Lord had

called me here at a very convenient time.

I called on Princess Hélène Scherbatoff yesterday, and found her and her

people at home. The mother runs a hospital-train for the wounded in the

intervals of hunting wolves. Her son has been dead for some months, and

she says she hasn't had time to bury him yet! One assumes he is

embalmed! Yet I can't help saying they were charming people to meet, so

we must suppose they are somewhat cracked. The daughter is lovely, and

they were all in deep mourning for the unburied relative.

_24 November._--This long wait is trying us a bit high. There is

literally nothing to do. We arrange pathetic little programmes for

ourselves. To-day I shall lunch with Mr. Cunard, and see the lace he has

bought: yesterday I did some shopping with Captain Smith: one day I sew

at Lady Georgina's work-party.

Heavens, what a life! I realise that for years I have not drawn rein,

and I am sure I don't require holidays. Moses was a wise man, and he

knew that one day in seven is rest enough for most humans. I always

"keep the Sabbath," and it is all the rest I want. Even here I might

write and get on with something, but there is something paralysing about

the place, and my brain won't work. I can't even write a diary! Everyone

is depressed and everyone longs to be out of Petrograd. To-day we hear

that the Swedes have closed the Haparanda line, and Archangel is frozen,

so here we are.

Now I have got to work at the hospital. There are 25,000 amputation

cases in Petrograd. The men at my hospital are mostly convalescent, but,

of course, their wounds require dressing. This is never done in their

beds, as the English plan is, but each man is carried in turn to the

"salle des pansements," and is laid on an operating-table and has his

fresh dressings put on, and is then carried back to bed again. It is a

good plan, I think. The hospital keeps me busy all the morning. Once

more I begin to see severed limbs and gashed flesh, and the old

question arises, "Why, what evil hath he done?" This war is the

crucifixion of the youth of the world.

[Page Heading: "SPEAKING ONE'S MIND"]

In a way I am learning something here. For instance, I have always

disliked "explanations" and "speaking one's mind," etc., etc., more than

I can say. I dare say I have chosen the path of least resistance in

these matters. Here one must speak out sometimes, and speak firmly. It

isn't all "being pleasant." One girl has been consistently rude to me.

To-day, poor soul, I gave her a second sermon on our way back from

church; but, indeed she has numerous opportunities in this war, and she

is wasting them all on gossip, and prejudices, and petty jealousies. So

we had a straight talk, and I hope she didn't hate it. At any rate, she

has promised amendment of life. One hears of men that "this war gives

them a chance to distinguish themselves." Women ought to distinguish

themselves, too.

"Hesper! Venus! were we native to their splendour, or in Mars,

We should see this world we live in, fairest of their evening stars.

Who could dream of wars and tumults, hate and envy, sin and spite,

Roaring London, raving Paris, in that spot of peaceful light?

Might we not, in looking heavenward on a star so silver fair,

Yearn and clasp our hands and murmur, 'Would to God that

we were there!'"

Always when I see war, and boys with their poor dead faces turned up to

the sky, and their hands so small in death, and when I see wounded men,

and hear of soldiers going out of the trenches with a laugh and a joke

to cut wire entanglements, knowing they will not come back, then I am

ashamed of meanness and petty spite. So my poor young woman got a "fair

dose of it" this morning, and when she had gulped once or twice I think

she felt better.

Yesterday one saw enough to stir one profoundly, and enough to make

small things seem small indeed! It was a fine day at last, after weeks

of black weather and skies heavy with snow, and although the cold was

intense the sun was shining. I got into one of the horrid little

droshkys, in which one sits on very damp cushions, and an "izvoztchik"

in a heavy coat takes one to the wrong address always!

The weather has been so thick, the rain and snow so constant, that I had

not yet seen Petrograd. Yesterday, out of the mists appeared golden

spires, and beyond the Neva, all sullen and heavy with ice, I saw towers

and domes which I hadn't seen before. I stamped my feet on the shaky

little carriage and begged the izvoztchik to drive a little quicker. We

had to be at the Finnish station at 10 a.m., and my horse, with a long

tail that embraced the reins every time that the driver urged speed,

seemed incapable of doing more than potter over the frozen roads. I

picked up Mme. Takmakoff, who was taking me to the station, and we went

on together.

[Page Heading: BLIND]

At the station there was a long wooden building and, outside, a

platform, all frozen and white, where we waited for the train to come

in. Mme. Sazonoff, a fine well-bred woman, the wife of the Minister for

Foreign Affairs, was there, and "many others," as the press notices say.

The train was late. We went inside the long wooden building to shelter

from the bitter cold beside the hot-water pipes, and as we waited we

heard that the train was coming in. It came slowly and carefully

alongside the platform with its crunching snow, almost with the creeping

movement of a woman who carries something tenderly. Then it stopped. Its

windows were frozen and dark, so that one could see nothing. I heard a

voice behind me say, "The blind are coming first," and from the train

there came groping one by one young men with their eyes shot out. They

felt for the step of the train, and waited bewildered till someone came

to lead them; then, with their sightless eyes looking upwards more than

ours do, they moved stumbling along. Poor fellows, they'll never _see_

home; but they turned with smiles of delight when the band, in its grey

uniforms and fur caps, began to play the National Anthem.

These were the first wounded prisoners from Germany, sent home because

they could never fight again--quite useless men, too sorely hurt to

stand once more under raining bullets and hurtling shell-fire--so back

they came, and like dazed creatures they got out of the train, carrying

their little bundles, limping, groping, but home.

After the blind came those who had lost limbs--one-legged men, men still

in bandages, men hobbling with sticks or with an arm round a comrade's

neck, and then the stretcher cases. There was one man carrying his

crutches like a cross. Others lay twisted sideways. Some never moved

their heads from their pillows. All seemed to me to have about them a

splendid dignity which made the long, battered, suffering company into

some great pageant. I have never seen men so lean as they were. I have

never seen men's cheek-bones seem to cut through the flesh just where

the close-cropped hair on their temples ends. I had never seen such

hollow eyes; but they were Russian soldiers, Russian gentlemen, and they

were home again!

In the great hall we greeted them with tables laid with food, and spread

with wine and little presents beside each place. They know how to do

this, the princely Russians, so each man got a welcome to make him

proud. The band was there, and the long tables, the hot soup and the

cigarettes. All the men had washed at Torneo, and all of them wore clean

cotton waistcoats. Their hair was cut, too, but their faces hadn't

recovered. One knew they would never be young again. The Germans had

done their work. Semi-starvation and wounds had made old men of these

poor Russian soldiers. All was done that could be done to welcome them

back, but no one could take it in for a time. A sister in black

distributed some little Testaments, each with a cross on it, and the

soldiers kissed the symbol of suffering passionately.

They filed into their places at the tables, and the stretchers were

placed in a row two deep up the whole length of the room. In the middle

of it stood an altar, covered with silver tinsel, and two priests in

tinsel and gold stood beside it. Upon it was the sacred ikon, and the

everlasting Mother and Child smiled down at the men laid in helplessness

and weakness at their feet.

A General welcomed the soldiers back; and when they were thanked in the

name of the Emperor for what they had done, the tears coursed down their

thin cheeks. It was too pitiful and touching to be borne. I remember

thinking how quietly and sweetly a sister of mercy went from one group

of soldiers to another, silently giving them handkerchiefs to dry their

tears. We are all mothers now, and our sons are so helpless, so much in

need of us.

[Page Heading: WOUNDED RUSSIANS]

Down the middle of the room were low tables for the men who lay down all

the time. They saluted the ikon, as all the soldiers did, and some

service began which I was unable to follow. I can't tell what the

soldiers said, or of what they were thinking. About their comrades they

said to Mme. Takmakoff that 25,000 of them had died in two days from

neglect. We shall never hear the worst perhaps.

There were three officers at a table. One of them was shot through the

throat, and was bandaged. I saw him put all his food on one side, unable

to swallow it. Then a high official came and sat down and drank his

health. The officer raised his glass gallantly, and put his lips to the

wine, but his throat was shot through, he made a face of agony, bowed to

the great man opposite, and put down his glass.

Some surgeons in white began to go about, taking names and particulars

of the men's condition. Everyone was kind to the returned soldiers, but

they had borne too much. Some day they will smile perhaps, but yesterday

they were silent men returned from the dead, and not yet certain that

their feet touched Russia again.

CHAPTER II

WAITING FOR WORK

We paid our heavy bills and left Petrograd on Monday, the 29th November.

Great fuss at the station, as our luggage and the guide had disappeared

together. A comfortable, slow journey, and Colonel Malcolm met us at

Moscow station and took us to the Hôtel de Luxe--a shocking bad pub, but

the only one where we could get rooms. We went out to lunch, and I had a

plate of soup, two faens (little wheat cakes), and the fifth part of a

bottle of Graves. This modest repast cost sixteen shillings per head. We

turned out of the Luxe Hotel the following day, and came to the

National, where four hundred people were waiting to get in. But our

guide Grundy had influence, and managed to get us rooms. It is quite

comfortable.

None of us was sorry to leave Petrograd, and that is putting the case

mildly. People there are very depressed, and it was a case of "she said"

and "he said" all the time. Everyone was trying to snuff everyone else

out. "I don't know them"--and the lips pursed up finished many a

reputation, and I heard more about money and position than I ever heard

in my life before. "Bunty" and I used to say that the world was

inhabited by "nice people and very nice people," and once she added a

third class, "fearfully nice people." That is a world one used to

inhabit. I suppose one must make the best of this one!

[Page Heading: MOSCOW]

_Moscow. 2 December._--Hilda Wynne was rather feverish to-day, and lay

in bed, so I had a solitary walk about the Kremlin, and saw a fine view

from its splendid position. But, somehow, I am getting tired of

solitude. I suppose the war gives us the feeling that we must hold

together, and yet I have never been more alone than during this last

eighteen months.

* * * * *

_To Miss Macnaughtan's Sisters._

CRÉDIT LYONNAIS, MOSCOW,

_3 December._

MY DEARS,

I have just heard that there is a man going up to Petrograd to-night who

will put our letters in the Embassy bag, so there is some hope of this

reaching you. It is really my Christmas letter to you all, so may it be

passed round, please, although there won't be much in it.

We are now at Moscow, _en route_ for the Caucasus _via_ Tiflis, and our

base will probably be Julfa. We have been chosen to go there by the

Grand Duchess Cyril, but the reports about the roads are so conflicting

that we are going to see for ourselves. When we get there it will be

difficult to send letters home, but the banks will always be in

communication with each other, so I shall get all you send to Crédit

Lyonnais, Petrograd.

So far we have been waiting for our cars all this time. They had to

come by Archangel, and they left long before we did, but they have not

arrived yet. There are six ambulance cars, on board three different

ships (for safety), and no news of any of them yet.

Now, at least, _we_ have got a move on, and, barring accidents, we shall

be in Tiflis next week. It's rather a fearsome journey, as the train

only takes us to the foot of the mountains in four days, and then we

must ride or drive across the passes, which they say are too cold for

anything. You must imagine us like Napoleon in the "Retreat from Moscow"

picture.

Petrograd is a singularly unpleasant town, where the sun never shines,

and it rains or snows every day. The river is full of ice, but it looks

sullen and sad in the perpetual mist. There are a good many English

people there; but one is supposed to know the Russians, which means

speaking French all the time. Moscow is a far superior place, and is

really most interesting and beautiful, and very Eastern, while Petrograd

might be Liverpool. I filled up my time there in the hospital and

soup-kitchen.

The price of everything gets worse, I do believe! Even a glass of

filtered water costs one shilling and threepence! I have just left an

hotel for which my bill was £3 for one night, and I was sick nearly all

the time!

[Page Heading: "WHEN WILL THE WAR END?"]

Now, my dears, I wish you all the best Christmas you can have this year.

I am just longing for news of you, but I never knew such a cut-off place

as this for letters. Tell me about every one of the family. Write

lengthy letters. When do people say the war will end?

Your loving

SARAH BROOM.

* * * * *

_Tiflis. 12 December._--It is evening, and I have only just remembered

it is Sunday, a thing I can't recollect ever having happened before. I

have been ill in my room all day, which no doubt accounts for it.

We stayed at Moscow for a few days, and my recollection of it is of a

great deal of snow and frequent shopping expeditions in cold little

sleighs. I liked the place, and it was infinitely preferable to

Petrograd. Mr. Cazalet took us to the theatre one night, and there was

rather a good ballet. These poor dancers! They, like others, have lost

their nearest and dearest in the war, but they still have to dance. Of

course they call themselves "The Allies," and one saw rather a stale

ballet-girl in very sketchy clothes dancing with a red, yellow, and

black flag draped across her. Poor Belgium! It was such a travesty of

her sufferings.

Mr. Cazalet came to see us off at the station, and we began our long

journey to Tiflis, but we changed our minds, and took the local train

from ---- to Vladikavkas, where we stayed one night rather enjoyably at

a smelly hotel, and the following day we got a motor-car and started at

7 a.m. for the pass. The drive did us all good. The great snow peaks

were so unlike Petrograd and gossip! I had been rather ill on the train,

and I got worse at the hotel and during the drive, so I was quite a

poor Sarah when I reached Tiflis. Still, the scenery had been lovely

all the time, and we had funny little meals at rest houses.

When we got to Tiflis I went on being seedy for a while. I finished

Stephen Graham's book on Russia which he gave me before I left home. It

is charmingly written. The line he chooses is mine also, but his is a

more important book than mine.

_Batoum. 22 December._--We have had a really delightful time since I

last wrote up the old diary! (A dull book so far.) We saw a good many

important people at Tiflis--Gorlebeff, the head of the Russian Red

Cross, Prince Orloff, Prince Galitzin (a charming man), General Bernoff,

etc., etc.

Mrs. Wynne's and Mr. Bevan's cars are definitely accepted for the Tehran

district. My own plans are not yet settled, but I hope they may be soon.

People seem to think I look so delicate that they are a little bit

afraid of giving me hard work, and yet I suppose there are not many

women who get through more work than I do; but I believe I am looking

rather a poor specimen, and my hair has fallen out. I think I am rather

like those pictures on the covers of "appeals"--pictures of small

children, underneath which is written, "This is Johnny Smith, or Eliza

Jones, who was found in a cellar by one of our officers;

weight--age--etc., etc."

If I could have a small hospital north of Tehran it would be a good

centre for the wounded, and it would also be a good place for the others

to come to. Mr. Hills and Dr. Gordon (American missionaries) seem to

think they would like me to join them in their work for the Armenians.

These unfortunate people have been nearly exterminated by massacres, and

it has been officially stated that 75 per cent. of the whole race has

been put to the sword. This sounds awful enough, but when we consider

that there is no refinement of torture that has not been practised upon

them, then something within one gets up and shouts for revenge.

The photographs which General Bernoff has are proof of the devildom of

the Turks, only that the devil could not have been so beastly, and a

beast could not have been so devilish. The Kaiser has convinced the

Turks that he is now converted from Christianity to Mahomedanism. In

every mosque he is prayed for under the title of "Hájed Mahomet

Wilhelm," and photographs of burned and ruined cathedrals in France and

Belgium are displayed to prove that he is now anti-Christian. Heaven

knows it doesn't want much proving!

[Page Heading: RASPUTIN]

There are rumours of peace offers from Germany, but we must go on

fighting now, if only for the sake of the soldiers, who will be the ones

to suffer, but who _can't_ be asked to give in. The Russians are

terribly out of spirits, and very depressed about the war. The German

influence at Court scares them, and there is, besides, the mysterious

Rasputin to contend with! This extraordinary man seems to exercise a

malign influence over everyone, and people are powerless to resist him.

Nothing seems too strange or too mad to recount of this man and his

dupes. He is by birth a moujik, or peasant, and is illiterate, a

drunkard, and an immoral wretch. Yet there is hardly a great lady at

Court who has not come under his influence, and he is supposed by this

set of persons to be a reincarnation of Christ. Rasputin's figure is one

of those mysterious ones round which every sort of rumour gathers.

We left Tiflis on Friday, 17th December, and had rather a panic at the

station, as our passports had been left at the hotel, and our tickets

had gone off to Baku. However, the unpunctuality of the train helped us,

and we got off all right, an hour late. The train was about a thousand

years old, and went at the rate of ten miles an hour, and we could only

get second-class ordinary carriages to sleep in! But morning showed us

such lovely scenery that nothing else mattered. One found oneself in a

semi-tropical country, with soft skies and blue sea, and palms and

flowers, and with tea-gardens on all the hillsides. When will people

discover Caucasia? It is one of the countries of the world.

We had letters to Count Groholski, a most charming young fellow, who

arranged a delightful journey for us into the mountains, and as we had

brought no riding things we began to search the small shops for

riding-boots and the like. Then, in the evening we dined with Count

Oulieheff, and had an interesting pleasant time. Two Japanese were at

dinner, and, although they couldn't speak any tongue but their own,

Japanese always manage to look interesting. No doubt much of that

depends upon being able to say nothing.

[Page Heading: GEORGIA]

Early next day we motored out to the Count's Red Cross camp at ----.

Here everyone was sleeping under tents or in little wooden huts, and we

met some good-mannered, nice soldier men, most of them Poles. The

scenery was grand, and we were actually in the little known and

wonderful old kingdom of Georgia. Very little of it is left.{9} There

are ruins all along the river of castles and fortresses and old

stone bridges now crumbling into decay, but of the country, once so

proud, only one small dirty city remains, and that is Artvin, on the

mountain-side. It was too full of an infectious sort of typhus for us to

go there, but we drove out to the hospital on the opposite side of the

valley, and the doctor in charge there gave us beds for the night.

On Sunday, December 19th, I wandered about the hillside, found some

well-made trenches, and saw some houses which had been shelled. The

Turks were in possession of Artvin only a year ago, and there was a lot

of fighting in the mountains. It seems to me that the population of the

place is pretty Turkish still; and there are Turkish houses with small

Moorish doorways, and little windows looking out on the glorious view.

In all the mountains round here the shooting is fine, and consists of

toor (goats), leopards, bears, wolves, and on the Persian front, tigers

also. Land can be had for nothing if one is a Russian.

On Sunday afternoon we drove in a most painful little carriage to a

village which seemed to be inhabited by good-looking cut-throats, but

there was not much to see except the picturesque, smelly, old brown

houses. We met a handsome Cossack carrying a man down to the military

hospital. He was holding him upright, as children carry each other; the

man was moaning with fever, and had been stricken with the virulent

typhus, which nearly always kills. But what did the handsome Cossack

care about infection? He was a mountaineer, and had eyes with a little

flame in them, and a fierce moustache. Perhaps to-morrow he will be

gone. People die like flies in these unhealthy towns, and the Russians

are supremely careless.

We went back to the hospital for dinner, and then went out into crisp,

beautiful moonlight, and motored back to the Red Cross camp. I had a

little hut to sleep in, which had just been built. It contained a bed

and two chairs, upon one of which was a tin basin! The cold in the

morning was about as sharp as anything I have known, but everyone was

jolly and pleasant, and we had a charming time.

The Count told us of the old proud Georgians when there was a famine in

the country and a Russian Governor came to offer relief to the starving

inhabitants. Their great men went out to receive him, and said

courteously, "We have not been here, Gracious One, one hundred or two

hundred years, but much more than a thousand years, and during that time

we have not had a visit from the Russian Government. We are pleased to

see you, and the honour you have done us is sufficient in itself--for

the rest we think we will not require anything at your hands."

On Monday I motored with the others out to the ferry; then I had to

leave them, as they were going to ride forty miles, and that was thought

too much for me. Age has _no_ compensations, and it is not much use

fighting it. One only ends by being "a wonderful old woman of eighty":

reminiscent, perhaps a little obstinate, and in the world to

come--always eighty?

Came back to Batoum with Count Stanislas Constant, and went for a drive

with him to see the tea-gardens.

* * * * *

[Page Heading: TIFLIS]

Christmas Eve at Tiflis, and here we are with cars still stuck in the

ice thirty miles from Archangel, and ourselves just holding on and

trying not to worry. But what a waste of time! Also, fighting is going

on now in Persia, and we might be a lot of use. We came back from Batoum

in the hottest and slowest train I have ever been in. Still, Georgia

delighted me, and I am glad to have seen it. They have a curious custom

there (the result of generations of fighting). Instead of saying

"Good-morning," they say "Victory"; and the answer is, "May the victory

be yours." The language is Georgian, of course; and then there is

Tartar, and Polish, and Russian, and I can't help thinking that the

Tower of Babel was the poorest joke that was ever played on mankind.

Nothing stops work so completely.

What will Christmas Day be like at home? I think of all the village

churches, with the holly and evergreens, and in almost every one the

little new brass plates to the memory of beautiful youth, dead and

mangled, and left in the mud to await another trumpet than that which

called it from the trenches. There is nothing like a boy, and all the

life of England and the prayers of mothers have centred round them.

One's older friends died first, and now the boys are falling, and from

every little vicarage, from school-houses and colleges, the endless

stream goes, all with their heads up, fussing over their little bits of

packing, and then away to stand exploding shells and gas and bombs. No

one except those who have seen knows the ghastly tale of human suffering

that this war involves every day. Down here 550,000 Armenians have been

butchered in cold blood. The women are either massacred or driven into

Turkish harems.

Yesterday we heard some news at last in this most benighted corner of

the world! England has raised four million volunteers. Hurrah! Over one

million men volunteered in one week. French takes command at home and

Haig at the front.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Charles Young._

HOTEL ORIENT, TIFLIS,

_26 December._

DARLING J.,

It seems almost useless to write letters, or even to wire! Letters

sometimes take forty-nine days to get to England, and telegrams are

_always_ kept a fortnight before being sent. We have had great

difficulty about the ambulance cars, as they all got frozen into the

river at Archangel; however, as you will see from the newspapers, there

isn't a great deal going on yet.

I do hope you and all the family are safe and sound. I wired to ---- for

her birthday to ask news of you all, and I prepaid the reply, but, of

course, none came, so I am sure she never got the wire. I have wired

twice to ----, but no reply. At last one gives up expecting any. I got

some newspapers nearly a month old to-day, and I have been devouring

them.

This is rather a curious place, and the climate is quite good; no snow,

and a good deal of pleasant sun, but the hills all round are very bare

and rugged.

I have had a cough, which I think equals your best efforts in that line.

How it does shake one up! I had some queer travelling when it was at its

worst: for the first night we were given a shakedown in a little

mountain hospital, which was fearfully cold; and the next night I was

put into a newly-built little place, made of planks roughly nailed

together, and with just a bed and a basin in it.

The cold was wonderful, and since then--as you may imagine--the

Macnaughtan cough has been heard in the land!

[Page Heading: GRAND DUKE NICHOLAS]

Yesterday (Christmas Day) we were invited to breakfast with the Grand

Duke Nicholas. A Court function in Russia is the most royal that you can

imagine--no half measures about it! The Grand Duke is an adorably

handsome man, quite extraordinarily and obviously a Grand Duke. He

measures 6 feet 5 inches, and is worshipped by every soldier in the

Army.

We went first into a huge anteroom, where a lady-in-waiting received us,

and presented us to "Son Altesse Impériale," and then to the Grand Duke

and to his brother, the Grand Duke Peter. Some scenes seem to move as

in a play. I had a vision of a great polished floor, and many tall men

in Cossack dress, with daggers and swords, most of them different grades

of Princes and Imperial Highnesses.

A great party of Generals, and ladies, and members of the Household,

then went into a big dining-room, where every imaginable hors d'oeuvre

was laid out on dishes--dozens of different kinds--and we each ate

caviare or something. Afterwards, with a great tramp and clank of spurs

and swords, everyone moved on to a larger dining-room, where there were

a lot of servants, who waited excellently.

In the middle of the déjeuner the Grand Duke Nicholas got up, and

everyone else did the same, and they toasted us! The Grand Duke made a

speech about our "gallantry," etc., etc., and everyone raised glasses

and bowed to one. Nothing in a play could have been more of a real fine

sort of scene. And certainly S. Macnaughtan in her wildest dreams hadn't

thought of anything so wonderful as being toasted in Russia by the

Imperial Staff.

It's quite a thing to be tiresome about when one grows old!

In the evening we tried to be merry, and failed. The Grand Duchess sent

us mistletoe and plum-pudding by the hand of M. Boulderoff. He took us

shopping, but the bazaars are not interesting.

Good-bye, and bless you, my dear,

Yours as ever,

S. MACNAUGHTAN.

* * * * *

_To Miss Julia Keays-Young._

HOTEL D'ORIENT, TIFLIS,

CAUCASUS, RUSSIA,

_27 December._

DARLING JENNY,

I can't tell you what a pleasure your letters are. I only wish I could

get some more from anybody, but not a line gets through! I want so much

to hear about Bet and her marriage, and to know if the nephews and

Charles are safe.

There seems to be the usual winter pause over the greater part of the

war area, but round about here, there are the most awful massacres;

550,000 Armenians have been slaughtered in cold blood by the Turks, and

with cruelties that pass all telling. One is quite impotent.

I expect to be sent into Persia soon, and meanwhile I hope to join some

American missionaries who are helping the refugees. Our ambulances are

at last out of the ice at Archangel, and will be here in a fortnight;

but we are not to go to Persia for a month. "The Front" is always

altering, and we never have any idea where our work will be wanted.

[Page Heading: HOMESICK]

We are still asking when the war will end, but, of course, no one knows.

One gets pretty homesick out here at times, and there was a chance I

might have to go back to England for equipment, but that seems off at

present.

Your always loving

A. S.

* * * * *

_29 December._--I have still got a horrid bad cough, and my big, dull

room is depressing. We are all depressed, I am afraid. Being accustomed

to have plenty to do, this long wait is maddening.

Whatever Russia may have in store for us in the way of useful work,

nothing can exceed the boredom of our first seven weeks here. We are

just spoiling for work. I believe it is as bad as an illness to feel

like this, and we won't be normal again for some time. Oddly enough, it

does affect one's health, and Hilda Wynne and I are both seedy. We are

always trying to wire for things, but not a word gets through.

We were summoned to dine at the palace last night. Everyone very

charming.

_31 December._.--Prince Murat came to dine and play bridge. Count

Groholski turned up for a few days. My doctor vetted me for my cold.

Business done--none. No sailor ever longed for port as I do for home.

CHAPTER III

SOME IMPRESSIONS OF TIFLIS AND ARMENIA

_Tiflis. 1 January, 1916._--Kind wishes from the Grand Duke and

everybody. Not such an aimless day as usual. I got into a new

sitting-room and put it straight, and in the evening we went to Prince

Orloff's box for a performance of "Carmen." It was very Russian and

wealthy. At the back of the box were two anterooms, where we sat and

talked between the acts, and where tea, chocolates, etc., were served.

They say the Prince has £200,000 a year. He is gigantically fat, with a

real Cossack face.

Scandal is so rife here that it hardly seems to mean scandal. They don't

appear to be so much immoral as non-moral. Everyone sits up late; then

most of them, I am told, get drunk, and then the evening orgies begin.

No one is ostracised, everyone is called upon and "known" whatever they

have done. I suppose English respectability would simply make them

smile--if, indeed, they believed in it.

_2 January._--I don't suppose I shall ever write an article on war

charities, but I believe I ought to. A good many facts about them have

come my way, and I consider that the public at home should be told how

the finances are being administered.

I know of one hospital in Russia which has, I believe, cost England

£100,000. The staff consists of nurses and doctors, dressers, etc., all

fully paid. The expenses of those in charge of it are met out of the

funds. They live in good hotels, and have "entertaining allowances" for

entertaining their friends, and yet one of them herself volunteered the

information that the hospital is not required. The staff arrived weeks

ago, but not the stores. Probably the building won't be opened for some

time to come, and when it is opened there will be difficulty in getting

patients to fill it.

In many parts of Russia hospitals are _not_ wanted. In Petrograd there

are five hundred of them run by Russians alone.

Then there is a fund for relief of the Poles, which is administered by

Princess ----. The ambulance-car which the fund possesses is used by the

Princess to take her to the theatre every night.

A great deal of money has been subscribed for the benefit of the

Armenians. Who knows how much this has cost the givers? yet the

distribution of this large sum seems to be conducted on most haphazard

lines. An open letter arrived the other day for the Mayor of Tiflis.

There is no Mayor of Tiflis, so the letter was brought to Major ----. It

said: "Have you received two cheques already sent? We have had no

acknowledgment." There seems to be no check on the expenditure, and

there is no local organisation for dispensing the relief. I don't say

that it is cheating: I only say as much as I know.

[Page Heading: ILL-BESTOWED CHARITY]

A number of motor-ambulances were sent to Russia by some generous people

in England the other day. They were inspected by Royalty before being

despatched, and arrived in the care of Mr. ----. When their engines were

examined it was found that they were tied together with bits of

copper-wire, and even with string. None of them could be made to go, and

they were returned to England.

We are desperately hard up at home just now, and we are denying

ourselves in order to send these charitable contributions to the richest

country in the world. Gorlebeff himself (head of the Russian Red Cross

Society) has £30,000 a year. Armenians are literally rolling in money,

and it is common to find Armenian ladies buying hats at 250 Rs. (£25) in

Tiflis. The Poles are not ruined, nor do they seem to object to German

rule, which is doing more for them than Russia ever did. Tiflis people

are now sending money for relief to Mesopotamia. Of the 300,000 Rs. sent

by England, 70,000 Rs. have stuck to someone's fingers.

In Flanders there were many people living in comfort such as they had

probably never seen before, at the expense of the charitable public, and

doing very little indeed all the time: cars to go about in, chauffeurs

at their disposal, petrol without stint, and even their clothes (called

uniforms for the nonce!) paid for.

And the little half-crowns that come in to run these shows, "how hardly

they are earned sometimes! with what sacrifices they are given!" A man

in Flanders said to me one day: "We could lie down and roll in tobacco,

and we all help ourselves to every blooming thing we want; and here is a

note I found in a poor little parcel of things to-night: 'We are so

sorry not to be able to send more, but money is very scarce this week.'"

My own cousin brought four cars over to France, and he told me he was

simply an unpaid chauffeur at the command of young officers coming in to

shop at Dunkirk.

I am thankful to say that Mrs. Wynne and Mr. Bevan and I have paid our

own expenses ever since the war began, and given things too. And I think

a good many of our own corps in Flanders used to contribute liberally

and pay for all they had. People here tell us that their cars have all

been commandeered, and they are used for the wives of Generals, who

never had entered one before, and who proudly do their shopping in them.

War must be a military matter, and these things must end, unless money

is to find its way into the possession of the vultures who are always at

hand when there is any carcase about.

_5 January._--Absolutely nothing to write about. I saw Gorlebeff,

Domerchekoff, and Count Tysczkievcz{10} of the Croix Rouge about my

plans. They suggest my going to Urumiyah in Persia, where workers seem

to be needed. The only other opening seems to be to go to Count

Groholski's new little hospital on the top of the mountains. Mr. Hills,

the American missionary, wants me first to go with him to see the

Armenian refugees at Erivan, but we can't get transports for his gifts

of clothing for them.

[Page Heading: A PRESENTIMENT]

Before I left England I had a very strange, almost an overwhelming

presentiment that I had better not come to Russia. I had by that time

promised Mrs. Wynne that I would come, and I couldn't see that it would

be the right thing to chuck her. I thought the work would suffer if I

stayed at home, as she might find it impossible to get any other woman

who would pay her own way and consent to be away for so long a time. Our

prayers are always such childish things--prayer itself is only a

cry--and I remember praying that if I was "meant to stay at home" some

substitute might be found for me. This all seems too absurd when one

views it in the light of what afterwards happened. My vision of "honour"

and "work" seem for the moment ridiculous, and yet I know that I was not

so foolish as I seem, for I got a written statement from Mr. Hume

Williams (Mrs. Wynne's trustee), saying, "A unit has been formed,

consisting of Mrs. Wynne, Miss Macnaughtan, etc., and it has been

accepted by the Russian Red Cross." The idea of being in Russia and

having to look for work never in my wildest moments entered my head--and

this is the end of the "vision," I suppose.

_Russian Christmas Day._--Took a car and went for a short run into the

country. Weather fine and bright.

There is severe fighting in Galicia, and the rumour is that

Urumiyah--the place to which I am going--has been evacuated.

My impression of Russia deepens--that it is run by beautiful women and

rich men; and yet how charming everyone is to meet! Hardly anyone is

uninteresting, and half the men are good-looking. The Cossack-dress is

very handsome, and nearly everyone wears it. When the colour is dark red

and the ornaments are of silver the effect is unusually good. They all

walk well. One is amongst a primitive people, but a remarkably fine one!

_10 January._--I am taking French lessons. This would appear to be a

simple matter, even in Russia, but it has taken me three weeks to get a

teacher. The first to come required a rest, and must decline; the second

was recalled by an old employer; the third had too many engagements; the

fourth came and then holidays began, as they always do! First our

Christmas, then the Russian Christmas, then the Armenian Christmas,

leading on to three New Year Days! After that the Baptism, with its

holidays and its vigils.