SATURDAY
The saddest thing in Antwerp is the howling of the dogs.
Thousands have been left shut in the houses when their owners fled, and
all day and night these poor creatures utter piercing, desolate cries
that grow louder and more piercing as time goes on.
It is Saturday morning, October 10th.
Strange things have happened.
When I went to my door just now, I found it locked from the outside.
I have tried the other door. That is locked, too.
What does it mean, I wonder?
Here I am in a little room about twelve feet by six, with one window
looking on to the back wall of one of the Antwerp theatres.
I can hear the sounds of fierce cannonading going on in the distance,
but the noise within the hotel close at hand is so loud as to deaden the
sounds of battle; for the Germans are running up and down the corridors
perpetually, shouting, singing, stamping, and the pianos are going, too.
Nobody comes near me. I knock at both the doors, but gently, for I am
afraid to draw attention to myself. Nobody answers. The old woman and
the two little children have left the room on my right, the old man has
left the room on my left. I am all alone in this little den. I dress as
well as I can, but the room is just a tiny sitting-room; there are no
facilities for making one's toilette. I have to do without washing my
face. Instead, I rub it with Crême Floreine, and the amount of black
that comes off is appalling.
Then I lie down at full length on my mattress and wonder what is going
to happen next.
Hour after hour goes by.
In a corner of the room I discover an English weekly history of the War,
and lying there on my mattress I read many strange stories that seem
somehow to mock a little at these real happenings.
Then voices just outside in the corridor reach me.
Out there two old Belgians are talking.
"_Ce sont les Anglais qui ne veulent pas rendre les forts!_" says one.
They are discussing the fighting which still goes on fiercely in the
forts around the city.
My head aches! I am hungry; and those big guns are making what the
Kaiser would call World Noises.
Strange thoughts come over me, attacking me, like Samson Agonistes'
"deadly swarm of hornets armed."
In a terrific conflict it doesn't seem to matter much which side is
victorious, all hatred of the conquerors dies away; in fact the
conquerors themselves may seem like deliverers since peace comes in
with their entrance.
And I am weak and weary enough at this moment to wish _les Anglais_
would give it up, let the forts be rendered, and let the cannons cease.
Anything for peace, for an end of slaughter, an end of terror, an end of
this cruel soul-racking thunder.
Terrible thoughts ... deadly thoughts.
Do they come to the soldiers, thoughts like these? Heaven help the poor
fellows if they do!
They are more deadly than Death, for they attack only the immortal part
of one, leaving the mortal to save itself while they blight and corrode
the spirit.
* * * * *
I am weary. I have not slept for five nights, and I feel as if I shall
never sleep again.
I daresay that's partly why I have been weak enough to wish for an end
of noise.
It's five o'clock and darkness has set in.
Nobody has been near me, I'm still here, locked up in this little room.
I roam about like a caged animal. I look from the window. The blank back
wall of the Antwerp Theatre meets my eye, but a corner of the hotel
looks in also, and I can see three tiers of windows, so I hastily move
away. In all those rooms there are Germans quartered now. What if they
glanced down here and discovered _me_? I pull the curtains over the
window, and move back into the room.
This is Saturday afternoon, October 10th, and all of a sudden a queer
thought comes over me.
October 10th is my birthday.
I lie down on the mattress again, and my thoughts begin dreamily to
revolve round an extraordinary psychic mystery that I became conscious
of when I was little more than a baby in far-away Australia.
I became conscious at the age of four that I heard in my imagination the
sounds of cannon, and I became certain too that those cannon were going
to be real cannon some day.
Yes! All my life, ever since I could think, I have heard heavy firing in
my ears, and have known I was going to be very close to battle, some
far-off day or other.
Have other people been born with the same belief, I wonder?
I should like so much to know.
Gradually a vast area of speculative psychology opens out before me,
and, like one walking in a world of dreams, I lose myself in its dim
distances, seeking for some light, clear opening, wherein I can discover
the secret of this extraordinary psychic or physiological mystery, that
has hidden itself for a lifetime in my being. I say hidden itself; yet,
though it has kept itself dark and concealed, it has always been teasing
my sub-consciousness with vague queer hints of its presence, until at
last I have grown used to it, and have even arranged a fairly
comfortable explanation of its existence between my soul and myself.
I have told myself that it is something I can never, never understand.
And that it is all the explanation I have ever been able to give to
myself of the presence of this uninvited guest who has dwelt for a
lifetime in the secret-chambers of my intuitions, who has hidden there,
veiled and mysterious, never shewing a simple feature to betray
itself--eye, lips, brow--always remaining unseen, unknown, uninvited,
unintelligible--yet always potent, always softly disturbing one's belief
in one's ordinary everyday life with that dull roar of cannon which
seemed to visualize in my brain with an image of blinding sunlight.
Lying there on the bare mattress, on this drear October day which goes
down to history as the day on which Germany set up her Governor in
Antwerp, I begin to wonder if my sublimable consciousness has been
trying, all these years, to warn me that danger would come to me some
day to the sound of battle. And am I in that danger now? Is this the
moment perhaps that the secret, silent guest has tried to shew me lay
lurking in await for me, ready to make me fulfil my destiny in some dark
and terrible way?
No. I can't believe it.
I can't see it like that.
I _don't_ believe that that is what the roar of cannon has been trying
to say to me all my life.
I can't sense danger--I won't. No, I mean I _can't._ My reason assures
me there isn't any danger that is going to _catch_ me, no matter how it
may threaten.
And then the hornet flies to the attack.
"It says, 'People who are haunted with premonitions nearly always
disregard them until too late.'"
So occupied am I with these dreams and philosophings that I lie there in
the darkness, forgetful of time and hunger, until I hear voices in the
next room, and there is the old woman opening my door, and the two
little yellow-haired children staring in at me curiously.
The old woman gives me some grapes out of a basket under her bed, and a
glass of water.
"_Pauvre enfant!_" she says. "I am sorry I could bring you no food, but
the Germans are up and down the stairs all day long, and I dare not risk
them asking me, "Who is that for?"
"But why are you so afraid?" I ask. "Last night you were so nice to me.
What has happened? Come, tell me the truth."
"Alors, Madame, I will tell you! You recollect that German who leaned
over the counter for such a long time when you were washing glasses?"
"Yes." My lips felt suddenly dry as wood.
"Alors, Madame! He said to me, that fellow, '_She_ never speaks!'"
"Who did he mean?"
"Alors, Madame, he meant you!"
(This then, I think to myself, is what happens to one when one is really
frightened. The lips turn dry as chips. And all because a German has
noticed me. It is absurd.)
I force a smile.
"Perhaps you imagine this," I said.
"No, because he said to me to-day, 'Where is that mädchen who never
spoke?'"
"What did you say?"
"She is deaf," I told him. "She does not hear when anyone speaks to
her!"
"So that is why you locked me up."
"_C'est ça_, Madame. It was my brother who wished it. He is very afraid.
And now, Madame, good-night. I must put the little girls to bed."
"Well, I think this is ridiculous," I said. "How long am I to stay
here?"
She shook her head, and began to unfasten little fair-haired Maria's
black serge frock, pushing her out of my room as she did so, with the
evident intention of locking me in again.
But just then someone knocked at the outer door.
It was Madame X. who came stealing in, drawing the bolt noiselessly
behind her. I looked in her weary face, with its white hair, and
beautiful blue eyes, and saw gentleness and sympathy there, and
sincerity.
She said: "Mon Mari has been talking in the restaurant with a friend of
his, a Danish Doctor, a Red Cross Doctor, Madame, you understand, and
oh, he is so sorry for you, Madame, and he thinks he can help you to
escape! He wants to come up and see you for a moment. I advise you to
see him."
"Will you bring him up," I said.
"Immediately!"
The old patronne went on undressing the little girls, getting them
hurriedly into bed and telling them to be quiet.
They kept shouting out questions to me, and whenever they did so their
grandmother would smack them.
"Silence. _Les alboches_ will hear you!"
But they were terribly naughty little girls.
Whenever I spoke they repeated my words in loud, mocking voices.
Their sharp little ears told them of my foreign accent, and they plucked
at every strange note in my voice, and repeated it loud and shrill, but
the grandmother smacked them into silence and pulled the bedclothes up
over their faces.
Then a gentle tap, and Madame X. and the Danish Doctor came stealing in.
Ah! how piercing and pathetic was the look I cast on that tall stranger.
I saw a young fair-haired man in grey clothes, with blue eyes, and an
honest English look, quiet, kind, sincere, wearing the Red Cross badge
on his arm! I looked and looked. Then I told myself he was to be
trusted.
In English he said, "I heard there was an English lady here who wants to
get away from Antwerp?"
I interrupted sharply.
"Please don't speak English! The Germans are always going up and down
the corridor. They may hear!"
He smiled at my fears, but immediately changed into French to reassure
me.
"No, no, Madame! You mustn't be alarmed. The Germans are too busy with
themselves to think of anything else just now. And I want to help you.
Your Queen Alexandra is a Dane. She is of my country, and she has kept
the bonds very close and strong between Denmark and England. Yes, if
only for the sake of Queen Alexandra I want to help you now. And I think
I can do so. If you will pass as my sister I can get a pass for you from
the Danish Consul, and that will enable you to leave Antwerp in safety."
"May I see your papers?" I asked him now. "I am sure you are sincere.
But you understand that I would like to see your papers."
"Certainly!"
And he brought out his papers of nationality and I saw that he was
undoubtedly a Dane, working under the Red Cross for the Belgians.
When I had examined his papers I let him examine mine.
"And now I must ask you one thing more," he said. "I must ask for your
passport. I want to shew it to my Consul, in order to convince him that
you are really of British nationality. Will you give me your passport? I
am afraid that without it my Consul may object to do this thing for me."
That was an agonized moment. I had been told a hundred times by a
hundred different people that the one thing one should never do, never,
never, never, not under any circumstances, was to part with one's
passport. And here was this gentle Dane pleading for mine, promising me
escape if I would give it. I looked up at him as he stood there, tall
and grave. I was not _quite_ sure of him. And why? Because he had spoken
English and I still thought that was a dangerous thing to do. No, I was
not quite sure. I stood there breathless, stupefied, trying to think.
Madame X. watched me in silence. I knew that I must make up my mind one
way or the other.
"Well, I shall trust you," I said slowly. I put my passport into his
hands.
His face lit up and I, watching in that agony of doubt, told myself
suddenly that he was genuine, that was real gladness in his eyes.
"Ah, Madame, I _do_ thank you so for trusting me!" His voice was moved
and vibrant. He bent and kissed my hand. Then he put the passport in his
pocket. "To-morrow at three o'clock I will come here for you. Trust me
absolutely. I will arrange for a peasant's cart or a fiacre, and I will
myself accompany you to the Dutch borders. Have courage--you will soon
be in safety!"
Ten minutes after he had gone Monsieur Claude burst into the room.
His face was black as night and working with rage.
"What is this you have done?" he cried in a hoarse voice. "_Il parle
avec les allemands dans le restaurant!_"
Horrible words!
It seems to me that as long as I live I shall hear them in my ears.
"It is not true." I cried. "It _can't_ be true." "He is talking to the
Germans in the Restaurant," he repeated. His rage was undisguised. He
flung on the table a little packet of English papers that I had given
him to hide for me. "Take these! I have nothing to do with you. You are
my sister's affair, I have nothing to do with you at all!"
I rushed to him. I seized him by the arm. But he flung me off and left
the room. In and out of my brain his words went beating, in and out, in
and out. The thing was simple, clear. The Dane had gone down to betray
me, and he had all the evidence in his hands. Oh, fool that I had been!
I had brought this on myself. It was my own unaccountable folly that had
led me into this trap. At any moment now the Germans would come for me.
All was over. I was lost. They had my passport in their possession. I
could deny nothing. The game was up.
I got up and looked at myself in the glass.
The habit of a lifetime asserted itself, for all women look at
themselves in the glass frequently, and at unexpected times. I saw a
strange white face gazing at me in the mirror. "It is all up with you
now! Are you ready for the end? Prepare yourself, get your nerves in
order. You cannot hope to escape, it is either imprisonment or death for
you! What do you think of that?" And then, at that point, kindly Mother
Nature took possession of the situation and sleep rushed upon me
unawares. I fell on the mattress and knew no more, till a soft knocking
at my door awoke me, and I saw it was morning. A light was filtering in
dimly through the window blind.
I jumped up.
I was fully dressed, having fallen asleep in my clothes.
"Madame!" whispered a voice. "Open the door toute suite n'est-ce-pas."
It was the old woman's voice.
I pulled away the barricading chair, and let her in.
Over her shoulder I saw a man.
It was no German, this!
It was dear pie-coloured Henri in a grey suit with a white-and-black
handkerchief swathed round his neck.
Behind him were the two little girls.
"Quick, quick!" breathes the old woman, "you must go, Madame, you must
go at once! My brother is frightened; he refuses to have you here any
longer. He is terrified out of his life lest the Germans should discover
that he has been allowing an English woman to hide in his house!"
She threw an apron on me, and hurriedly tied it behind me, then she
brought out a big black shawl and flung it round my shoulders. Then she
picked up the blue-and-white check handkerchief lying on the table, and
nodded to me to tie it over my head.
"You must go at once, you must leave everything behind you. You must not
take anything. We will see about your things afterwards. You must pass
as Henri's wife. There! Take his arm! And you, Henri, take one of the
little girls by the hand! And you, Madame, you take the other. There!
Courage, Madame. Oh, my poor child, I am sorry for you!"
She kissed me, and pushed me out at the same time.
Next moment, hanging on to Henri's arm, I found myself outside in the
corridor walking towards the staircase.
"Courage!" whispered Henri in my ear.
Suddenly I ceased to be myself; I became a peasant; I was Henri's wife.
These little girls were mine. I leaned on Henri, I clutched my little
girl's fingers close. I felt utterly unafraid. I thought as a peasant. I
absolutely precipitated myself into the woman I was supposed to be. And
in that new condition of personality I walked down the wide staircase
with my husband and my children, passing dozens of German officers who
were running up and down the stairs continually.
I got a touch of their system. They moved aside to let us pass, the poor
little pie-coloured peasant, his anxious wife, the two solemn children
with flowing hair.
The hall below was crowded with Germans. I saw their fair florid faces,
their grim lips and blazing eyes. But I was a peasant now, a little
Belgian peasant. Reality had left me completely. Fear was fled. The
sight of the sunlight and the touch of the fresh air on my face as we
reached the street set all my nerves acting again in their old
satisfactory manner.
"Courage, Madame!" whispered Henri.
"Don't call me Madame! Call me Louisa!" I whispered back. "Where are we
going?"
"To a friend."
We turned the corner and crossed the street and I saw at once that
Antwerp as Antwerp has entirely ceased to exist. Everywhere there were
Germans. They were seated in the cafés, flying past in motor cars,
driving through the streets and avenues just as in Brussels, looking as
if they had lived there for ever.
"Voici, Madame!" muttered Henri.
"Louisa!" I whispered supplicatingly.