Gardiner, October 22, 1914. Harriet Blaine Beal came down for tea, delightful as ever. I had bought a nice pair of aluminum needles. She set up my first muffler for the British Relief. The war news continues indefinite.
General John Richards to dine. He is wonderfully rejuvenated by the war that has so sadly cast down most of us. His old stories of the Civil War are again rubbed up and thrill us as all real war stories do. We were reminded of his military skill and the part he played as Adjutant General of the State of Maine at the time of the Spanish War, when his Maine militia were the best equipped men who appeared in response to the call to arms. The fact that we all looked up to him as a military authority helped to animate what has seemed of late a very much diminished vitality. It’s an ill wind!
November 1, 1914. To Providence to speak before the People’s Forum on the report of the Voters’ League, a very valuable document, non-partisan in character, giving the political history of every candidate for election in the State, and all the measures he has stood for or opposed. I never was in such a bear-pit before. After my forty minutes’ speech, which they had the patience to listen to, I was asked many questions; and afterwards the members made five-minute speeches. Most of the speakers were socialists, the others anarchists or cranks. One demagogue, a cockney Englishman, spoke very well as far as force and fluency goes, but his doctrines were poisonous. He contended that organized capital had no end save the exploitation of the workers. The spirit revealed was dour, bitter, and most distressing. Hatred seemed the dominant note. I have not often been so depressed. The atmosphere of passionate discontent appalled me. I have read of such things, but have never before actually felt the atmosphere of angry hatred and distrust.
November 3, 1914. To a fashionable tea party of ladies, where no mention was made either of war or politics! It was known early that Mr. Beeckman, Republican candidate for Governor, would carry the State. The election has proved a Republican landslide. A good deal more depressed than is philosophical. Well, it’s a long way to Tipperary! This fight goes on under other names and other leadership. The longer I live, the more sure I grow of the justness and wisdom of the middle course Roosevelt has steered, between the rancor of the “have nots” and the greed of the “haves”! The Progressive platform, in its essentials, will gain year by year in the Nation’s councils.
November 9, 1914. My birthday! Well, I still am glad to answer “here” when the roll call sounds, and that’s all there is to say. I have some cares and some pains, but I like life, I like my husband and my job, and that’s more than many a woman can say. Therefore, I have much to be thankful for, but I don’t like to grow old.
November 25, 1914. Last night a gentleman said to me at dinner, “When Count von Bernstorff, the German Ambassador, was at the Newport Reading Room last summer, he said, ‘If we win, we shall be over here in another five years.’ Is it possible that he could have said this? If so, it ought to be made public!”
Thursday, November 26, 1914. To-day is Thanksgiving. Filled with an immense gratitude for all that I have to be thankful for: health, a beloved and loving husband, a warm house, plenty to eat, a faithful helper, farther off a circle of kindly neighbors, and, not too far away, dear sisters, a beloved brother, nieces, nephews, friends, and oh, my country! Well may we Americans hold our heads high. This is our hour of success, in spite of Roosevelt’s defeat—if he is defeated! With the world gone war-mad and murderous hate beside us in Mexico, beside us in Canada, we cling to our ideals of peace, we are the courted of all the belligerents and we, out of our plenty, are the naturally appointed helpers and friends of all who are wounded, ravaged, desperate, bankrupt. “Golden Hope of the World,” said Roosevelt, and said it well. Never shall this golden hope be dragged in the dust. In this dies irae the Americans are proving to be all we hoped. The women of fashion, many of them only known as society belles, are nursing the wounded in France and in England. Everywhere is the same story of help and sacrifice, warm generous giving, giving, giving. And yet let us not forget two words of the hour,—Kaiser William’s advice to his army “to remember Attila and the Huns and strike terribly”, and Kipling’s “The Hun is at the Gate”!
This conscious savagery from a highly intellectual people like the Germans seems new in history. There is something deadlier in this barbarity that knows it is barbarous and openly admits that it is using barbaric methods than in the unconscious brutality of the wild Moroccan hordes of savage men whose gospel is war. The cynicism of the man who assumes that he is acting as God’s partner and representative on earth, and yet is willing to lead his people through the Red Sea of blood, in order that they may win to the fat lands of his rivals, passes anything I remember in history. Beginning with his treatment of his mother and following with his treatment of his enemies and of Belgium, his record grows from bad to worse. And Belgium? On the scroll of History she has written a deathless name, for as long as men shall tell over the stories of great heroic acts, they will thrill at the names of Thermopylae and of Liège.
We dined at Mrs. Shaw Safe’s. Sir Arthur Herbert took me in to dinner, and we had much talk of the war. He echoed Kitchener’s wish that some bomb might fall in London to wake up the people; said that our papers gave better news than the English. He spoke of the behavior of a certain type of his people, who wrote letters to the papers, complaining when German waiters were dismissed from hotels “that it was hard on their wives and children.” Said that in the clubs Austrians and Germans were allowed, the common law holding that if you elected a German a member of your club, you could not put him out. Said that in wartime these civil laws should be set aside for military laws. Said a certain German nobleman, of whom many people were very fond, had a big house in the country, where all the important political people visited. It was proved that all the servants at this house were German soldiers or spies. The place is still honeycombed with spies. He himself had been hoodwinked completely. Until war was declared, he had no suspicion that Germany was unfriendly to England. Had heard that the Crown Prince said to Mrs. Whitehouse (née Armour) that Germany wanted war; would crush France first, England second, and two years later, would come to America!
Boston, December 1, 1914. Busy all day preparing for the Belgian Relief meeting at Tremont Temple, where I am to preside. The meeting was very fine. I took great pains, wrote out my speeches, and took the whole day to think out what I should say. Thrilled by the sight of the familiar old hall, crowded to its capacity; there were thirty-five hundred people present and one thousand turned away. I introduced first Margaret Deland, next Josephine Peabody Marks, last Madame Vandervelde. Major Henry Higginson, who has just celebrated his eightieth birthday, sat in the front row, many other old friends scattered through the house. Madame Vandervelde was deeply interesting. We took in $5,000 for the Belgians. It was a heart-warming occasion, reminding me of many notable gatherings in Tremont Temple in the old heroic time. Isn’t this perhaps the new heroic time? I think so. To see Mrs. Gardner’s new additional rooms at Fenway Court. The Chinese room downstairs like a Chinese temple, rather awful in its dark thrill, like a tomb. These new rooms seem to me the best in the palace.