“Why do you not come to Berne and say all this to the Germans themselves?” I asked in my speech. “Come and say all you feel about this, where not only the German Majority but the whole world can hear you say it.” I reminded them of the brave and splendid gesture of the Belgian women who came to the International Conference of Women at the Hague while the war was still raging, and who, seated on the right of Miss Jane Addams, with the German women on the left, resolved with them and with the women of all nations represented there to do all in their power to make wars impossible in the future.
“Surely,” I said, “so far as the plain citizens of every country are concerned, we are all in the same boat. We are all far more the victims of circumstance than its architects. We have all been deceived, cheated, lied to. In the clash of various loyalties mistakes are made and cruel things are done and acquiesced in. But is there one of you who, in his heart of hearts, blames any man for taking the part of his country in an international quarrel? Is anyone amongst us quite sure that in the same circumstances we would act otherwise? I refuse to believe that any German Socialist rejoiced over the invasion of Belgium. In any case, is it not better to get face to face and talk it all out, where no false newspaper can come between, and no misunderstanding blind and paralyse, instead of brooding alone over wrongs for which the wrongdoers may be only too ready to atone? Come!”
We left without them. The first meeting of the Second International included no official Belgians. But I left the meeting in Paris with the feeling that the time of complete reunion would come very soon. Eighteen months later in Geneva the Belgians were present, and no more international note was struck in that gathering than the speech of Emile Vandervelde, the Belgian Minister of Justice.
We were obliged to travel from Paris to Berne in two parties, and even then were unable to enjoy sleeping compartments. The trains were packed in every available corner, and many of the passengers were obliged to spend the night in the corridor. There had been an immensity of passport business in Paris, but the burden of all this had been borne by the secretary. He could not save us from the individual examination at the Gare de Lyon, nor the ever-recurring nuisance at intervals along the whole route.
Belgarde is the French frontier town, and here we were hauled out of the train for further torture by passport and Customs officers. It was the outrageous imperturbability of these fellows that made me sick. They seemed devoid of all human feeling. At Belgarde we were roughly questioned about our money. Had we any gold? Had we more than £40 in any kind of currency? More than this sum was not allowed to be taken across the frontier. Later no silver was permitted to be transported. My bags were diligently searched by a woman official, but not one cigarette did she find for her pains, nor wine, nor spirits, nor jewels, nor perfumes, nor any one of the half a hundred things they appeared to be on the prowl to discover.
These performances were repeated at Geneva in the Swiss interests; and half a dozen times between Belgarde and Geneva Swiss police examined our unfortunate passports, which were rapidly assuming a limp and dog’s-eared appearance with so much handling. I never inquired, but I imagine these people were the officials of the various cantons through which the train passed. Any other theory would establish the Swiss Government as insane with fear and suspicion. But finally, through sheer weariness of flesh and spirit, I ceased to question the doings of these minions of the law, but quietly submitted to any number of exasperating formalities.
The Paris train arrived in Geneva at 9 in the morning. The connexion for Berne left at 4.10 in the afternoon. We had ample time to see this famous old city, beautifully placed at one end of the great crescent lake of the same name. Mr. Macdonald, like a true and faithful Scot, left us to visit John Knox’s church. Some lingered over the ample breakfast in the comfortable café. The fascinating lake drew the attention of the rest. It was along the side of this lake that my friend—well, I will not disclose his name—was walking, gaily swinging his stout English walking-stick. He knew two words of French, oui and merci. Humming a gay tune and twirling that stick, he struck a man in the face. “Ah, merci!” he cried, meaning “I beg your pardon.” The man stared in blank astonishment, and then said in good, plain English: “I think it is I who ought to cry ‘Mercy,’ young man.”
Snow lay hard and frozen upon the ground, and capped and covered the mountains in the distance. The vast masses of Mont Blanc were visible in the clear, crisp air. Delivered from the cramped and poisonous conditions of a filthy railway carriage, super-heated, we enjoyed blissfully the bright beauty and clean orderliness of this Puritan capital of French Switzerland. And in the evening, when the last rays of the sun had changed into a glowing pink the white of the Alpine snows, we entered upon the last stage of our long and tiresome journey, to begin our labour of reconciliation.