Chapter IV: Part 4

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"Oh, my dear young lady," he answered, "you must not think that you are the only American in Liége."

"How many are there?" indignantly.

"Well, three or four," he replied, reluctantly.

That was really too much! I was in despair. What was to be done? Seeing my hope of freedom vanishing before my eyes, I clutched at the last straw and entreated him with what eloquence I could whip into line to make at least some effort to get me the passport by six o'clock, when I would come again to his house for it.

"Oh, no," he said quickly, "I don't get back here until eight o'clock, but if you happen to pass by 'The Golden Lion' (or some such name) you might find me there."

Choking with rage I said to him, "I see that you cannot help me, Mr. Z., but if you will be good enough to give me your card (he had already suggested it) to the German passport department, I will go to the _Kommandantur_ myself and see what I can do; in fact, I am sure I can accomplish far more than you." He ought to have been affronted at this but, on the contrary, seemed jolly well pleased and handed me out his card in a hurry, glad to relieve himself of the obligation of asking any favors of "those people."

I then made my way to the _Palais de Justice_. A man accosted me in the square and told me if I were going for passports it would be of no use, as there were hundreds and hundreds of people there before me. But I kept on. With the glorious end in view, viz., to be a free person and to see the scenes that, in a morbid way, I had begun to feel would never be my privilege again, I kept on, threading a path through the throngs until I stood right in front of the guard of the sacred chamber. He was an enormously fat sentry, with the usual little round cap and fixed bayonet. I thought he would eat me, he looked so offended, and roared out, "_Nein, nein, das Zimmer ist voll._" Then was my moment. I pulled out the little white card and addressed him--not too timidly either, for hadn't I the great American people behind me? He caught the words, "American Consul," which drew him up to salute and in the most lamb-like voice he murmured, "_Ach, ja, Amerikaner_," and let me pass. I cast one look at the multitude back of me--poor things, who may have stood there two days already, and I felt despicably mean, as if I were not playing fair.

Once inside, I was put through a category of questions, worse than an "Inkwhich." "Why had I come to Liége?" "How long had I been there?" "Why did I want to go away?" "Where to?" "How?" etc. Finally my inquisitor became suspicious, or feigned it, and said, "But what have I to prove that you are an American?" Then I was furious and I answered, "Monsieur (I suppose he hated the French appellation), since you have the card of the American Consul asserting it, in your hand, is not such a question an indignity to my government?" He answered with a wry smile and said nothing.

At 4 P. M. I returned for my passport with half a dozen photographs to be affixed thereto. I had no difficulty in getting into the _Bureau des Passeports_ as I still had the Consul's card upon which Herr Bauer, one of the German secretaries, had scribbled some mysterious symbols which probably meant "let her pass," or its equivalent. At any rate, the sentry and I regarded each other superciliously and I skidded past his saw-toothed bayonet without hurt.

When I entered the crowded room I saw that I was about fiftieth in the line and I said to myself that if I waited my turn I should still be there at midnight. Luckily, an idea came to me, and waving that fateful little white card in the air, I called out over the heads of everybody, "Oh, Herr Bauer." A Belgian gentleman standing next me was quick enough to catch the name and shouted out also, "Herr Bauer." But Herr Bauer was far too clever for him and said with a mocking smile, "Ah, no, Monsieur, you will have to wait your turn. Mademoiselle, come this way."

I detached myself from the crowd and stepped behind the rail, horribly conscious of unpleasant scrutiny. My face got hotter and hotter and I could only see a host of uplifted Belgian eyebrows. Even the clerks looked up and stared, unaccustomed as they evidently were to Herr Bauer's benignity. And I had to bear all that humiliation because--well, why?

Having exposed the facts, I will give you the privilege to form your own opinion which will be every bit as good as mine, I know.

11 P. M. My passport signed, sealed and written all over by the Imperial Government, is in my hand. I shall dream of long journeys, of bitter struggles and at last--freedom! Will the daylight never come?

_November 7th, Saturday._

Saturday dawned cold, gray and shivery. _Madame de M._, _Monsieur le consul hollandais_, and I left the château at eight A. M. I was heartbroken to part from the dear people with whom I had experienced so much and I fancied their eyes looked longingly at the departing automobile. They, too, would have liked to come out into the sunshine of Freedom--how much!

From Liége to the frontier sentries stopped us often, but the consul's much-used passport, framed and glassed in like Napoleon's Abdication or the Declaration of Independence, was very convincing. Half an hour's cold drive along the Meuse brought us to Visé. On approaching it, we did not dream that we were nearing a town and in truth we were not--only the remains of one, for not a single building was standing. I had thought that Louvigné with its one lane was desolate and awful, but here were streets and streets of ashes and crumbled brick--and I seemed to see again the ruins of ancient Troy in Asia Minor, which are not more complete. Someone murmured, "Pompeii." But it is not comparable. The ages have woven about the broken columns of Pompeii a light film of romance and a bit of tender beauty springs up with the tiny, flowering weeds which push their way to the sun between many colored tiles. Here, the tragedy is too new; too crude; too bleeding!

The only living things I saw were a cat scampering down a deserted alley, and one man--half-dazed, looking at what was probably his own ruined home; the only wall to be seen which was, even in part, standing. It must have been an ironmonger's shop, for some black kettles still hung on nails against the stone, and iron stoves in all their bleakness stood up in bold relief on piles of ashes.

When the Germans came to Visé the commanding officer called the people together in the market place and harangued them at length, threatening them with dreadful punishments if they did not do so and so. He felt he had to, doubtless, as the town and the surrounding country are well known centers of the firearms industry; the peasants work in their own homes to a large extent and are very expert in the making of delicate weapons and also in their use.

So, when the sturdy Belgians could not digest another single threat, apparently, somebody fired a shot from the crowd which killed the officer while he was speaking. Then followed that frightful slaughter and the firing of the town, the remnants of which we saw to-day. Nobody on earth will ever know who fired the shot, probably, for the soldiers hate their officers and already German bullets have been found in German soldiers.

9 A. M. Over the frontier! Oh, the joy of it--the indescribable relief--the wet-eyed thankfulness! Shall I ever forget it? I did not know until then what depths Tyranny had furrowed into my consciousness. Here were men and women laughing and talking in the streets and people daring to drive in their own carriages, and everybody reading newspapers--I felt as if I would spend my last sou for one.

The day was spent in wandering aimlessly over the old town. The wind was bitterly piercing and a fog hung over the canal but I was not altogether aware of bodily discomfort. My mind, trying to adjust itself to new conditions, was in a haze, staggering back and forth from the consciousness of regained freedom to servitude and from barbarism to freedom again.

At three P. M. the train left for Flushing, where we were to take the boat for Folkestone, England. Just before it pulled out of the station, a friend of Comtesse de M. rushed up to the car window and said, "Madame, must you go? We have just received a dispatch saying that a big boat has been sunk today by a mine near Boulogne." But nothing on earth could have deterred us then.

All through the country of Holland, Dutch soldiers were "preparing" everywhere. We arrived at Flushing at two A. M. and went aboard at once, but not before being well looked over by English commissioners, who examined our foreheads and wrists for German measles. Shall I ever get away from that word?

_November 8th, Sunday._

A long day on the Channel and I was seasick--miserably, hopelessly, endlessly seasick, but when somebody shouted I managed to lift my head in time to see a floating mine--just a tiny, black buoy bobbing about, but I did not mind. I asked the stewardess if she were not afraid, making the journey every day, and her answer awed me by its conciseness and its confidence. "Oh, no," she said. "Our Admiralty has arranged a path for us between the mines." That was a sublime faith, but I should choose a more winsome path--bordered with marigolds, perhaps, or phlox.

About four P. M. the gaunt, chalk cliffs of Dover hove into sight, rising up in their grimness and seeming yet to shadow the awful tragedy of the previous day, when an auxiliary cruiser had struck a mine a quarter of a mile from shore and sunk in five minutes.

_November 9th, Monday._

Folkestone! The busiest town on earth, I should say, and soldiers everywhere. There were ruddy-looking troops, singing also, and apparently quite content to be "going over," for an Englishman is always game; and there were pale ones, just out of hospital, in every kind of uniform, and bands of refugees and exiles who had not a franc among them.

Comtesse de M. went with me to the English Embassy to see if they would give me a passport to France with her, for in my haste in leaving Liége, it had not occurred to me that I would need a passport ever again anywhere.

It seemed to me that there were millions of people at the door of the Embassy, but fortunately Madame de M. found an acquaintance who must have had considerable influence, for he took us around to a secret door and we were soon in the audience room. Well, of course, there was nothing to prove that I was an American but our honest word, which was not enough, so I offered to hand out my German passport, which was certainly maladroit.

Fancy, an Englishman viséing a German passport!

Then Madame de M. pulled out hers and asked them to sign my name on it as companion to her. The august head looked troubled at this; however, he took his pen and was just in the act of putting it to paper when his assistant or rather accomplice interposed and they argued a bit. He took his pen for the second time and plunging it into the inkwell was just about to sign when somebody else expostulated and another discussion ensued.

For the third time (he pulled himself together as a man who knows what he is about) he took his pen and would certainly have achieved his object if the door had not opened at the inexpressible moment to admit an authoritative-looking person who vetoed the whole proceeding.

What those moments were to me I shall never be able to describe--that pen so near the paper! A naked sword three times across my throat would not have been greater suspense. Marie Antoinette could not have suffered more.

Well, the game was up anyway, and as there was no American Consul nearer than London, I decided to try the amiability of the French Consul which I found impeccable.

At the French Embassy again was that rush and struggle for papers, and there I witnessed a pathetic scene. A Belgian man, of middle age, and well dressed, came to the consul literally asking alms. "Monsieur," he said, "to ask you for help is the hardest thing that I shall ever do in my life, but I have lost everything and I must go to my wife, who is ill in France, and I have but five francs. Could your Embassy aid me?"

At five P. M. the boat left Folkestone, containing a conglomerate parcel of humanity--sailors and soldiers of different nations and in divers uniforms, singing alternately the "_Marseillaise_" and "God Save the King"; Red Cross assistants eager to reach the field of their work; white-haired mothers in search of their wounded sons, trembling for the message that land would have in store for them and despairing exiles awaiting at least the welcome sound of their beloved tongue. Night fell like a soft mantle and we forged on, into the darkness, chancing what might befall. What impressed me among the people aboard was the apparent lack of anxiety for personal safety. Past sufferings and the great future issue were the predominant thoughts.

The dock at Calais was crowded with anxious friends and Belgian soldiers. Madame de M. found several acquaintances among the latter--friends of her husband. After the usual Custom House proceedings we started on a quest for rooms for the night. A subdued excitement trembled over the city; the whole population was in the streets; throngs were seething up and down; hundreds of soldiers were hurrying to and fro and intense groups of men discussed probabilities, while anxious women pressed in on the crowd to catch a hopeful word. We heard that the German army was about to plunge through to Dunkirque and would shell Calais from there. The civil population was therefore expecting every moment the order to evacuate the city.

As we crossed the railroad near the pier, we saw in the half light a small company of Belgian soldiers limping along, each with a forlorn bundle on his back. Their aspect was _complètement démoralizé_, and the young lieutenant with us, moved by his quick sympathy, shouted, "Oh, say, _camarades_, have you heard of the new victories on the Yser and the brilliant defense of the Belgians?" The poor, despondent things, fired at once by the spirit of his enthusiasm, straightened themselves up and cried, "Oh! Ah! Is it true? _Merci, mon lieutenant, vivent les Belges!_"

A few yards further on we passed a group of refugees who were stumbling aimlessly along in the dark--there were men and women, trying to console each other, and whimpering children, sick with hunger, clinging to their mothers' skirts. Their plaintive cry was like a knife through the heart.

After picking a toilsome way through the crowds we arrived in the quarter of the big hotels and found there was not a room to be had. Not at all daunted, we retraced our steps and sought the small hotels--there were no rooms. Still, with courage--even amusement (the affair was taking on a spirit of adventure) we attacked the _pensions de famille_--not a cot; not a corner. Then we stopped in the _Place_ to review the situation, which began to look dull gray. There were still the _cabarets_, or we could sit in the street all night. We chose the _cabarets_ and with newborn hope started on, systematically taking one street after another, knocking at most dreadful-looking places, even along the waterfront. A woman's voice from behind barred shutters usually responded. Every chair, every table, every square inch of floor was spoken for. Then the warm, brightly-lighted railroad station, opposite the pier, leaped into our numbed consciousness--why had we not thought of it before? The military authorities forbade loitering there.

Out in the dark, once more we looked at each other inquiringly. That was a curious joke. Fate had never dealt us such a hand of cards before! We viewed the landscape--half of it was water and the little waves lapping against the _quai_ were rather mocking.

Suddenly, dark and smug, a swaying object which we had not observed till then, took monstrous form before our eyes and in it we recognized an old friend, the Channel boat _Elfrida_, which lay basking in the velvet shadows like a dozing cat and gently pulling on her cables. Why not? We did! Nothing prevented our going aboard but a sleepy guard, who was quickly consoled with a five-franc piece, and we made ourselves comfortable for the night on the yellow, velvet cushions in the captain's salon, behind the wheel-house.

Who can assert that it has not all been arranged for us? Otherwise, I fear, our own poor efforts would land us too often in the mud.

_November 10th, Tuesday._

Left Calais at nine A. M. The sun was pouring its cheerful rays over the glorious land. It ought to be free--this smiling France! Wherever the eye rested were soldiers drilling, building, maneuvering and digging. Every few hundred yards the railroad was intersected by lines of trenches. These latter appeared to be about seven feet deep--cut true as a die into the ground and were braced with a lining of woven reeds, like basket work. The front wall of these trenches was crenated about every two feet, forming little niches for the soldiers and protection against flank shots. The poppies and corn flowers blowing over the edges were holding on for dear life to their tiny inch of soil and nearly obliterated those brutal gashes in the earth which had swallowed up their brothers and sisters. An unsuspecting army might well be lured into such a pleasant bear-trap.

Train progress was very slow for we had to switch off continually to allow ammunition trains and troops to pass. All the railroad stations were packed with soldiers and grieving women, though there was nothing in the way of heroics in these leave-takings, just grim resolve on the faces of the men and silent sorrow on the lips of the women. It seemed as if clasped hands could not release each other and eyes held eyes in a long farewell. Husbands were tearing themselves from their wives; white-haired mothers were adding one word more of caution to their departing sons; and there were young boys, of perhaps the last class, who, touched at the moment to say _au revoir_, were yet eager to plunge out into the future. I shall never know how many last good-byes I witnessed this day.

Train after train of cattle cars passed us, with a big cannon in the middle, three horses stabled in one end and three in the other. Along the road were several regiments of Indian troops--the _Girkhas_. They were tall, splendidly handsome men of fine features, light, chocolate-colored skin and brilliant, black eyes. They wore long, khaki coats, belted in like a Russian blouse, and khaki turbans and they waved their hands and smiled continually, showing flashing, white teeth. They were evidently well pleased with the turn of events which had led them to this wondrous, new world, where was plenty of opportunity for killing--this reputed trait, however, was quite belied by their amiable faces.

About four P. M. (three hours yet to Paris) I was dead with fatigue and seeing so much. Also I had not had a bite to eat since eight A. M., having counted on a basket lunch on the road, or at least a solitary sandwich, but all the convenient station buffets have been closed up since the war and civilians are tacitly understood to look after themselves and not to bother the Government by racing needlessly over the country. But I do not think there were many making aimless journeys.

Since noon the cars had been steadily filling up, until the compartments destined for ten persons were accommodating twenty, not including bundles, lapdogs, bandboxes and bird-cages--even then there was always room for one more. And nobody was indignant, but rather complacent and obliging, for had they not all sons at the front and the same great grief at heart? The conversation was general as to people and on one sole topic, the "War," including the strategic achievements of the French army, "Eux" (they, i.e., the Germans), and the marvellous qualities of their beloved Général Joffre, affectionately termed "Grandpère" by the soldiers.

And so we rolled slowly and more slowly on, packed like sardines, the removing of one meaning the displacement of all, as when one heedlessly snatches a potato from the middle of a bushel basket. But very few got down except the soldiers, the objective point for all being Paris.

The twilight shadows were welcome, for they swallowed up all the phantasmagoria of the day and we relapsed into silence. It was one of those moments when Reality, or the fear of it, battles with our courage and each one grew thoughtful as he neared the great city, dreading to meet the spectre he feared.

The wheels of the cars sang on in a hollow, monotonous tune, the windows rattled systematically and outraged brakes screeched at every recurrent jolt. Finally we saw a dim row of lights and a long, thin whistle from our engine told us that the journey was done. Again was that noticeable lack of excitement: everyone calmly took his personal belongings and prepared to get down when the guard, in an unimportant voice, should call out "_Paree_," which you would not hear if you were not listening.

After the Customs, I was in a frenzy to get out into the street, to be welcomed back, as one always is here, and to be cheered and warmed by the bright lights--the flashing eyes of Paris. But the streets were dim, the shops and restaurants closed and few people circulating about. How different it all was! I felt like Rip van Winkle after his twenty-years' sleep, for at the apartment (I thought I had come to the wrong house) was a new concierge, young and pretty, replacing the old, white-haired one. Had we gone back twenty years instead? The rooms were empty--all my friends had disappeared, the dust was inches thick, the furniture pushed mostly into the middle of the rooms and some of the beds were gone. Thickly sprinkled over the floor of my room and on my bed were pieces of the window glass, broken like all the others in the house, by a German bomb which fell and exploded in front of the Prince of Monaco's house, two doors from us--not one hundred and fifty feet away. Half dazed, I dusted a place large enough for my hat and coat, extracted some clean linen from the closet and went to bed, sick at heart.

_November 12th, Thursday._

Paris! after a four days' tiring journey which in happier times takes only five hours. But it doesn't matter--it is home again. Anywhere is home which is out from under that yoke of infamous tyranny. I rage in proportion as the minutes separate me from this odious thing that closes its iron fingers around the necks of my friends.

No! It is not to be borne. Let every man, woman and child on the earth rise up until we have right. Do I not know? Have I not experienced the mailed fist? And yet, how little in comparison to others; but it is enough.

The concierge gave me coffee and rolls and I dressed quickly in order to get out into the street where I knew the dismal impression of the indoors would be dispelled by the habitual smile of the enchanted city. But the day was dull--the summit of the Eiffel Tower was hooded in a cloud of fog and a cold blast swept over the Place de La Concorde which froze me to the marrow. I kept on, however, somewhat protected by the arcades of the rue de Rivoli, expecting to see, at least, familiar faces in the shop-keepers of that gay, little Rialto--but the doors were all closed and the blinds down. One place was open--the art shop of the little, old, white-haired man with the twinkling eyes, who has sold me marvellous Venus de Milos, etc., times without number. I greeted him with real feeling and enthusiasm, for here was somebody I knew. He did not recognize me and stared dully, without answering, as one who is dazed; he was unshaven and dirty, his usually clear eye was lifeless and his face was thin and drawn. Could it be that he had not enough to eat, or was it despair? He must have had nephews and perhaps sons and grandsons at the front. But do the people who stay at home change like that? I went on--the Hotel Meurice was closed; the Continentale had a section open for the Red Cross; the Bristol was closed; the Ritz was made into an Ambulance; not a living soul on the Place Vendôme. All the famous hat shops were closed--who would have a reason to buy hats? All the big dressmakers were closed and every jewelry shop but two in all that dazzling, brilliant rue de la Paix was closed. There were perhaps a dozen people on the Boulevards, a single taxicab crawled listlessly out of a side street, but not an omnibus to be seen. They, like all the world, had left for the "front" and will go down in history as having transferred the valiant French army in all haste to Victory on the Battlefield of the Marne.

The only thing unchanged was the Opéra, which stood there, in all its splendor, looking on at the grievous spectacle of Paris, in anguish. Will she live? Can she die? Is the burden of her woes too great? O, Beautiful City of Dreams! Some call you very wicked--you, whose brave smile has endured through all your sorrows. Is that so little? And the valor of your Sons--was it ever surpassed? Did one of the hundreds, one of the thousands, one of the millions, hesitate the fraction of an instant at your call?

O, Paris! Inimitable Paris! with the death shadow on your lovely face....

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Liége on the line of marchChapter IV: Part 4

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