Such an odd picking little noise, like a mouse, disturbed us at breakfast this A. M. Madame X. opened the door and was astonished to see a German soldier unscrewing the telephone from the wall. Her obvious surprise moved the man to explain, which was unqualifiedly this—"Madame, permit me, but we need your telephone for field service."
I suppose he may as well have it anyway for nothing so modern and useful as telephones has existed for us since August 3rd.
A group of very surly officers have "taken over" Madame R.'s château down in the country. The moment they arrived night before last, the Colonel ordered her to bring out all her best wine, throwing her his soiled gloves to wash at the same time.
The patients at the Convent are beginning to show a little life now, though their poor, black faces are more grotesque than ever as an eye, here and there, begins to peep out from a crack in the crusted surface. They have begun to talk after a fashion, though their poor, dried lips can hardly accomplish the task. Jean, the big fellow who jumped seven metres into the ditch from Fort Chaudefontaine when it blew up, died this morning, the result of a fractured skull.
French and German aeroplanes alike have been flying over the city, dropping the most sensational circulars of the victories of their particular armies. But the news is "trop beau"—one cannot believe it and probably it is only destined to encourage the soldiers. It appears that the officers tell their men all kinds of extraordinary tales, to give them heart for the fight, and the poor things believe (hearing French spoken here) that they are already in France, for yesterday one of them in a passing train was heard demanding the Eiffel Tower. An officer admitted to Monsieur S. that Germany prints three newspapers—one for the officers, one for the soldiers, and one for imbeciles. I suppose the latter means us.
Bread is being rationed out now in the village and we are allowed only two small pieces at a meal. It seems to me that I never wanted one more slice so much in my life. The soldiers have cleared out the baker's supply and he cannot get any more flour.
Monsieur S. has bought a bicycle and goes into town every morning to find out about things. Sometimes it seems as if we could hardly wait until he gets back to lunch for the news. And oh! such terrible things are happening. Some funny incidents too, intersperse themselves from time to time. During the recounting of some of these awful tales of violence and revenge which we are hearing from the little villages the young footman's knees doubled right up and nearly let him down while he was serving the table and he is getting greener and greener from day to day. He becomes absolutely petrified when the officers address him and whispers out an unintelligible something as he vanishes through a door.
The horrible carnage at Namur has begun and we already have heard sickening accounts of it. The story, as we have had it by word of mouth, is that one of the seven forts capitulated (the city was evacuated), allowing the enemy to enter in over a tract of land which was literally sown with this famous, new Poudre Turpin which exploded under the feet of whole regiments at once, and the forts completed the slaughter.
Troops, troops, always troops plodding along. Their attitude could not be called determined for there is not enough mental action in it, though there does exist an indisputable tenacity which is appalling. How they lack that infectious ardeur, that splendid élan which characterizes every little poilu! But they just plod on like a great machine, lacking intelligence in its parts, each vital, however, to the perfectly-fitted whole.
Madame X. and I felt as if we could not sit still another minute this afternoon and, safe, or no, we decided to take a walk on the mountainside. We could hear regiments approaching first by a faint buzzing in the distance which rounded out into song as it drew near; as an officer told us, the men often sing in four voices which is quite beautiful. Then, we became aware of a different noise, a sort of loose rumble, as if cohesion would presently not exist for the thing, whatever it was, that caused this new note. But it was not a note, it was a disturbance which grew and grew in proportions. Madame X. and I scurried up and down the paths trying to find a vista through the trees that would disclose this monster which was moving so protestingly along the road.
I imagined it would be snorting flame and its eyes smouldering fires, but instead its eyes were neat little windows with tidy curtains, for the monster turned out to be three diminutive houses on wheels drawn by a huge motor. What their end and purpose might be, is imaginable. If it is for the comfort of the High Command en campagne, the great clumsy procession rivaling the speed of a snail is a heap of trouble for a little luxury.
Namur is taken by the Germans. Practically nothing remains of the city. A German major who was brought, wounded, to Liége, said the battle was too frightful to narrate. He entered the city with one thousand men and left it with sixty-five. Just outside the forts, where he had been stationed with two hundred horses, three bombs fell upon them at the same moment and only seven of the poor beasts remained. His admiration for the pointing and firing of the Belgian and French cannon was unlimited.
Just before lunch this morning, two very ragged-looking individuals (Belgian civilians) came to the château. They were travel-stained indeed, just having made the journey on foot from Brussels and in a calmer era would have had some success in the rôle of common ordinary tramps. As it was, they excited a little curiosity by the suspicious way they had of looking about, and our first thought was spies until one of them, edging toward the outside of the group, made Baronne de H. understand that he had something to communicate to her. Inquiring if it were safe, he suddenly leaned down and drew out from the sole of his shoe, a piece of paper on which was written, "A banker of Brussels sends greetings—all are well." The little woman burst into a flood of tears for she realized that it was a message from her husband, one of the Garde Civique of Brussels. During the three, long, anxious weeks of devotion to others, I had often remarked and wondered at her courage in never mentioning her own longing and apprehension for her husband and three little children. Before we had recovered from the first onslaught of the army, she must have known, after it left here, that it would pass their château three kilometres the other side of Brussels and what would it leave in its wake? Can you imagine her anxiety, when every day we were hearing frightful stories of children having their hands chopped off and people's heads being paraded on bayonets? But I never remember her uttering a single "I wonder," or an "I wish." Does this not bear out what the illustrious Roman said about the "Belgians," which certainly did not exclude the women? It is the grandest thing that ever could be—this response of the women to the Nation's call, for it is not just passive self-sacrifice, but impassioned co-operation.
In the afternoon Madame de H. and I went to Liége to arrange her passport for Brussels. Two of the officers who are here offered to go with us in order to facilitate an entrance into the "Kommandantur," which is the general headquarters and is in that ancient and beautiful place of the Princes-Evêques, onetime feudal lords of the principality of Liége. I wanted to rebel openly when I saw that wonderful court, world-famous for its beauty, which has been turned into a dépôt of supplies and barracks with horses stabled under those delicate, Gothic arches, models of purity and beauty. But to what good? Will anything ever expiate the offense? There are also horses in the theatre and machine guns in all the upper windows.
While Madame de H. was waiting to see Count Moltke in his office, I walked about the court with one of the soldier attendants who came with us and had an opportunity of peeking through many doors which would otherwise have been closed to me. My companion, who is a wholesale grain merchant in peace times, enjoyed his authority immensely and dragged his sword, half unbuckled, on the ground, which clanked behind us and made merry music in his ears, I am sure. The whole place was a perfect beehive though there was little confusion. The soldiers were diligently counting supplies, feeding horses and sorting Belgian cannon and shells which had been captured.
On the road from Angleur to Liége we were obliged to give way to some troops which were returning from Namur. The auto stopped right in the middle of a column, which, as we heard, was a conglomeration of the tag ends of different regiments and I was almost afraid—the men peered in at us so maliciously. I have never seen such a frightening spectacle of humanity, for it was the personification of a rogues' gallery with every kind of cut-throat, brigand and robber mixed up into a grand ensemble, toiling and perspiring, limping and crawling along in the dust and heat.
Does battle blot out the soul of a man in one savage conflict? Obviously, it is before a weary march that one finds exalted faces. But perhaps they were not desperadoes—only tired and dirty and unshaven.
It is said, however, that when war was declared, the enemy opened the doors of all the prisons and that the front ranks of the attacking forces (which were sure to be lost) were entirely composed of convicts and prisoners. And also, the officers in the regular army are so hated by their men that when they started out to conquer the world every officer was changed to a different regiment.
This evening we sat on the terrace enjoying the afterglow of the setting sun and the calmness of the garden, listening to the soldiers singing in the orchard, next. This singing in the twilight is heartbreaking and particularly melancholy, as the music is slow and has more consolation in it than the usual soul-inspiring quality of battle hymns. At intervals we heard the captain speaking with great force and enthusiasm, the hurrahs of the men, an occasional "Vaterland, Vaterland," and again and ever, "Die Wacht am Rhein."
Two new officers (not Prussians) of the Landstürm arrived this morning—men of fifty to fifty-five years of age. One is a hardware merchant en civil and has a brown beard and the asthma; the other is a lawyer, with big, blinking eyes—and they both looked as if they hated war. The "Englishman" is still here—his department is looking after supplies at the dépôt. He has borrowed all the English books in the house and sits reading all day up in the signal box at the station, so the family have named him "Monsieur Seegnal Box," which, with a tiny, French accent, sounds quite attractive.
We are so enthusiastic about our patients at the Convent, for they are all improving and developing personalities now. Every morning at eight-thirty we rush over there as quickly as we can to see how the poor children are getting on and who has another eye open. Nature has begun her restorative work and oh! what a satisfaction it is to see the new skin stretching out tiny shreds to bridge over the martyred flesh.
The atmosphere of the ward is gay. 'Most everybody can laugh, at least with their hearts, for stiffened lips do not all respond yet. The work has arranged itself in admirable routine, where humanity is not entirely swallowed up in duty. There are young girls and boys who fetch basins of water, old women who roll bandages, faithful, sweet-faced matrons who bind up dreadful wounds, and strong, young men who lift, so tenderly, pain-racked bodies and who can toss a joke or a word of encouragement with equal discretion, which never fails to infuse the down-hearted with their own priceless vitality. Then there is the Mère Supérieure, of thin, æsthetic face, who comes with a gentle word of the "Faith" for each one; the austere Soeur Félicité, who counts the cups and searches your soul and brings in hot coffee and a steaming ragoût; and the pretty, young Soeur Monique, with her uplifted face, who cannot conceal a shy admiration for big, blond Henri who rails at everything and is as lovable as a baby. Then the villagers: in the middle of the room, Monsieur B. (Secretary and Treasurer, I should say) cuts off gauze with a calculating eye at one end of a long table and at the other, rosy-cheeked Monsieur R. (painter of every house and barn in the village) stands all day long with a spatula in his hand and slaps on the ointment for dressings. There is a sort of professional twist in the gesture and his merry, little eyes glance around, not seeking but rather gathering in approval, and from under his bristling, white moustache will burst a salute for one, a joke for another, or a reproach for another.
Here, there and everywhere he is needed, is Monsieur F., whose great, dark eyes are acquainted with pain; he is a frail, little person and the substantial man of the village, a living paradox. Just when Monsieur R. announces—dramatically waving his spatula—that that is the last ounce of boric ointment and no more peroxide in the cupboard and we are raving around and denouncing the pharmacist, Monsieur F. steps up and inquires what the trouble is, knowing full well the difficulty and also "his moment," wise man that he is. While we are swamping the situation with words, he quietly dispatches a boy to his house, who quickly reappears with huge bottles of this and that. Oh, blessed Monsieur F., who long since had made a corner in peroxide and everything else we shall need until after the war. But the despair of the moment, the heat and three, long hours of unremitting "dressings" effect a faintness of soul and a "queer" feeling we did not realize was there, until that dear, roly-poly Soeur Anastasie appears with a bottle of red wine, half concealed under her cape, and with a motherly, "Ça vous fera du bien," (that will do you good) pours us out a generous glassful. That puts the blue in the sky again and keeps the shafts of golden sunshine from creating zigzag patterns in our brain. Oh, Shades of my New England Ancestors! Would you say, "Better to slip down in a swoon?"—and give everybody a lot of trouble—
Madame de H. and I again went to Liége early this morning about her passports. The hotels and cafés were just seething humanity, beds improvised in every corner, and I saw officers paying their hotel bills with cheques and notes. The poor proprietor blinked and swallowed hard for a moment and said nothing. The city was literally packed with troops going in all directions. Uhlans, chasseurs, artillery and the infantry, singing and executing that foolish-looking goose-step—it probably has its advantages, but at eight A. M. in the pouring rain it did appear ridiculous.
In the afternoon we took a walk into the country, following the railroad. The soldiers were working everywhere, putting up temporary buildings for any emergency. We saw one of those open dining halls—only three walls with a shed roof where a regiment can step out of a train to eat while another jumps quickly in and no time lost. We passed the lovely château of the Marquis de T. who is Minister Plenipotentiary from Costa Rica. Of course, this is neutral property and flies a neutral flag, but the place is filled with officers and, according to the maitre d'hotel, the wine cellar is undergoing a thorough inventory.
This morning there was excitement at the Convent; someone was reading a three weeks' old journal to the soldiers and for a moment everybody forgot his particular aches and black heads lifted themselves from their pillows and gaunt forms swayed to and fro on shaky elbows. The lust of battle lit up wooden countenances, fire sprang from eyes yet heavily veiled by crusted lids and a fervent "bien fait" or "vivent les Belges," trembled from heretofore silent corners.
Madame André, who comes to see her boy every day, remarked my looking at her dress which was all darned and mended in the most unaccountable places, "O, Mademoiselle," she said. "I suppose you are wondering about my waist? But wasn't it lucky I was here with André when the troops passed through our village? The soldiers fired haphazard in the windows and the wardrobe in which my clothes were hanging caught seven bullets and the headboard of my bed, four."
All the afternoon troops were coming back from Namur in evident haste and apparent rout, for they had such a tired, bedraggled look. About five o'clock a company with ammunition wagons, Red Cross ambulances and baggage trucks dashed madly into the orchard among the apple trees, nearly wrecking themselves and everything else. Immediately after, three officers came to the house to beg lodging for the night. They were frightful-looking individuals covered with mud and dirt, with half-grown beards and one could not tell what uniforms. They asked the most humble apartment—a corner, the floor—anything, "and, Madame, a little hot water, s'il vous plait." We were sitting on the terrace tonight just before dinner when down came the three new arrivals, beautiful as the morning, shaven and shining in their gray-green uniforms, polished boots and bracelets set with precious stones—officers of the "Emperor's Own," though these men did not seem like Germans, but were much more the lighter build and elegant type of the Austrians.
They were a bit haughty at first, but dinner thawed them out and then what tales they told us; the most promising imagination could not rival their flights in the air. They acted like people who walk in their sleep and had that same vague expression of the eye. But it is not to be wondered at, coming as they did from a frightful battlefield and fatigued by a hard march. It must be true that battle intoxicates men for these latter, being of a sensible age, did say very ridiculous things. Hitherto the officers who have been here were fairly modest though always showing an undeniable confidence, while these three openly bragged. The young lieutenant who sat next to me spoke French fluently and never stopped talking all the evening. Among countless other things, he said, "We are being sent back from Namur as Paris is taken" (ejaculation from me "I cannot believe it") "and they have no more need of us in that direction," he went on without turning a hair. "So we are en route for England or Russia, in the morning, to conquer the seven nations (he included Monaco in the list) who have declared war against our beloved Vaterland."
"And, Mademoiselle," he continued, "they fired on our ambulances!"
"Ah?" I answered, nonchalantly, "the Germans have already done that here."
He was a bit taken aback at this rejoinder; then with a prodigiously sorrowful look he exclaimed in a hushed voice, "Oui, la guerre est terrible."
The victories they exploited on land and sea were fantastic and the funny part is, they believed thoroughly all they said. It is strange to hear serious people fabricate such yarns as they did, with as much dexterity as a spider spins its web.
The ambulance was as busy as a beehive this A. M. Except for one or two, the patients are all feeling better. André, the third on the left, whose sonorous "Merci, chère Soeur" nearly frightened me to pieces one day, seems to be the wit and authority on all subjects—a real leader, I should say, and drôle! Augustin, four beds from him, is our difficult child, the only one of the twenty-nine who is spoiled and fights his dressings, but we must be patient with him for he has been very sick and that drawn look about the nose and a certain, startled expression of the eyes, worry me. But the little Soeur Victoire says comfortingly that he will soon be well, though he does not wish to eat and his jaws are a little stiff. O, chère Soeur, in your sweet faith, are stiffened jaws such a trivial circumstance?
Next Augustin is Sylvestre, le beau. He was the splendid pointeur of Fort Chaudefontaine and was the least burned of the men; that is why I know he is beautiful; also I catch many glimpses of him in the little mirror in which he is constantly regarding himself, but he is bon garçon, nevertheless—his honest blue eyes attest it.
At the end of the row is the big Flamand, who was always two feet too long for his bed. He is sitting up now and that great, black head, with features swollen three times their normal size, is a sight to frighten the boldest. If he should roar at me I would drop everything and flee. But he doesn't; nobody roars; for they are all the finest gentlemen in the world, even in their trying moments.
At ten o'clock this evening, right out of the silence, issued sounds of heavy, rolling carts, and horses' hoofs. Madame de H. and I stole out into the court to see what it might be and, almost as if by magic, whole regiments came pouring along in the greatest haste and disorder. A wing of the servants' quarters hid the approach of the soldiers from us and the strange, non-resonant quality of the atmosphere tonight deceived us as to their nearness. In a moment they were upon us—not three feet away, for some of the troops had taken, not the usual highroad two hundred feet distant, but a short cut by the narrow path which directly passes the court yard. Happily we had hidden ourselves behind the grille, in the foliage, or we might have been shot without ceremony, as by order of the military governor of the city "every civilian shall be indoors and lights out at eight P. M."
We enjoyed the danger a little at first because we did not realize it; all the same we obliterated ourselves as much as possible, though hardly daring to move or breathe. Not an arm's length away, their nearness oppressed us and the waves of heat which reeked from their toiling bodies sickened us. But there we crouched in our light dresses, easily seen if one had chanced to look, and separated only by an iron fence with sparse, fluttering vines from a mass of tired, quarrelsome, desperate men. Why! any of them might have run us through in a flash as one would lunge at a white rag for the amusement of his companions. Indoors the family were frantic, not daring to open a crack of the door for fear of violent consequences to us.
The night was full of dull noises; even the clanking chains of the gun carriages seemed muffled and the thud of horses' hoofs in the mud added to the air of secrecy which pervaded the scene, while the moonlight threw out shadows and drew crazy perspectives and showed up silhouettes of men positively falling from their seats with fatigue. Some one was twirling a French soldier's cap on a bayonet, we heard smothered yawns, the words "Russland," "Vaterland," and finally the infantry whistling in unison as they limped along.
At two o'clock in the morning the whole family was aroused by a thundering rap from the butt of a gun on the big front entrance. The poor old butler, who has been in service thirty-five years, was aghast to open the door and find the Burgomaster, in white kid gloves, standing between two Prussian soldiers, with fixed bayonets. They demanded Monsieur J. (for the second time) as hostage. What could have happened among the people, we could only guess. Had they been rash enough to protest against strength and did they want to share the fate of the pitiful Visé?
The forenoon brought us no news; after lunch we walked in the broiling sun to the little railroad station at Kinklepois, to see Monsieur J. (he had aged ten years over night) where he was under guard with several others, including Monsieur le Vicaire of A. and Monsieur l'Abbé of K. We sat around the table in the Concierge's tiny dining room and listened to some amusing anecdotes told by the Vicar, while the gentle old Abbot sent out to the vicarage for a bottle of his good old Burgundy. To be sure, no one was much in the mood to be amused, but it lessened the tension of the moment; the least unusual sound from the street—and it was full of soldiers and horses—brought the tale to a sudden end and we listened with blanched faces for perhaps—the worst.
Monsieur J. was released as hostage at seven o'clock P. M. and returned to the fold. This evening, as all was still, we played a little game of Bridge, as in the old days when life was a pleasant dream. Suddenly a dozen rifle shots, in quick succession, rang out in the air and the cards fell from our nerveless fingers as a stray ball rattled against the iron shutters of our windows. Instinctively we crouched into sheltered corners and waited; another volley and another followed, until finally Monsieur S. whispered in a hoarse voice, "À la cave." The household, including the servants, delighted to be any place where we were not, made a lightning dash, Indian file, for the cellar. Quite unperturbed and loath to leave her cozy, warm kitchen, the old, fat cook was the last to waddle down the stairs, repeating her usual "They cannot hurt me. I am Dutch." She was the calmest of us all, for those intermittent shots and the possibility of retrieving lost balls had raised a tremor of excitement as well as our hasty descent into the realms of Bacchus, in common words—the wine cellar. By the thin rays of a candle the scene was comic; there we were, fourteen of us huddled together in a twelve by twenty foot vault, earthen floor and stone walls. Expecting at any moment an onslaught of we did not know what, each one was bracing himself for the blow, in different attitudes of mind and body. Madame X. was pale, her daughter stolid and ready for the defensive—the true, fighting blood of the Belgians on fire: the old butler, attentive to the slightest sound, was shaking his gray head with ominous pessimism and one of the maids was weeping hysterically and audibly in the arms of her husband, the young footman. At first we just stood and looked at each other as periodic volleys resounded now and again. Then we relaxed as well as we could on dusty cases and rounding barrels or whatever was at hand. An hour passed before the shooting ceased and then we discovered that we were cramped and uncomfortable and cold—chilled through with that deathlike dampness which pervades subterranean chambers. What misery for those who had to live in them for days! Another hour elapsed before the danger was really over and we dared to come out from cover; then we crawled upstairs to bed on our hands and knees to keep below the level of the window ledges.[2]
Madame de H. made an attempt to go to Brussels by a military train which, however, was derailed ten kilometres from here. Some disagreeable officers took the second automobile for military service, in spite of the signed permission which Count Moltke has given the family. Did I tell you that Madame X.'s children are related by marriage to a high official of the Imperial Court? I do not know at all if this fact accounts for the extreme courtesy which they have always received from the soldiers, but at any rate some of their friends have not been so favored.[3]
Madame T., who had a charming Villa at S., was one of the unfortunate ones. She was obliged to entertain the officers of some passing troops at lunch recently, after which they had coffee in the garden. The Captain glanced around at the flowers and said, "Madame, very pretty, very pretty, tomorrow, nothing." That night her villa and several other neighboring ones were burned to the ground.
The Germans are constantly forcing the Belgian old men, women and children to march in front of their attacking armies. What kind of soldiers can it be that does these things, but brutes and barbarians?
My revulsion for it all is so great that the words fairly scorch my fingers as I write them.
[2] We never heard what really started the commotion, whether it was premeditated or accidental, but this illustrates what a furor a rifle shot creates instantly. The nervous tension of both the invader and invaded is tremendous.
[3] A printed document was exposed afterwards in the village recommending the Château X. to be respected.
Very early this morning we were awakened by the most remarkable sound—a co-operative noise I should call it, or anything you like, being a combination of steamboat, train of cars and sawmill. Looking out of the window we saw a magnificent Zeppelin sailing along in all its majestic wonder.
Miracles happen overnight in the ambulance now, for Health is hastening back in seven-league-boots and every one of our brave blessés is turning out to be handsome. Each day a real face emerges from its black chrysalis and we find it beautiful. The refinery was of the cruelest type, but the temper of such men stood the test and their souls shine out undeniably over the scarred flesh.
Some new companies, with their under officers, have taken up quarters in the stables and garage. For the last ten days we have had Prussians there, who were discontented with everything and wanted all the kitchen utensils and everything within reach, but these new men are Bavarian Landstürm, rather nice old things, who have brought all their own contrivances, not the least among them being one of the famous rolling kitchens. This latter is a round boiler, hung on four wheels, and is about a metre in diameter and a metre in depth. It is divided into three longitudinal compartments (the fire being underneath), one for soup, one for meat and one for vegetables. Then, under the driver's seat or perhaps not right under, is a tiny oven where are baked kuchen or a steaming pudding. It is a complete affair and when dinner is ready, they just hitch on a pair of family horses and drive around to the different companies where rations are dished out, literally. I do not know if the position of cook is the most enviable one in the army, but at any rate this chef appears to enjoy it and is content to sit in the courtyard all day, peeling potatoes and onions and cabbages and cabbages and onions and potatoes.
"Monsieur Seegnal Box" went this morning and everybody was sorry to see him go, for he was a congenial spirit, and, like us, found nothing attractive about war. He seemed a protection, too, from the beast that is ever snarling at the door.
A young cousin of the family related to us to-day how much at home the soldiers have felt in his château in the country; so much so, in fact, that they have already sent off to Germany all his old family portraits and the best rugs. Here is a bit of psychology for you to unravel. Why should they want his family portraits?
I suppose you could not imagine such a thing happening in America. Well, just try for a moment.
Fancy somebody's coming in and explaining to you that you cannot use your own things and that your choice possessions will have a far better setting in Germany than where they are. I think it would do the world a lot of good if everyone tried such a mental drill for three minutes a day.
A great depression hung over the Convent to-day—the men were quiet, showing their consideration for the "camarade" as they always do. Constant, who received internal injuries at Fort d'Embourg, is dying and Augustin is worse. The latter's face has a gray-blue look and his poor jaws are very stiff. But there is hope! Oh, yes, there is Hope in big Jean's smile across the ward, as he follows us around with his great, black eyes. One can find lots of sympathy in a "Oui, Mademoiselle," or a "Non, Mademoiselle," (which is all he ever says) even when it has nothing to do with the question.
Since the commandant has taken the auto we no longer go out. It is much too complicated anyway, as one has to show a passport at every bridge and corner. Every acre of land is infested with soldiers. It is interesting, however, to see what they do and how they turn everything to some use. Men are sent from Germany to repair railroads, build bridges, put up telephones, institute food stations and to kill pigs and wash the meat in porcelain bath tubs as we saw them do yesterday, outside a free bath establishment near one of the factories. As we were looking down on the road tonight, from a hill perhaps two hundred yards away, we saw distinctly a column of soldiers in dark blue uniforms, marching across country, and just behind them the ground seemed to writhe and wriggle in a distressing manner. For a moment we could not imagine what was happening, when soon a company of men in khaki began to evolve itself from the landscape. Does that not prove the inestimable value of earth-colored clothes? For as close as they were to us, we could distinguish nothing.
This gray-green which the Germans wear is by far the best tone of khaki that I have yet seen.
Soldiers are stripping the factories here of their fine machinery, but one sort of chuckles in one's boots when he remembers that it was originally bought in Germany and has not been paid for yet.
All day long, trains without ceasing were bringing back the wounded. We do not know exactly where the fighting is, but probably near Charleroi. A Baron de C. and his wife arrived here at ten P. M. from Posen, one of the German provinces already taken by the Russians. Crazed with anxiety, they are going in search of their son, who was wounded at Namur, and have been three days in a military train—an excruciating journey! At midnight, the soldiers and the chef de cuisine, who has had his kitchen in the court, departed. Before going they sang softly some of their songs and then the wagons, one by one, filed out of the moonlight and were swallowed up in the shadows of the trees. I felt as if the candle had been blown out for them.
Monsieur J. came home today with bad news, though every day has its bad news. His cousin Robert had been killed near Gand. The old butler's eyes were sweet to see when Madame X. turned at table and said to him, "François, Monsieur Robert is dead." This man of one syllable, according to his custom, answered simply, quick tears visible, "Oui, Madame" with that gentle upward intonation which says so much.
The longest sentence he probably ever constructed was uttered thirty-five years ago when his young master had wished to dismiss him for some reason and he had answered, "Oh no, Monsieur, we could not live, either one of us without the other," which settled the question for all time. And now the master is laid to rest and the servant must serve the enemy in his house.
We took a little walk in the woods, this afternoon—as the coast was clear and no strangers in the house for the first time in three weeks. We had hardly finished a short promenade when we heard a violent clanging on the gong to call us back, and when we returned in all haste to the house found seven soldiers in the library going through all the drawers and closets in search of firearms. Commencing there, they searched the whole house from top to bottom, even fumbling in the bureaus among the dainty lingerie of Madame X. Some of them took an obvious pleasure in performing their duty, while others looked uncomfortable and bored. It is true that many of the men hate this war, whereby whole families of brothers and cousins have to leave their homes to fight what they call the "Aristocrats' War," who in their arrogance think to be masters of the whole world.
Some newspapers, two weeks old, were brought from Brussels in the evening and we pounced upon them as a starved dog makes for a bone.
"Constant, le pauvre Constant! What is in your tortured soul, these three long days and nights, that chains it to earth and tosses your poor body from one troubled thought to another?"
I did not think to have my question answered. At eleven o'clock this morning a child of twelve years, beautiful as an angel with heavenly blue eyes and a shock of golden hair, dashed breathlessly into the courtyard of the Convent, almost too exhausted to ask if Soldat Constant Martin, by any chance, were there. The gentle Soeur Cecile led him in to the sick man's cot. The boy gazed a moment, bewildered at the wasted form upon it; then with an agonizing cry of "mon père" fell on his knees by the bedside. The man's eyelids trembled, half opened an instant to look upon his son, and closed. In ten minutes he was at peace.
Since the railroad has been reconstructed the soldiers have been passing in trains instead of on foot. Today we saw hundreds of older men, Bavarians and sailors—it looks as if something had miscarried when the marines have to fight on land. In the opposite direction, thousands of wounded were going back in ambulance cars. These ambulance trains are admirable and are often made up of forty and fifty carriages of the light, swinging, old-fashioned type, of uniform size, the roofs painted white, with a big, red cross on the top and one on each side. The cots are arranged one above the other, showing clean, white linen, while the attendants are spotlessly uniformed in white. In the middle of each train is a car which might be called the "ugly duckling," for it is a decidedly clumsy looking affair, full of steam boilers with safety valves and tubes sticking out at the top, and is, I fancy, a sterilizing plant.