“I certainly can’t make head or tail of European politics. We run as fast as they will let us from a country that hasn’t declared war and that nobody has challenged, as I can see, but which merely thinks it may be attacked, to get into a country that everybody has signed a compact to let alone and live. This morning when I came down into the garden of this darling hotel to drink my coffee, I hear bells and commotion and I am told an order has come to mobilize. But what for? When Mr. Laurence and Henry came they said it was merely to protect neutrality. I don’t see much in a neutrality that calls all the men out. It is harsh business for the people. I’ve been out in the streets and walking in the country for hours and I’m broken-hearted. It seems that the bell the police go up and down ringing means that they must go at once. There are posters all over the walls to the Armée de Terre and Armée de mer, telling them to lose no time. Why, this morning the man who was serving us left in the middle of our meal, just saying ‘Pardon, c’est la mobilization,’ and in three minutes Madame was fluttering around apologizing for a delay and telling us it wouldn’t happen again, that she would serve us. Poor thing! she’ll have to, for every man about her place, her only son included, followed that horrid bell. There’s many a woman worse off than our landlady. There are the farmers’ wives, left quite alone with cows, pigs, horses and the crops ready to harvest—some of them with not a soul to help them. They never complain, only say, ‘C’est la guerre,’ but it isn’t la guerre—at least, not in Belgium. How can it be, with her treaties!
“Dinant, Tuesday, August 3.
“I did not send this letter as I expected to. Mr. Laurence advised us to mail no letters until after the mobilization is well under way—says the tax on transportation is so heavy that the mails are held up. There is great difficulty even in getting Brussels by telephone or telegraph, and we’ve had no papers for three days.
“You see, I am still at Dinant, though we will leave in a few hours—if nothing happens! We were held by an incident of mobilization. Sunday afternoon while we were in a shop buying some fruit, a man came in hurriedly, leading a little boy and girl. He wanted the woman to take them while he was gone. Their mother was dead, he said. He had no one. The woman cried. She couldn’t, she said; she had her own—her husband must go. She must keep the shop. How could she do it—how could she—and she appealed to me. The poor fellow looked so wretched and the children so pretty that Henry, who has the kindest heart in the world, said, ‘See here, let me have the kids. I’ll find somebody to keep them.’ ‘But I have no money,’ the man said. ‘Well, never mind—I’ll see to that,’ and, would you believe it? that man marched off leaving Henry Laurence with two solemn little Belgians. Well, we had to stay in Dinant forty-eight hours longer than we’d expected while Henry found a place for them. We had such fun! He found a dear old lady in a nice little house, and everybody said she’d be kind to them, and Henry arranged at the bank for weekly payments as long as the father has to be away. He could do that without trouble because his firm has a branch in Brussels, and a man here handles their goods. We’re going this evening to say good-by and then north to Namur, which is only fifteen miles away. We follow the Meuse—it will be a lovely ride.
“Namur, August 5.
“An awful, a wicked thing has happened. I can’t believe it is true. Last night when we reached our hotel here, the first thing we heard was that Germany had crossed the Belgian frontier. Mr. Laurence and Henry grew quite angry with the proprietor—whom they know very well, as the firm has offices here—for repeating such a rumor, but he insisted he was right. Germany couldn’t do such a thing, Henry insisted. The man only shrugged and said what everybody says here: ‘Guillaume est la cause.’ (‘William did it.’) You hear the peasants in the fields say the same thing. They don’t say the kaiser, or the emperor, or William II; just William—as one might speak about a rich and powerful relative that he didn’t like or approve of but had to obey.
“Well, it is true. They crossed on Tuesday at the very time we were having such fun placing our two little Dinantais—and to-day, oh, Mother dear, I can’t write it—they have attacked Liége. Nobody seems to know just what has happened. It is sure that the Belgians were told by Germany that they would not be disturbed. Henry came in this afternoon with a copy of a Brussels paper in which only two days ago the German Minister to Brussels said in an interview that Belgium need have no fear from Germany.
“‘Your neighbor’s house may burn but yours will be safe’—his very words. Think of that!—and at the very time he uttered them their armies were there ready to cross. The King must be a perfect brick. The Germans sent him a message, telling him what they proposed to do. He called the parliament instanter and read them the document. It was in the Brussels papers. It began by saying that the French intended to march down the Meuse by Givet—a town on the border only a little distance from Dinant—and then on to Namur into Germany!
“There never was such a lie. Why, we have just come from there. There wasn’t a sign of such a thing. The French army didn’t begin to mobilize until Sunday, and it will take days and days, and here Germany is in Belgium. She says that she won’t hurt the Belgians if they will let her march through so as to attack France—and she gives them twelve hours to decide—think of that. Doesn’t it make you want to fight yourself? The cowards! It is like a knife in the back. But I am proud of little Belgium. They say the king and parliament sat up all night going over things and in the morning they sent back word ‘No, the Germans could not pass with Belgium’s consent and if they tried to she’d fight,’ and she’s doing it!
“Everything has gone to pieces, mail—news—even money. The men can’t get any, and we’re down to about five francs apiece. You ought to see the high and mighty Laurences without a dollar in their pockets—I wouldn’t have missed it for a fortune. They are like two helpless kids. They’ve always had it and depended on it to get them everything they wanted and to make everybody else do everything they wanted done. Now they can’t get it and they wouldn’t be more helpless if their legs had been unhooked. The trouble is we can’t get to Brussels without money—for they’ve taken the car! Doesn’t it sound like a comic opera, Mother dear? I forgot you never saw one, but it’s just such crazy things they do. We’ve credit, at least, for the firm has an agent here—a big one; but the office is closed, for the agent and bookkeepers are mobilized. Suddenly we, Mr. Laurence and Henry and their proud corporation, are nobody. It won’t last. It’s inconvenient, but it’s good for them. They somehow were so sure of things—of Germany, of the power of the firm, of themselves—when they had their pockets full and now—why, now we’re beggars! But we’re American beggars and I tell you it does brace one up to remember that.