Brittany, August 14, 1914.
And now I fear I must write in another strain. Up to this time I have
been too happy. I have existed in a magic Bohemia, largely of my own
making. Hope, faith, enthusiasm have been mine. Each day has had its
struggle, its failure, its triumph. However, that is all ended. During
the past week we have lived breathlessly. For in spite of the exultant
sunshine our spirits have been under a cloud, a deepening shadow of
horror and calamity. . . . WAR.
Even as I write, in our little village steeple the bells are ringing
madly, and in every little village steeple all over the land. As he
hears it the harvester checks his scythe on the swing; the clerk throws
down his pen; the shopkeeper puts up his shutters. Only in the cafes
there is a clamor of voices and a drowning of care.
For here every man must fight, every home give tribute. There is no
question, no appeal. By heredity and discipline all minds are shaped to
this great hour. So to-morrow each man will seek his barracks and
become a soldier as completely as if he had never been anything else.
With the same docility as he dons his baggy red trousers will he let
some muddle-headed General hurl him to destruction for some dubious
gain. To-day a father, a home-maker; to-morrow fodder for cannon. So
they all go without hesitation, without bitterness; and the great
military machine that knows not humanity swings them to their fate. I
marvel at the sense of duty, the resignation, the sacrifice. It is
magnificent, it is FRANCE.
And the Women. Those who wait and weep. Ah! to-day I have not seen one
who did not weep. Yes, one. She was very old, and she stood by her
garden gate with her hand on the uplifted latch. As I passed she looked
at me with eyes that did not see. She had no doubt sons and grandsons
who must fight, and she had good reason, perhaps, to remember the war of
_soixante-dix_. When I passed an hour later she was still there, her
hand on the uplifted latch.
August 30th.
The men have gone. Only remain graybeards, women and children. Calvert
and I have been helping our neighbors to get in the harvest. No doubt we
aid; but there with the old men and children a sense of uneasiness and
even shame comes over me. I would like to return to Paris, but the
railway is mobilized. Each day I grow more discontented. Up there in
the red North great things are doing and I am out of it. I am thoroughly
unhappy.
Then Calvert comes to me with a plan. He has a Ford car. We will all
three go to Paris. He intends to offer himself and his car to the Red
Cross. His wife will nurse. So we are very happy at the solution, and
to-morrow we are off.
Paris.
Back again. Closed shutters, deserted streets. How glum everything is!
Those who are not mobilized seem uncertain how to turn. Every one buys
the papers and reads grimly of disaster. No news is bad news.
I go to my garret as to a beloved friend. Everything is just as I left
it, so that it seems I have never been away. I sigh with relief and
joy. I will take up my work again. Serene above the storm I will watch
and wait. Although I have been brought up in England I am American born.
My country is not concerned.
So, going to the Dôme Cafe, I seek some of my comrades. Strange! They
have gone. MacBean, I am told, is in England. By dyeing his hair and
lying about his age he has managed to enlist in the Seaforth
Highlanders. Saxon Dane too. He has joined the Foreign Legion, and
even now may be fighting.
Well, let them go. I will keep out of the mess. But why did they go? I
wish I knew. War is murder. Criminal folly. Against Humanity.
Imperialism is at the root of it. We are fools and dupes. Yes, I will
think and write of other things. . . .
_MacBean has enlisted_.
I hate violence. I would not willingly cause pain to anything
breathing. I would rather be killed than kill. I will stand above the
Battle and watch it from afar.
_Dane is in the Foreign Legion_.
How disturbing it all is! One cannot settle down to anything. Every day
I meet men who tell the most wonderful stories in the most casual way.
I envy them. I too want to have experiences, to live where life's beat
is most intense. But that's a poor reason for going to war.
And yet, though I shrink from the idea of fighting, I might in some way
help those who are. MacBean and Dane, for example. Sitting lonely in
the Dôme, I seem to see their ghosts in the corner. MacBean listening
with his keen, sarcastic smile, Saxon Dane banging his great hairy fist
on the table till the glasses jump. Where are they now? Living a life
that I will never know. When they come back, if they ever do, shall I
not feel shamed in their presence? Oh, this filthy war! Things were
going on so beautifully. We were all so happy, so full of ambition, of
hope; laughing and talking over pipe and bowl, and in our garrets
seeking to realize our dreams. Ah, these days will never come again!
Then, as I sit there, Calvert seeks me out. He has joined an ambulance
corps that is going to the Front. Will I come in?
"Yes," I say; "I'll do anything."
So it is all settled. To-morrow I give up my freedom.