Thursday, July 13th
People in the streets go slowly, looking up at the flags, and stopping to stand. They speak to one another wherever they happen to be standing together, and say that they hope to-morrow will be a fine day.
The streets are getting ready for to-morrow, hanging out flags and streamers and garlands to the breeze that is strong to-day, and to the comings and goings of sunshine. Grey minutes and gold minutes follow one another across the city, where the flags of the different nations are blending their colours and waving all together.
Many different uniforms, on their way up and down the streets, salute one another, and stop and linger about together, looking at their flags.
The streets are full of bandages and crutches, pinned-up trouser-legs and pinned-up coat-sleeves, steps that halt along with tap of canes, and shuffling, uncertain steps that must be led.
One is always coming in the streets upon an especial type of little group of people, one might indeed think each time that it was the same little group over again, so much each different one of them resembles all the others—four or five women, an old man, a young sick-looking man, and quite a tagging on of children. One knows that they are refugees. They have the unmistakable look of refugees. It gives them all that likeness, every little dragging tribe of them to every other. It is the look of people who are waiting for something, and to whom nothing in the meanwhile matters. They are indifferent and dull because nothing else matters. They make no effort and take no trouble—of what use? It is not worth their while to better things that will not last. There is always a woman in poor rusty deep mourning who has tied her little girl's hair with a Belgian ribbon.
Music comes and goes at odd times through the streets, as pipe and drum and trumpet of to-morrow's procession are moved this way and that to their various places.
You get fragments of strange music, sometimes come from very far-away strange countries, to these streets.