I have heard the Marseillaise sung upon hundreds of peaceful occasions; have risen when it was played in French theaters; have enthusiastically joined in singing it at students’ dinners, and have been impressed by it in an unemotional and academic way. In peace times one feels that it is easily the greatest of national anthems, but fails to realize that it is primarily a battle song. This morning for the first time I heard it sung as such, and as such shall forever remember it. I was walking down the Rue de Sèvres toward the Boulevard Montparnasse, hoping to pick up a stray taxicab which would carry me to the Embassy. Suddenly, and with startling abruptness, I was brought to a full stop by a wave of sharp, staccato vocal sound. Wave beat upon wave,—a great volume of male voices shouting in unison. There was something so strange, so startling, and so appalling in their quality that, without comprehending what was coming, a shiver ran up my spine. The sound swelled and came nearer, and suddenly the head of a column of infantry swung into view past a street corner just ahead and the dull “smash—smash—smash” of a thousand feet falling in unison could be heard through the volume of sound. It was the Marseillaise of war! The troops were marching to the Gare Montparnasse to entrain for the front, and in a few days would be in the battle-line. Their bayonets sloped backward, a waving thicket bent toward the morning sun. There was no music in their words, which were sharp and incisive. Each word was a threat, an imprecation, intense with ferocious meaning. Their intonation carried conviction that the men meant literally every impressive line they uttered. The words visualized for me the picture in their own minds. I could sense their desire to charge the Germans, to close in, to strike, to stab. Perhaps the deliberate, vengeful premeditation to destroy is more terrible than the act itself. I doubt if any battle could ever affect me as did the song of those men. The result was so disintegrating to one’s psychology that for the rest of the day I completely lost balance of judgment. I felt exultantly certain that the French were going to smash Germany into tiny bits, and was equally sure that they could, if need be, demolish all creation.
Monday, August 10th. Today Austria and France are officially at war. The affairs of the Austro-Hungarian Embassy were turned over to us this evening. This probably means that a flood of Austrians and Hungarians will be tomorrow added to the Americans and Germans who already keep us so busy.
Today for the first time we were able to complete all the business brought to the Embassy. Previously we had to be content with accomplishing as much as could be done in a sixteen-hour day.
Wednesday, August 12th. I have witnessed so much suffering during the last week that to see people weep now no longer produces any emotional effect upon me. One’s sympathies get numbed by the over-strain put upon them; the more keenly one feels, the more numb one ultimately becomes. Today during the long day about five hundred Austrians and Hungarians poured in upon the Embassy. I examined one hundred and sixty-four cases between two o’clock and half-past four, and gave monetary assistance to one hundred and twenty-one.
Friday, August 14th. During the past week six ten-dollar gold pieces which have been sent me in letters arrived safely. Snugly held in their pasteboard frames, they could not be detected by feeling the letters. When the first one arrived I had spent virtually all the money which I had on hand at the beginning of the war, and this good American gold will tide me over until drafts can be sent through to Paris. In New York in peace time sixty dollars seems a small amount, but in France in war three hundred francs in gold looks a small fortune. At least, it insures plenty of good food.
Sunday, August 16th. Until today I have had at the Embassy no definite status. I have laughingly been dubbed the “German Ambassador.” Everyone has been much too busy to give thought to anything so personal as position or titles. This morning, however, time was found to send my name to the Minister of Foreign Affairs as “Attaché Civil à l’Ambassade Américaine,” and to request the customary “coup fil.”