“Les Prussiens, les Prussiens!” These words are uttered in hoarse
whispers under my window while I dress. They send a nervous tremor down
my spine. At breakfast I am informed that the Germans are only a day’s
march distant. They have already crossed the frontier and are advancing
on us. Bombarded Liège is safer than Manhay, situated on one of the
high roads from the frontier. The blindest Teuton could not miss this
short, straight line of white-washed houses.
I join the crowd of peasants standing in a cluster at the cross-roads.
Everyone is busy advising, gesticulating, prophesying. Other peasants
are pouring in from the neighbouring villages for directions and news.
Any stranger at once forms the nucleus of an entranced group. There is
much chattering but little real excitement. These people who live on
the edge of big events are never unprepared.
M. le Précepteur is busy in the post office trying to decipher
governmental wires. Several _malle-postes_, like two-horsed roofed-in
wagonettes, are waiting about, their drivers ready to take round
letters—the last batch, who knows!—to the scattered villages around.
A very small girl, fortified by a very large dog, is deftly steering
back some wandering cows from the direction of Malempré. The village
idiot has been trying to get up a game in the skittle alley, but is
promptly squelched.
Motor-cyclists are coming and going in the direction of Liège. Cars
shoot through every few minutes at a break-neck speed carrying men in
uniform. The Commandant, peaked hat and uniform complete, lolls at the
door of the Gendarmerie. His horse is being walked up and down by a
farmer’s boy.
He disappears into a back room to answer the telephone, but when he
returns he does not impart his news to the gaping crowd. The little
vicinal train puffs noisily down the street from its shed at the end
of the village. The peasants of the 13th and 14th classes, called
up to-day, climb in. They are very workmanlike in their dirty-white
trousers, short belted coat, and “bonnet rond.” They carry necessaries
in a small parcel. How I admire the plucky air of confidence on their
manly faces as they lean over the side of the little car which is to
take them down to the railway ... to Liège ... perhaps to God.
They bend from the train to shake their relatives’ hands with something
of the Commandant’s calm nonchalance. Matters are worse than I
imagined. Men with pitchforks are even being called up to help guard
the frontier. Too late! M. le Directeur is here in a khaki suit. The
brave man. He is about to take dispatches. His motor-cycle needs
petrol. The entire village hurls itself on the machine. We are all
panting to be useful.
“Doucement, doucement, mes braves gens. Ce n’est pas un Allemand.”
(Quietly, my good people! I am not a German), he says, laughing.
The spirit of the peasants obviously delights him. He breaks into a
Walloon song. They all shout the chorus, beating time with their hands.
Then he is off.
One thing is decided on. The magnificent avenues of trees which line
the undulating roads must be decimated to bar the route against the
German troops. To keep them back a few days, a few hours, will be
something. Already knots of villagers in wideawake hats and stout
corduroys are stealing away, axe hooked to shoulder, lengths of rope
coiled round their left arms. They look bored and indifferent, so I
know they will work like demons. A bored-looking Belgian is a man to be
feared.... Soon one hears the steady hack-hack, followed by a swirl and
crash as some huge fir or oak falls prone across the great white road.
There is something about the sound which makes one’s blood run cold. It
comes as a foretaste of death.
A car drives up with four busbied officers. The Belgian guides. The
Commandant speaks to them a moment. They drive on. He re-enters the
Gendarmerie, comes out a moment later, locks the door and casts a
lingering, almost affectionate glance at the yellow, black and red
flag floating proudly from the masthead. He is wondering, perhaps,
if he will ever see it again. Mounting his horse, he waves his hand
to the villagers, and is off on his sixty-mile ride to Arlon. Brave
Commandant of the nonchalant mien, but not brave enough to face those
last good-byes. How I feel for you!
The day wears on. Already the end of the high road where it turns to
Malempré is piled high with trees. The Noah’s-ark firs on the highway
to Bomale have come toppling down like ninepins. My thoughts turn to
weapons. I never dream for an instant but that the peasants will fight
the common enemy from behind those bulwark barricades. It seems the
only natural and proper thing to do. I know nothing of the duties of
non-combatants.
A man from a neighbouring village drives up in his cart. He gets down
and feeds his horse with hunks of black bread which he tears from the
loaf. I feel ashamed not to be armed. He may help. I approach him.
“Have you a spare rifle?” I ask wistfully.
He stares at me stupidly. “A rifle? No,” he says. “Why?”
“I could help to shoot the Germans,” I suggest.
“It’s a pity,” he answers, and his mouth twists in a grin as he turns
back to feed his horse.
I have never held a rifle in my hands. But I feel convinced that the
mere sight of a loathsome Teuton would make the most difficult and
antiquated weapon go off of its own accord.
Madame Job’s little girl, Rosa, was sent back from Liège some days ago.
The school is turned into a hospital, and the good nuns are acting as
nurses for the wounded. Rosa’s German fellow-pupils are left behind.
They will presently enjoy the novel sensation of being shelled by their
own countrymen.
Rosa runs about the house like an elf and sings. For a pupil of the
Sisters at the Orphelinat de St. Joseph she is very lively. Youth has
the happy knack of living in the present. She and Louisa take it in
turns to act at “Prussien,” the fashionable game. They submit with a
good grace to be chased and well thumped on capture by Victor and René,
the aubergiste’s son.
To-night we all sit out on the _terrasse_ at the little white tables.
The whole family are here. M. and Mme Job-Lepouse, Floribert, Alfred,
Louisa, Irma, and Rosa. M. le Précepteur and his wife come over from
the post office. The postman and the picturesque poacher lounge against
the wall. In the distance the old Maids of Manhay are enjoying their
evening chase after the elusive pig, and the skeleton dog is giving
a series of infuriated yaps at his own enforced detention. The fair
unknown comes out of the red doll’s house opposite and waters the
_rosier_ with rather tremulous grace. This will be our last night of
peace....