At eight o'clock dinner was served. Madame X.'s daughter and I, after such a scrubbing and disinfecting, came down the last ones and stepped into a veritable playworld of the Middle Ages with the most beautiful setting—a large salon, opening out onto the terrace, with old, Flemish-wood fire-place and raftered ceiling, Japanese bronzes, rugs from the Orient, soft lamps and portraits of dear grandmothers, in the beauty of their youth, smiling out from their golden frames on the walls. As we came into the room from the brightly lighted hall, a semi-circle of gray-green coats rose right up out of the dimness and we were blinded by a vision of shining buttons, polished boots, gleaming swords and a military salute accompanied by clinking spurs. At the end of the room stood Madame X. and her sons waiting for us. Naturally there were no presentations and the moment was unique in the extreme—nobody moved for a second which seemed like a decade and nobody spoke, so all there remained to do was to acknowledge the salute with a semi-circular bow.
Dinner was an odd affair tho' it went off not so badly. Madame X., in her proud Russian beauty and her admirable control of the conditions, was superb. I never admired anybody so much, for it is not easy to entertain at one's board an enemy who has just usurped home and country, but her extraordinary charm and dignity gave the situation its note and the "guests" were everything that was agreeable. We talked of generalities, as well as "War," in four languages (Russian, French, English and German) with much the same sang-froid as the juggler who tosses knives and, when the meal was done, thanked Heaven that nobody had launched a tactless bomb which might have plunged us into a boiling sea. There was nothing particularly boastful in their conversation, though at times a certain assured reference to "Paris in a fortnight" crept in, which we found difficult to digest—in fact I was furious. Paris, indeed! Beautiful Paris! My neighbor at table on the right was a man of perhaps fifty-eight years, rather gray and grandfatherly, with such nice, blue eyes. Prefacing all his remarks with a nervous little cough to fix my attention, he would launch with difficulty one or two phrases in restricted French followed by a few straggling words in English and finally finished up with a burst of voluble German. It was a work of art to understand him, but I arrived panting—at least I had that sensation, and it is not the first time I have given thanks for a woman's natural intuition. Then I decided to lead out next—anyway I wanted to get him started on "War" without precipitating an international difficulty and I asked him as stupidly as possible (perhaps I did not need to simulate that) if he liked "War." He hesitated just a second and I was prepared for the usual self-respecting denial when he horrified me by answering a simple "Yes." Voilà, le sentiment prusse!
Afterward when we went into the salon all the officers, commencing with the superior, came up to Madame X. and kicking their spurs together with the habitual "Danke, Frau," kissed our hands all around. The youngest soldier among them was a handsome boy of about twenty-two years, who interested me rather, because he was different—even his boots were different and he truly had a striking manner, though very gracious. I am convinced that he was a prince of a reigning house. The atmosphere had a way of parting in rapid waves when he came in and dropping behind him like an impervious shield when he went out. Fair, young Achilles! Will a fatal arrow attain his charméd person?
August 15th, Saturday.
We took care of the wounded all day: it is the most heartrending spectacle to see those poor, black heads lying there on their pillows. They were so shapeless and immovable, I had almost begun to look upon them as without life like charred logs, when, after finishing a dressing this morning, I was startled by a hearty, "Merci, chère Soeur." Oh, the joy of it! That brightened the whole scene and flooded me with hope. Then they have not lost their intelligences, they aren't mere pieces of wood and one day when their poor flesh has rejuvenated itself, they will be given back to real life—and their country, again.
The village people and the Sisters were so ardent in their desire to help that dressings well covered with ointment sometimes fell from their eager fingers onto grimy blankets or flopped, butter side down, so to speak, upon the floor; which did not disconcert anyone but me, whose modern prophylactic soul rattled and shook with horror as the recalcitrant bandage was gaily redeemed from its dusty resting-place and applied as originally intended.
It seemed as if I must remonstrate, but the dear whole-hearted helper was so sure that her dressing would cure and the patient was so overwhelmingly grateful for the trouble she took to pick it up for him, that I was dumb before their exquisite faith.
Here was something too big for my stilted aseptic advice and it occurred to me, suddenly, that perhaps there are many things yet undreamed of in our philosophy.
All day long the troops in an endless chain have been passing on the highroad before the château. The air was full of mingled sounds, as, for example, the singing of the soldiers in the distance, which sounds like the droning of bees far away and always heralds an advance of troops; the rhythmic shuffling of feet, the thud of horses' hoofs, the chugging of autos which carry the superior officers, and the heavy wheels of the gun carriages with their clanking chains. Their order, equipment and discipline are admirable to see.