“And thine own soul a sword shall pierce, that out of many hearts thoughts may be revealed.”
If one may reverently paraphrase Simeon’s prophecy to the mother of the Man of Sorrows, can one not say that the soul of the world is pierced to-day, and the thoughts of the nations revealed?
A neutral diplomat, recently arrived in England from Vienna, via Paris, has told us of the singular indifference of the Austrian capital to the tragedy in which her own sons are taking part. “Vienna,” he says, “has shown only one moment of emotion, and that was when the little breakfast rolls were condemned. No one cares in Vienna. Life is—how shall I say?—it is all one ‘Merry Widow.’ It is not that they have any confidence in their own army. They shrug their shoulders and spread out their hands, but in Germany—they have the faith of the hypnotized! Nothing can happen to Germany, therefore Austria is safe.”
Recently an order was issued to have the cafés closed at one o’clock in the morning. It was not agreeable to the public, but they have contrived a substitute for their petits pains which is some slight compensation.
“I shall return,” he added pensively—“I shall return with how much regret to the indecent carnival that is Vienna!”
His impression of France was very different. He could not sufficiently express his astonishment at the change that had come over the country. The dignity of France, the quiet strength of France, the spiritual confidence of France! In the army was only one apprehension: lest they should not be upheld by the civilians in their determination to fight to the very end. The churches were crowded; men and women have alike returned to the faith of their fathers. There was no unseemly merrymaking there, no unworthy attempt in café or theatre to forget the agonizing struggle.
At a recent entertainment in a very poor quarter a pretty girl dressed as France appeared arm-in-arm with an actor got up like a British soldier, and there was immense applause; but when she started the tango with her companion she was hissed off the stage.
As for Paris: “Tenez,” said our friend, in conclusion, “I will give you a little instance. I was walking down the Rue de la Paix, when I heard a woman laugh out loud. Everyone in the street turned round to look at her.”
Of the thoughts of Germany what can be said? They need no pointing out. They are written in blood and fire from end to end of Belgium, and in a long stretch of once smiling France; in Servia, carried out by Hungarians and Austrians, under German orders; in Poland. They are written in the German Press for all the world to read: blasphemy, brag, bluster, hysterical hatred, insanity of futile threat, shameless asseveration of self-evident falsehood. “Do nations go mad?” an American paper has asked. Germany presents the appalling spectacle of a nation run to evil. It is not only the war party, the soldiery, the press, the learned professors. It is the very population itself. The soul of Germany is revealing its thoughts.