"THE ENGLISH ARE COMING"
I am back in Antwerp and the unexpected has happened.
We are besieged.
The siege began on Thursday.
The mental excitement of these last days passes all description.
And yet Antwerp is calm outwardly, and but for the crowds of peasants,
pouring into the city with their cows and their bundles, one would
hardly know that the Germans were really attacking us at last.
The Government has issued an order that anyone who likes may leave
Antwerp; but once having done so no one will be permitted to return; and
that quite decides us; we will remain.
All day long the cannon are booming and pounding; sometimes they sound
so near that one imagines a shell must have burst in Antwerp itself; and
sometimes they grow fainter, they are obviously receding.
Or so we tell ourselves hopefully.
We are always hopeful; we are always telling each other that things are
going better.
Everyone is talking, talking, talking.
Everyone is asking, "What do you think? Have you heard any news?"
Everyone is saying, "But of course it will be all right!"
"The Germans have been driven back five kilometres," says one civilian.
"Have you heard the news? The Germans have been driven back six
kilometres!" says another.
And again: "Have _you_ heard the good news? Germans driven back seven
kilometres!"
And at last a curious mental condition sets in.
We lose interest in the cannon, and we go about our business, just as if
those noises were not ringing in our ears, even as we sit at dinner in
our hotel.
There is one little notice pasted up about the hotel that, simply as it
reads, fills one with a new and more active terror than shell-fire:--
"_Il n'y a pas d'eau!_"
This is because the German shells have smashed the Waterworks at Wavre
S. Catherine. And so, in the meantime, Antwerp's hotels are flooded with
carbolic, and we drink only mineral waters, and wait (hopeful as ever)
for the great day when the bathrooms will be opened again.
These nights are stiflingly hot. And the mosquitoes still linger. Indeed
they are so bad sometimes that I put eucalyptus oil on my pillow to keep
them away. How strange that all this terrific firing should not have
frightened them off! I come to the conclusion that mosquitoes are deaf.
The curious thing is, no one can tell, by looking at Antwerp, that she
is going through the greatest page in all her varied history. Her shops
are open. People sit at crowded cafés sipping their coffee or beer. A
magnificent calm prevails. There is no sense of active danger. The
lights go out at seven instead of eight. By ten o'clock the city is
asleep, save for the coming and going of clattering troops over the
rough-flagged streets and avenues. Grapes and pears and peaches are
displayed in luxuriant profusion, at extraordinarily low prices. Fish
and meat are dearer, but chickens are still very cheap. The
"_Anversois_" still take as much trouble over their cooking, which is
uncommonly good, even for Belgium.
And then on Saturday, with the sharpness and suddenness of lightning,
the terrible rumour goes round that Antwerp is going to
_surrender_,--yes, surrender--rather than run the risk of being
destroyed like Louvain, and Termonde, and Aerschot.
The Legation has received orders that the Government is about to be
moved to Ostend. Crowds of people begin to hurry out of Antwerp in motor
cars, until the city looks somewhat like London on a Sunday afternoon,
half-empty, and full of bare spaces, instead of crowded and animated as
Antwerp has been ever since the Government moved here from Brussels.
And then, on Sunday, comes a change.
The news spreads like wild-fire that the Legations have had their
orders countermanded early in the morning.
They are to wait further instructions. Something has happened. _THE
ENGLISH ARE COMING!_