THE WAR DIARY 
 OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 ^LEE MERIWETHER' 
 
Ckss lU,A~o 
 
 M 
 
 
 CiiKmiGHT DEPOSm 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
THE WAR DIARY 
 OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 BY 
 
 LEE MERIWETHER 
 
 special Assistant to the American Ambassador 
 To France 
 
 I916, I917, I918 
 
 Author of "A Tramp Trip: How to See Europe on 50 Cents a Day,"- 
 
 "Afloat and Ashore on the Mediterranean," "Seeing 
 
 Europe by Automobile," etc., etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 
 1919 
 
^.^ 
 
 
 Copyright, 1919, 
 By DODD, mead AND COMPANY, Inc. 
 
 ©CI.A515010 
 
^7 
 
 4? 
 
 TO BEAMER, 
 In appreciation of twenty-three years of 
 Loyalty and Love 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 This Journal was not composed with the purpose of publica- 
 tion; its entries were jotted down as interesting events oc- 
 curred, and were sent from week to week to my wife, who 
 was unable to leave our St. Louis home, and who in this way 
 was able to keep posted as to my observations and doings. 
 
 A book so written can of course claim neither depth of 
 matter nor charm of style; but being so written — hot on the 
 heels of the events described — its pictures of France in war- 
 time for that very reason may be the more vivid and convinc- 
 ing. It is because friends who have read the Journal say it 
 possesses this sort of interest that I venture to submit it to 
 the public. 
 
 Lee Meriwether. 
 
 Paris, October 17, 19 18. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 At the very beginning of the World War the United States 
 undertook a work intended not only to better the condition 
 of war prisoners but to remove from the minds of their fami- 
 lies and friends the fear that they are badly treated. To 
 appreciate the enormous value of this work one has only to 
 consider how, had a similar task been performed by some 
 neutral power during our Civil War, the North and South 
 would have come together twenty years sooner than they did. 
 
 This statement may seem extravagant but its truth will 
 not be doubted by those who remember how for a generation 
 after the war of the 'sixties there was a constant and a bitter 
 debate over the question whether prisoners at Andersonville 
 and Libby had, or had not, been barbarously treated by the 
 Confederate government. Obviously those years of bitter 
 debate would have been avoided if during the Civil War 
 the representatives of, say, England or France, had frequently 
 visited Andersonville and Libby and reported on conditions 
 existing there. Had the conditions been as bad as claimed 
 by the North they would have been bettered by the Con- 
 federate authorities the moment they knew that foreign dip- 
 lomats would visit the prisons and tell the world in general, 
 and the Washington Government in particular, what was going 
 on. On the other hand, if the conditions were not bad, if the 
 reports reaching Washington were untrue, that fact would have 
 been made known, and thus, in either case, years of bitter 
 recrimination and hate-breeding accusations would have been 
 avoided. 
 
 Probably those long years of heated controversy over An- 
 
X PREFACE 
 
 dersonville and Libby suggested to the American government 
 the good that might result from preventing such a dispute 
 in the present war; whatever the reason, as I have said, at the 
 very outset of the World War the Department of State at 
 Washington undertook the task of looking after the prisoners 
 of war in France, Russia, Germany, etc., and it continued that 
 task down to the day that Germany's conduct forced America 
 to abandon its neutrality and enter the war on the side of 
 the Entente Allies, i. e., down to Sunday, February 4, 191 7. 
 
 As a Special Assistant to our Ambassador to France I saw 
 a good deal of this work which, now that it has ended and 
 we have entered the war, may be described without official 
 impropriety and perhaps even with profit to the public. For 
 only good can come from having the world know how unsel- 
 fishly America strove to protect the interests of the very gov- 
 ernment which even then was secretly paying a host of spies 
 to incite strikes in our factories, to blow some of them up 
 with dynamite, to plant bombs in steamers sailing from our 
 harbors, and which a little later openly destroyed American 
 women and children on the Lusitania and ran rough shod over 
 American rights on every one of the globe's seven seas! It 
 will be well, too, for the world to know that, with a few unim- 
 portant exceptions, the Allies with whom we are now, or soon 
 will be, fighting have all along played the game fair; that 
 they treat the war prisoners in their hands humanely and 
 strive to make their condition as comfortable as it can be to 
 men deprived of their liberty. 
 
 Indeed, so well are the German prisoners treated, so much 
 easier is their lot in French prisons than in German trenches, 
 few of the hundreds with whom I talked seemed at all sorry 
 to be captives. I refer here of course to the private soldiers; 
 officers, especially the Prussians, do not take imprisonment so 
 complacently. Even in captivity they retain their abnormal 
 sense of superiority to the rest of the world and it fills them 
 with bitterness to find themselves in the hands of men they 
 
PREFACE xi 
 
 deem so infinitely beneath them. That the sacred caste of 
 Prussian officers, supermen from BerUn, should be ordered 
 about by a mere Frenchman — Ach Gott! What was the 
 world coming to? This was very different from the Kaiser's 
 going to Paris in six weeks and there dictating to the miser- 
 able people of France how many millions they should pay 
 their conquerors. In the case of Prussian officers this feeling 
 amounts to a disease, to megalomania. 
 
 There are two kinds of war prisoners, military and civil. 
 The first of course are soldiers captured in battle; the second 
 class comprises all male enen y aliens who resided in France, 
 or who happened to be traveling in France in August, 19 14. 
 Camps of these civilians are to be found in all parts of the 
 republic from the mountains of Corsica in the south to the 
 bleak islands in the north off the coasts of Brittany and Nor- 
 mandy. Before the war Germans loved to come to France. 
 The French say they came to serve as spies and be in a posi- 
 tion to help the Kaiser when he got ready to ravish Belgium, 
 plunder France and steal some more French provinces. Per- 
 haps many did come for that purpose, but the majority came 
 because of the better opportunities France afforded for earning 
 a livelihood, and some of these married French women and 
 their children grew up wholly ignorant of the German tongue. 
 Perhaps these Germans became French in their sympathies — 
 but they neglected the formality of becoming French by law. 
 And so in August, 19 14, they were bundled off to some de- 
 tention camp, there to fret away as many years as this sense- 
 less and bloody war may last. 
 
 On the Isle of Tatihou, off the coast of Normandy, I saw 
 a Monsieur Hermann L., who, although born in Vienna, had 
 come when a child to Paris, where for a quarter of a century 
 he was the head of a large electrical machinery concern. His 
 partners were French, so too were all his friends and affilia- 
 tions. But Monsieur L. had neglected to become naturalized 
 as a Frenchman, consequently, at the time I saw him in 
 
xii PREFACE 
 
 January, 191 7, he was a prisoner on a barren island, where 
 he had been more than two years and where he is likely to 
 remain for a very long time to come. Interned on this same 
 island are several hundred other Austrians and Germans, 
 some of whom, like Monsieur L., are French in their sym- 
 pathies; but the majority, having come more recently to 
 France, are pro-German in their feelings, and hence they look 
 with both disgust and hate upon "French "-Germans like Mon- 
 sieur L. Indeed, so bitter is the feeling between the German- 
 Germans and the "French"-Germans that their discussions, 
 always heated, sometimes become violent and end in blows. 
 
 At the time of my visit to Tatihou several men were under- 
 going cell punishment because of brawls over this question of 
 German-born men sympathizing with France, and so keenly 
 did the French- Germans feel the taunts and sneers of the other 
 faction, they begged me to intercede with the Commandant 
 and persuade him to give them separate quarters. The Com- 
 mandant said he would be glad to do this if it were possible; 
 the constant strife between the two factions had caused him 
 a world of trouble. At news of a German victory the cheers 
 of the "German"-Germans angered the French- Germans; and 
 similarly when the French armies delivered a smashing blow 
 upon the Crown Prince's forces before Verdun, prisoners like 
 Monsieur L. would celebrate and cheer in a way that set the 
 real Germans wild. 
 
 "You may imagine, Monsieur," said the Commandant, "that 
 this is excessively annoying, but the number of prisoners, al- 
 ready enormous, grows by leaps and bounds after every bat- 
 tle, so that it is not possible to provide separate quarters to 
 suit the men's different political convictions." 
 
 I asked why it was necessary to intern men so pro-French 
 that they were willing for the sake of their allegiance to France 
 to suffer the sneers and even the blows of their fellow country- 
 men. 
 
 "Monsieur," replied the Commandant, "France does not 
 
PREFACE xiii 
 
 trust men who, though living under her flag, do not love her 
 enough to become Frenchmen." 
 
 "Had Monsieur Hermann L. become a French citizen would 
 he have retained his freedom?" I asked. 
 
 "Yes. This particular man would not have been disturbed; 
 he was my neighbor on the Rue Copemic in Paris. Many 
 Frenchmen knew him and could vouch for his sincerity. But 
 not all Germans could be trusted, even though they took out 
 naturalization papers. You see. Monsieur, a man may take 
 out papers for the special purpose of being able to betray us. 
 We are so close to Germany the information which a spy could 
 acquire and pass on to the enemy might cause grave trouble. 
 France's very life is at stake, hence we must take no chance, 
 absolutely none, no matter what hardship, what injustice may 
 be done the individual citizen." 
 
 That this is necessary is recognized even by some of its 
 victims. For instance, Monsieur L. frankly said to me that he 
 did not blame the French for interning him. 
 
 "/ know I love France," he said. "I know that I would 
 cut off my right arm rather than harm her, for I have come 
 to regard France as my own country. I left Vienna when I 
 was a child. I know no one there. All my life, all my friends 
 are centered in Paris. Is it not natural that my love should 
 be for France? But a man's heart cannot be read by others 
 as they read a book. So many Germans do come to France 
 to spy, the French say 'Perhaps this man is a spy, too.' And 
 so they lock me up. I cannot complain. It is natural. But 
 nonetheless. Monsieur, this is a frightful fate to bear!" 
 
 With a gesture Monsieur L. indicated the long, cold, cheer- 
 less barrack in which we were standing, and the straw sack 
 on a wooden bunk where he slept. At the head of the bunk 
 was a shelf on which were placed the few things he had been 
 permitted to bring from Paris. 
 
 "Look at this," he said, "then compare it with the pretty 
 place I had on the Rue Copernic. Is it not enough to make 
 
xiv PREFACE 
 
 me melancholy? One day I was in the most beautiful city 
 of the world ; a profitable business, a lot of friends, everything 
 that makes life worth living was mine. Then, in a day, in 
 an hour, my business is ruined, my friends become my enemies, 
 and I am brought to this wind-swept island to remain for 
 only God knows how many years! The suddenness with which 
 this incredible catastrophe overwhelmed me was stupefying, 
 appalling! For months after coming here it was hard to 
 realize that it was not all a frightful nightmare, that in the 
 morning I would not awake in Paris in my beautiful apartment 
 on the Rue Copernic!" 
 
 The impression made upon me by Monsieur Hermann L. 
 was that of thorough sincerity; he undoubtedly really loves 
 France. Nevertheless, he must fret his life away in prison, 
 because France cannot afford to "take any chances." Such 
 is one of the little by-products of war — war the monster that 
 crushes out the Hves and breaks the hearts of the innocent 
 along with the guilty. 
 
 Before describing the prisons for captured Germans let 
 me begin at the beginning, i. e., at the moment when the 
 German becomes a prisoner. In the case of civilians that 
 moment was on August 4, 19 14. Of course, for several days 
 prior to that date Germany's action was a foregone con- 
 clusion, so that France had at least a little time in which 
 to make her preparations. Within a dozen hours after Baron 
 von Schoen delivered the Kaiser's message to the French 
 Minister of Foreign Affairs, declaring war and demanding his 
 passports, the French police began rounding up Germans in 
 every nook and corner of the republic. 
 
 At first there was some confusion and much discomfort; 
 when, without an hour's notice, a government feels itself 
 obliged to tear thousands of men from their homes, from their 
 stores, from their banks and offices, confusion and discomfort 
 are inevitable. And it is small wonder that in those dreadful 
 August days of 1914 many men made desperate efforts to 
 
, PREFACE XV 
 
 cross the Pyrenees into Spain or the Rhine into Germany. A 
 few succeeded, but the great majority failed to elude the lynx- 
 eyed police. An instance of this latter nimiber is that of 
 Herr Mumm, known to champagne drinkers all over the world 
 as one of the richest wine men in Rheims. 
 
 On that fatal fourth of August, 1914, Mr. Mumm lingered 
 just one hour too long. His affairs were of such magnitude, 
 so many things needed attention before he left on such short 
 notice on so indefinite a trip, Herr Mumm unwisely thought 
 he might remain just an hour longer. But that hour proved 
 his undoing, for it gave the police time to arrest him; when 
 he went to the railway station to board the last train that 
 was to leave for the east, there at the station waiting for him 
 were two policemen and several soldiers. And so, ever since 
 that fateful day, Herr Mumm, instead of being in the land 
 of his birth across the Rhine, has been in an internment camp 
 in Western France. 
 
 To offset this instance of a failure to escape I will mention 
 the case of one who succeeded in escaping — but not by the 
 prosaic means of a railroad train or an automobile flying to 
 the frontier. Baroness Reuter, widow of the founder of the 
 well-known European News Agency, has lived for many years 
 in Paris, and while not all German women were interned, no 
 doubt the Baroness would have been confined because of her 
 prominence and her connections in Germany. To avoid this 
 unpleasant fate — and at the same time to avoid the necessity 
 of leaving her beloved Paris — as soon as war was declared the 
 Baroness promptly married James Gordon Bennett, owner of 
 the New York Herald. Automatically this made her in the 
 law's eyes an American, immune from internment, and she 
 has remained in Paris without let or hindrance. To the mere 
 mortal eye the Baroness is the same charming woman now 
 as before August, 19 14, but to the eye of the law the few 
 words spoken in the marriage ceremony effected so complete 
 a transformation that she who one moment was subject to 
 
xvi PREFACE 
 
 arrest and years of imprisonment, was the next moment abso- 
 lutely immune — all because she changed her name from Reuter 
 to Bennett! And yet Shakespeare says there is nothing in a 
 name! 
 
 Having arrested all the Germans in France within a few 
 hours, or at most a few days after war was declared, the next 
 step was properly to care for them. And this task was facili- 
 tated because of the great number of vacant convents and 
 monasteries which the expulsion of the religious orders a few 
 years ago left in the hands of the French government. Usually 
 these ancient monastery buildings are perched on high peaks 
 and the life led in them by the motley crowd of prisoners, 
 drawn from all walks of life and from all parts of Europe, 
 is fully as interesting as the life of their former occupants in 
 bygone centuries. Presently I shall give a detailed word 
 picture of some of these curious places, but first a few words 
 concerning military prisoners. These of course are captured 
 in battle, usually after the French artillery creates an impas- 
 sable barrage of heavy shells between the German front line 
 and base. When this happens Fritz leaps to his feet, thrusts 
 both hands high in the air and cries: 
 
 "Kamerad ! Kamerad ! " 
 
 Once he does this he is no longer reckoned as a fighting 
 unit in this war. There is no exchange of prisoners. As a 
 fighter friend Fritz is done for and the advancing French pay 
 him little more attention. They know he won't run away, 
 for there is no place he can run to. He can't go back to his 
 own people; the barrage of shot and shells would cut him to 
 pieces. Moreover, nine times in ten Fritz is delighted at being 
 a prisoner; as a prisoner he will be out of danger and have 
 more to eat than as a soldier, and so Fritz, thankful to the 
 French who have captured him, finds his own way back to the 
 rear of the French front lines, and presently, when not other- 
 wise occupied, his captors detail a small guard to conduct him 
 to some big base depot like those at Rouen or Havre. Later 
 
PREFACE xvii 
 
 on he is sent from the base depot to wherever labor is most 
 needed, to the coal mines of central France, to towns along 
 the Seine where ships are unloading, to the vineyards and 
 fields of all parts of the republic. 
 
 Once at his permanent place of work, Fritz' life down to 
 the last detail is governed by rules agreed on between France 
 and Germany; he must have precisely so many ounces of bread 
 a day, so many grams of salt, so many ounces of vegetables, 
 etc. A written list of the kind and quantity of articles he 
 is entitled to have is posted on the door of the kitchen where 
 every prisoner may see it. Failure to receive his proper 
 rations is at once made the subject of a complaint by the 
 prisoner to the Commandant of the prison camp, who seldom 
 fails to remedy the matter. However, there are Commandants 
 and Commandants; occasionally where a man shot all to 
 pieces and with a case of bad nerves, or where a man naturally 
 harsh or even cruel, has been placed in charge of a prison 
 camp, unnecessary and illegal hardships may be imposed upon 
 the Germans. To prevent this, or at least to make it as rare 
 an exception as possible, I made frequent and unexpected visits 
 to prison camps in all parts of France, and my observations 
 were reported to Ambassador Sharp and to the State Depart- 
 ment at Washington, and by them to Ambassador Gerard in 
 Berlin. 
 
 Often in some mysterious way reports would reach the Ger- 
 man government that its prisoners in such or such a place 
 were being barbarously treated, and then our Paris Embassy 
 would receive a "hurry-up" call to make an investigation. For 
 example, one day in December, 1916, we received through 
 Ambassador Gerard a Note Verbale saying the German For- 
 eign Office was informed that some two hundred German 
 officers immured in the fortress at Brest were being most 
 inhumanly treated. It was stated that the walls of the fortress, 
 fifteen feet in thickness, were damp and covered with fungi; 
 water trickled down from the ceiling upon the prisoners' straw 
 
xviii PREFACE 
 
 sleeping sacks, making sleep difficult and life a painful burden. 
 Berlin was told that unless speedily removed from this damp 
 dungeon these unhappy officers would all lose their health and 
 many would lose their lives. Such barbarities could not be 
 permitted and unless at once discontinued reprisals would be- 
 come necessary: a similar number of French officers, prisoners 
 in Germany, would be thrust into the most unsanitary dungeon 
 that could be found in the Empire or in any of the Empire's 
 allies. 
 
 Such was the substance of the German Foreign Office's 
 communication which we were desired to make known to the 
 government of the French Republic. Before taking the mat- 
 ter up with the French Minister for Foreign Affairs obviously 
 the first thing to do was to go to Brest and learn at first 
 hand the conditions there. Accordingly, grabbing my heavy 
 rug to keep out at least a little of the cold in the freezing 
 French railway cars, I summoned a taxi to take me to the 
 Gare Montparnasse, and soon was speeding across France to 
 Brittany's bleak, wind-swept coast. Travelers who have trav- 
 ersed France only in the tourist season, in spring or summer, 
 will have little realization of what such a trip means in the 
 dead of winter, particularly in war time when coal costs $80 
 a ton and when even the slightest degree of heat in railway 
 coaches and hotels is considered a luxury not to be thought of. 
 A fifteen-hour railway journey in America involves no hard- 
 ship, or at least none on account of the cold. On the contrary, 
 the discomfort most often found when traveling in America 
 results from the way in which the cars are overheated. 
 
 But there is no overheating in France in winter and during 
 this war. Normandy and Brittany, lovely enough to look upon 
 in summer time, had no charms for me on that long journey 
 to Brest. The cold was penetrating, inescapable, and was made 
 worse by the dampness. A cold rain beat all day against 
 the window of my compartment, and when late at night Brest 
 was reached, and I drove to the Hotel Continental, the room 
 
PREFACE xix 
 
 given me was as damp and cold and depressing as a tomb. 
 There was no fire in the hotel and had been none for months, 
 except in the kitchen stove. As I hurriedly undressed and 
 got into bed — the only place where there was even half a 
 chance to get warm — I thought with pity of the German 
 officers in the gloomy fortress of the Chateau d'Anne. If I 
 suffered so in Brest's best hotel, what must be the fate of 
 those unhappy men immured in a dungeon with walls fifteen 
 feet thick and dripping with humidity so great that fungi 
 grew on the sides and ceiling as in a subterranean cave? 
 
 Next day investigation proved that my sympathy was en- 
 tirely wasted. It was true that the walls were very thick, 
 ten feet at least. They were built in the thirteenth century 
 when thick walls were the fashion as a protection against the 
 puny cannon of that uncivilized age. But within those walls 
 I found not a bit of dampness. Red-hot stoves kept the case- 
 mates warm as well as dry and electric lamps gave abundant 
 light. The quarters of those German officers were warmer 
 and dryer than the room in which I had slept at the Hotel 
 Continental. After satisfying myself of this fact, visiting all 
 the casemates, feeling the walls and bedding with my hands 
 and finding no dampness, I asked both the French Command- 
 ant and the German prisoners how Berlin could have gotten 
 such a report as that which had brought me hurrying across 
 the whole width of France? 
 
 "Monsieur," said the Commandant, "I have long since 
 ceased to attempt to explain the false reports Berlin sends out 
 to the world." 
 
 "Do you think Berlin knows that this report about the 
 Chateau d'Anne is false?" I asked. The Commandant's reply 
 was an eloquent shrug of the shoulders; that shrug and the 
 look which accompanied it said as plainly as words could have 
 done that he did believe Berlin knew the report to be false; 
 indeed, had the Commandant ventured to speak freely, I be- 
 lieve he would have said that Germany herself invents such 
 
XX PREFACE 
 
 reports in order to justify her own harsh treatment of French 
 prisoners. I myself do not believe this; I think it probable 
 the Berlin Foreign Office did receive the report which had 
 been transmitted through Ambassador Gerard to us in Paris, 
 for on numbers of occasions I myself have caught German war 
 prisoners writing letters to their families at home telling them 
 tales of incredible cruelty on the part of their French guards, 
 tales which I personally knew to be untrue. For example, 
 one German, although located in one of the best prison camps 
 in France, a camp well drained, with wooden barracks heated 
 by stoves and lighted by electricity, wrote his wife in Munich 
 that he was being slowly tortured to death, that he was half 
 starved and never expected to get back to Germany alive. 
 
 When confronted with this letter, its falsity manifest in 
 face of the prisoner's excellent physical condition and in face 
 of the physical condition of the camp, so excellent as to be 
 seen at a mere glance, the mendacious German merely grinned 
 and squirmed and twisted his cap in his hands; no amount 
 of questioning elicited from him a reason for his conduct. 
 Was the fellow moved merely by a foolish spirit of egoism? 
 Did he seek sympathy? Did he wish to appear when he re- 
 turned to Munich as a hero snatched from the very jaws of 
 Death? This may be the explanation — or it may be that the 
 German government's policy is to have prisoners spread re- 
 ports of barbarous treatment in order to keep alive the hatred 
 of the German people for France, and also to discourage Ger- 
 man soldiers from surrendering. The German soldier who 
 thinks that being captured by the French means plenty to eat, 
 a warm barracks to sleep in and safety from shrapnel and shell 
 may feel like giving up the fight a good deal quicker than the 
 soldier who is made to believe that capture will mean slow 
 death through cold, dampness and starvation! 
 
 Whatever the explanation, it is a fact that in no case did 
 I find conditions as bad as Berlin said they were; and seldom, 
 indeed, did I find them bad enough to warrant any real con- 
 
PREFACE xxi 
 
 demnation. The Germans with whom I talked in the Chateau 
 d'Anne said they were as content there as they could be in 
 any prison; some of them had been previously confined in 
 other camps and these said they preferred the Chateau d'Anne 
 because, although its walls and floors were of stone, the big 
 stoves kept them so dry and warm ! And yet Berlin threatened 
 savage reprisals on the French officers in its hands because 
 of the "dampness and fungi" on the walls of the casemates in 
 the Chateau d'Anne! 
 
 Of course Berlin was informed of the true conditions at 
 Brest, and it is to be hoped our report prevented a great wrong 
 being done to several hundred unhappy French officers in Ger- 
 man prisons. Only a hope can be expressed, for soon after 
 my visit to Brest America severed diplomatic relations with 
 Germany and since then not much reliance can be placed upon 
 such scraps of news as filter out from Berlin to the rest of 
 the world. America's entry into the war was inevitable, but 
 it was a great blow to the thousands of war prisoners whose 
 welfare was the care of our diplomats abroad. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 By Edouard de Billy, 
 
 Deputy High Commissioner of the French Government 
 
 to the United States. 
 
 Mr. Lee Meriwether, Special Assistant to the American 
 Ambassador to France in 191 6, 1917 and 19 18, noted from 
 day to day with ready pen his impressions — thanks to which 
 the Hterature of the war is enriched by a delightful book 
 which it has been a joy for me to read, and for which I am 
 glad to write these introductory lines. 
 
 Mr. Meriwether visited the German and Austrian prison 
 camps in France in the name of the American government, 
 which at the beginning of hostilities had offered to ascertain 
 for the belligerents how their prisoners were treated. Dur- 
 ing a rigorous winter he traveled throughout France, going 
 from place to place in unheated trains, staying in hotels whose 
 temperature was glacial, in order to carry out his researches. 
 A task, assuredly, but a fascinating task because if it per- 
 mitted the American Diplomat to make sure that the prisoners 
 of war were being well treated in France, it also gave him 
 opportunity from North to South, from East to West, in her 
 great cities, in her straggling villages, in her rural districts, 
 to see France at war. And at contact with the Nation, 
 valiant beneath her wounds, heroic in her resistance, the 
 traveler felt a clutching at his heart! 
 
 A profound and sincere emotion gushes forth from every 
 page of this Journal. This emotion makes of it a book that 
 moves, a book that one can not relinquish once it is begun, and 
 that one closes with regret, not without several times having 
 felt one's eyes wet with tears. Now it is the word of a 
 
xxiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 peasant expressing the love of the people of France for their 
 country, their absolute confidence in her victory, which Mr. 
 Meriwether renders with respectful emotion. Now it is a 
 visit to the wounded, heroic in their sufferings. Now it is 
 the arrival of soldiers on leave. A few days later it is their 
 departure for the front — all these tableaux are soberly traced, 
 full of sorrowing pity for the victims of the war, full of 
 admiration for its heroes! Elsewhere it is France at work — 
 deep in its mines, or in the war factories, or in the great gun 
 works at Creusot. Again it is a visit to the front — to the 
 martyred cities, Rheims, Luneville, Herimenil, Gerbeviller, 
 with the recital of German atrocities by witnesses still vibrant 
 from the crimes of yesterday. 
 
 As the recital advances one feels the growth in the author 
 of indignation against the aggressor, and of love for France. 
 In one paragraph written before the United States entered the 
 war he says: 
 
 "I try to feel neutral as well as to be neutral, but the thing 
 can't be done. The Germans themselves just won't let me be 
 neutral ! " 
 
 Mr. Meriwether's experience has been that of many of his 
 compatriots. As soon as they grasped the truth their hearts 
 were touched, their consciences cried out and America entered 
 the war! 
 
 Hostilities are now ended. The world is returning to 
 peace. But we must not allow ourselves to forget, above all 
 we must not allow our natural pity for the living, victims of 
 their own crimes, to surpass our just pity for our own dead, 
 victims of the criminals! Let us not be led to hate. But let 
 us conserve in our memory the knowledge which the war has 
 given us of the mentality of a nation whose victory would have 
 been ferocious; and which in defeat has forgotten nothing of 
 its deceptions, nothing of its wicked ambitions. 
 
 Let us remember also those who have aided us. Mr. Meri- 
 wether recounts that one day, visiting a school that had been 
 
INTRODUCTION xxv 
 
 opened at Nancy for the children of refugees, he asked the 
 theme of the French composition at which some of the Uttle 
 girls were working. He was given this: 
 
 "The help American children are giving the children of 
 France and how we should feel toward them." 
 
 The whole of France, which has remembered, as America 
 has remembered, will keep in its memory, and will teach to 
 its children, the theme of the composition of the little pupils 
 of Nancy! 
 
 Edouard de Billy 
 
PART I 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A 
 DIPLOMAT 
 
 Bordeaux, Sunday Night, 
 August 6, 1916. 
 
 The Lafayette is at last alongside her dock. After eight 
 days at sea, the last two in the war zone with nervous passen- 
 gers glimpsing U-boats every hour or two, everybody is hun- 
 gry to tread terra firma again, but as we are forbidden to 
 go ashore until morning all of us have lined up against the 
 steamer's rail to look down upon the lively scene below. War 
 doesn't seem to have hurt Bordeaux; in fact, it is now a 
 livelier place than ever, for with its own commerce is combined 
 that of both Havre and Cherbourg. Those cities are too close 
 to the U-boat bases to be now in favor with steamship lines, 
 whereas Bordeaux, sixty miles inland on the Garonne, is be- 
 yond the reach of German airplanes and submarines. 
 
 This morning while still at sea our last lifeboat drill gave 
 everybody a creepy feeling. At the signal "Abandon Ship" 
 each passenger put on his belt and rushed to his appointed 
 place on deck beside a lifeboat. The fat passengers looked 
 fatter than ever, with their bulky belts strapped about their 
 middles; the lean ones looked more forlorn than ever, and 
 everybody seemed solemn — that is, everybody excepting the 
 ship's crew and officers. They took the grim drill like the 
 rest of their work, as merely a routine duty on the sea; but 
 to the rest of us, unaccustomed to U-boats and mines, it was 
 a stern sort of business and we were not ashamed to confess 
 relief when early this afternoon the Lafayette made a shaip 
 
 3 
 
4 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 turn to the right and entered the Garonne. For the next six 
 hours we steamed slowly up the river between two rows 
 of vine-clad hills dotted here and there by picturesque 
 chateaux and by big signs which made us think of wedding 
 parties and banquets — for those signs one sees on the banks 
 of the Garonne bear the names of the fine wines that figure on 
 the menu cards of festive occasions, St. Estephe, Chateau 
 Lafitte, Chateau d'Yquem, etc. 
 
 After eight days on the ocean it was pleasant to have the 
 last six hours of the voyage not only safe from U-boats but 
 also charming because of the lovely scenery. While gazing 
 over the ship's rail at mile after mile of vineyards, all in the 
 pink of condition like so many carefully made gardens, it was 
 hard to realize we were looking upon a land that for two years 
 has been convulsed by war. One would not suspect that the 
 monster War was abroad in the land but for one thing — the 
 presence in the fields of only women, boys and old men. Of 
 young men we saw not a sign. In France women are not al- 
 lotted the heaviest tasks while friend husband smokes a pipe 
 in the shade — as is often the case in Germany. The presence 
 of women in the fields, and the absolute absence of young 
 men, tell a tale, and so, despite the calm, peaceful beauty 
 of the scene upon which we gazed to-day, we realized we were 
 looking upon a war-stricken land. 
 
 Bordeaux, 
 August 7. 
 Although anxious to reach Paris a delay has enabled me 
 to see something of Bordeaux, and the drive I took this after- 
 noon was worth taking. In addition to miles of handsome 
 streets — bustling with life, no signs of war, soldiers conspicu- 
 ous by their absence — and in addition to a number of hand- 
 some monuments, in particular a lofty column erected here 
 to the Girondists of the Revolution, my cabman, or rather 
 woman, showed me the bell tower of St. Michel's church. 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 5 
 
 beneath which is a gruesome sight — forty men and women 
 who died centuries ago but whose bodies are in marvelous 
 state of preservation owing to the singular quality of the soil 
 on which stands this ancient tower. For several hundred 
 years these bodies lay in the ground beneath the vault of the 
 church; then one hundred and seven years ago they were ex- 
 humed and stood against the circular wall of the vault where 
 they now are, their skin, hair, eyes and tongues so well pre- 
 served it is hard to believe they have been dead for more 
 than a few years. Before the war tourists visited these weird 
 reminders of the vanity of all things human, but since August, 
 1914, the tourist tribe in Europe is as extinct as the Dodo. 
 And so it was that my approach to St. Michel's Church to-day 
 was almost a sensation. The old custodian of the vault rubbed 
 her eyes and seemed to doubt her senses. When she found 
 I was not a vision, and that my German guide-book did not 
 prevent me from being an American and a friend of France, 
 she cheerfully agreed to light her lantern and conduct me 
 down the winding stone stairs to see her "treasures." 
 
 "Voila, Monsieur!" she exclaimed, poking her finger into 
 the mouth of one of the standing bodies and pulling out its 
 tongue. "See how lifelike it is! If the poor man were alive 
 he could talk to you very well. You may see for yourself, 
 Monsieur, his tongue is quite unspoiled!" 
 
 Verily, the good dame seemed to regard those ghastly things 
 as her personal pets. What an unhappy fate! To be stood 
 up against the wall of a dark vault and have your breast poked 
 in, and your tongue pulled out, century after century, in order 
 to show morbid tourists how well preserved you are! 
 
 Paris, Tuesday Night, 
 
 August 8, 191 6. 
 (At the Hotel Mirabeau.) 
 Coming through France to-day the country looked as peace- 
 ful as it did Sunday along the banks of the Garonne — on 
 
6 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 both sides of the train endless fields cultivated to the last 
 degree and beautiful as so many gardens. As in the Garonne 
 vineyards, so in these fields the workers were either women, 
 boys or old men ; the only men we saw who were not old were 
 the sentries guarding the various bridges between Bordeaux 
 and Paris. Evidently the job of feeding France is being left 
 to the women, and apparently they are making good; at any 
 rate, few as are the hours since my arrival, I have been here 
 long enough to know that one can dine better and cheaper 
 in France than in the United States, notwithstanding every 
 able-bodied Frenchman is in the trenches and the country 
 has been convulsed for two years by the most frightful war 
 in history. For instance, on the wagon restaurant coming up 
 from Bordeaux to-day (that is what the French call a dining 
 car), from the hors d'ouvres clear through the soup, fish, vege- 
 tables, chicken, lettuce salad to dessert and nuts — everything 
 tasted good. And the cost was only four and a half francs, 
 68y2 cents (the franc is now worth only ij^i cents). You 
 can't get such a dinner in an American dining car at any 
 price, and if such dinners were served the price would surely 
 be several times 68 cents. 
 
 In Bordeaux, also on the train, and again in the railway 
 station on arriving in Paris an hour ago, I saw this sign: 
 
 "Taisez vous! Mefiez vous!! 
 Les oreilles enemies vous ecoutent!" 
 
 (Be silent! Be distrust jul! 
 Enemy ears hear you!) 
 
 Before 19 14 Americans in France were received with open 
 arms; they are still so received, provided they are known to 
 be Americans. But the theory over here now is, every man 
 is guilty until his innocence is proved. It isn't safe to start 
 a conversation with strangers; you may be talking to a spy, 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 7 
 
 and if you are not, the person you address will surely suspect 
 you of being a spy until something more than your word has 
 transpired to convince him that you are a loyal friend of 
 France. 
 
 On arriving in Paris all the passengers, with the exception 
 of myself, went straight to the Prefet of Police to get a 
 "Permis de Sejour." Because of my diplomatic passport I 
 need not go, but the manager of the Mirabeau advises me to 
 go anyway for the reason that many gendarmes do not know 
 about the immunity enjoyed by Embassy officials. He says 
 I may go for months without being molested, then some fine 
 day when I least expect it, perhaps at a cafe, or while entering 
 a theater, a gendarme may approach and say: "Votre Permis 
 de Sejour, s'il vous plait." By no manner of means will he 
 forget that "s'il vous plait," but if it doesn't please you to 
 produce your permit to sojourn in Paris, then it will be prison 
 for you! No doubt the Embassy would get me out of prison, 
 but as I do not wish to be locked up for even a limited time, 
 I shall see the Prefet to-morrow. 
 
 Paris, Sunday Night, 
 
 August 13. 
 When I arrived in Paris last Tuesday I was impressed with 
 the changes wrought by the war; that was because I arrived 
 in the night. In the daytime the Paris of 19 16 is pretty much 
 the Paris I knew before the war — there are the same miles of 
 busy shops, the same crowded boulevards, the same confusion 
 of motor busses and taxicabs that rush madly about, making 
 the crossing of a street only less dangerous than assaulting 
 the German trenches! The other day while shopping in the 
 big Louvre department store it was hard to elbow a way 
 through the aisles, so dense was the jam of men and women 
 intent on making purchases. But at night — ah, then the 
 traveler sees a sad change — everything is so dark, so deserted, 
 so still! It used to be said of the Cafe de la Paix that he 
 
8 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 who sits long enough at one of its little sidewalk tables will 
 see every friend he has. Alas! The Cafe de la Paix is no 
 longer an international tourist clearing house. You may still 
 go there for dinner or for a drink, but no longer may you sit 
 there till the wee sma' hours of the morning gazing upon an 
 ever changing and ever growing crowd of men and women from 
 all parts of the world. The Paris cafes are required to close 
 at 9.30 p.m. — clock time; that really means half-past eight, 
 so that almost before night begins the city is dark and people 
 go to bed because there is no other place to go. The German 
 lines at Noyon are only sixty miles away and airplanes can 
 fly those sixty miles in half as many minutes; that is one 
 reason why Paris is darkened. The other reason is to save 
 coal. A big tin hood overhangs the top of each lamp post and 
 throws the light direct to the ground around the base of the 
 post; you can see the base of such posts as are lighted, but 
 that is about all you can see and so for the duration of the 
 war the night life of Paris is as quiet and as exemplary as 
 that of a New England village. 
 
 Paris, 
 August 14. 
 I AM living in lodgings on the Rue Richepanse where Robes- 
 pierre lived during the Reign of Terror; from my windows 
 I can look out on the place across the narrow street where 
 Danton lived, and around the corner on the Rue St. Honore 
 is the church in front of which Napoleon planted his cannon 
 and mowed down the soldiers of the Sections in 1794. Amid 
 such surroundings the French Revolution seems much nearer 
 and more real than it did when I was at home in St. Louis. 
 Last night while reading Lamartine's vivid pages describing 
 Robespierre's doings at the very time when he occupied this 
 room I looked up from the written pages almost expecting to 
 see the "Sea-green Incorruptible" walk in, hang up his hat and 
 make himself at home. He has often done so in this ancient 
 stone house on the Rue Richepanse; the worn places on the 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 9 
 
 winding wooden stairs were made by Robespierre's feet — that 
 is, in part. The stairs, like the house, are nearly four hundred 
 years old and those worn places have been made by the feet 
 of countless thousands of men and women who have long 
 since become mere shadows, phantoms, as I soon shall be, 
 without a resting place even in the memory of any of the living. 
 But one of those who trod those stairs, Robespierre, will always 
 be remembered — not with love, not even with admiration. But 
 he will be remembered for many centuries to come and so I 
 shall remain here for a while for the sake of him whose spirit 
 hovers over my bed where he slept during those awful nights 
 of the Terror, but I know I shall not be able to stand it long. 
 "Atmosphere" is all well enough for a month or so, but in 
 the long run a bath counts for more than historical memories. 
 
 Paris, Sunday, 
 August 20. 
 
 My landlady's son. Monsieur P., a youth of twenty-five 
 returned to-day from the front at Verdun where he was 
 wounded. He calls himself an "Intellectual" Socialist but the 
 strenuous hfe he now leads gives him no time for politics. 
 He breathes and lives and thinks only of war. At dejeuner 
 to-day he told me of his experience with a spy who had been 
 caught telephoning the Germans from a farm house. At the 
 moment of the capture the French were in retreat. There 
 was no time to hold a court martial so the spy was bound on 
 top of a cannon and on this grim vehicle was carried back to 
 the rear. There, behind the new lines, he was tried, convicted 
 and sentenced to be shot the next morning. 
 
 "Do you know. Monsieur," said young Lieutenant P., "I 
 summoned that man into my tent and told him his life would 
 be spared if he would but answer my questions, but not a 
 word would he speak about that telephone or the information 
 he had given the Germans. To all my questions he would only 
 reply: 'Monsieur, put yourself in my place: would you be- 
 
10 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 tray your secrets to the Germans were you to fall into their 
 hands?' What answer could I make to that? Mon Dieu! It 
 was a frightful situation. I could not help respect the man 
 and pity him." 
 
 "And did you spare him?" I queried. 
 
 Lieutenant P. looked at me in surprise. 
 
 "Of course not," he answered. "I pitied him, but I per- 
 formed my duty. Two poilus conducted him from my tent. 
 At the edge of the grave that was dug for him I questioned 
 him again. He merely smiled and shook his head. That was 
 the end. A moment later he tumbled into that grave, the 
 dirt was piled over him and we moved on. It was a tragedy, 
 Monsieur, but war is one great tragedy." 
 
 Lieutenant P. spoke rather slightingly of the English. 
 
 "Though they outnumber us we guard three kilometres of 
 front to their one," said he. "Do you know why?" I told 
 him no, and he added: "Because they wish to keep their army 
 fresh. They leave the hardest, most dangerous work to us so 
 that when all of us gather around the peace table they will 
 be the strongest, they will have the largest armies and thus 
 will have more to say in dictating the terms of peace. The 
 English talk of coming into the war to save Belgium. Bah! 
 What hypocrisy! They came into the war to save themselves. 
 They are utterly selfish." 
 
 "Aren't the French a trifle selfish, too?" I asked. 
 
 "What do you mean?" demanded Monsieur P. 
 
 "Why," said I, "simply this: that self-preservation is the 
 first law of Nations as well as of individuals. France would 
 not have entered the war had not her safety, perhaps even her 
 existence, been threatened. No nation ever did go to war 
 unless it had some national interest at stake. Lacking such 
 an interest, would it not be criminal for the President or King 
 of a Nation to lead his people into a war?" 
 
 Lieutenant P. was just enough to say that this view had 
 not occurred to him; he admitted, now it was presented to him, 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT ii 
 
 that perhaps he had done England an injustice. Certainly, 
 without England's fleet on the side of the Allies Germany 
 would long since have won the war; had she stopped with 
 giving her fleet England would be entitled to the thanks of 
 Civilization. But she did not stop with her fleet; she raised 
 an army of four million and her far flung battle lines now 
 extend to every continent on the globe. No one knows better 
 than Germany the meaning of all this; no one knows better 
 that Sea Power, like gravity, works constantly by day and 
 by night, building up, refreshing, invigorating the country 
 which has it, while slowly strangling the country which has 
 it not! For fifteen years Napoleon was the master of Europe; 
 his will was supreme from Madrid to Moscow. But when his 
 feet touched the shores of the sea there, always facing him, 
 always unrelenting, implacable, stood his unconquered and 
 unconquerable foe, Great Britain! Further to remove Lieu- 
 tenant P.'s unjust conception of the part England has played 
 in this gigantic contest, I read to him the following paragraph 
 from a recent editorial in Maximilian Harden's Die Zukunjt: 
 
 "How can you deprive England of her strength? . . . 
 Britain is not even suffering yet. . . . London's face has 
 shown no fear ; her ships sail regularly to and from America. 
 English traders are now serving some of our clients, and look 
 forward to have them all. England does not need to give up 
 anything, and she can barricade all the roads by which we could 
 fetch raw materials for our industries. 
 
 "There is the story — Sea Power! Germany's magnificent 
 armies batter down opposition east and west, but new armies 
 appear, freshly equipped. The enemy obtains food, but Ger- 
 many can not obtain it. 
 
 "The Allies carry on commerce and are making part of the 
 money consumed by the war, but Germany has no commerce 
 and is making no money; she is taking the sinews of war from 
 her own vitals while the Allies draw upon the world. 
 
 "If something could be done to break England's sea power 
 Germany could breathe freely again. Armies could be rested 
 
12 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 and refreshed and re-equipped. Food and money would flow 
 in. But time works with deadly certainty against Germany 
 while England holds the seas." 
 
 This has ever been the story of Sea Power. The Southern 
 Confederacy fought against great odds with a heroism that 
 has never been exceeded in the history of war. But the oceans 
 were closed to the Confederacy and so half a century ago the 
 South, like the Germans to-day, had to draw from her own 
 vitals the sinews of war. On Sunday, April 2, 1865, while 
 worshipping in St. Paul's Church, Richmond, Jefferson Davis 
 received a note from General Lee saying he could not hold his 
 Hnes more than twenty-four hours. The Confederate presi- 
 dent stole quietly out of the church, went to the Capital and 
 while clerks hurriedly packed up the government papers Jeff 
 Davis penned a proclamation telling the people that the Army 
 of Northern Virginia, now that it could operate on purely 
 military lines without the necessity of defending Richmond, 
 would inevitably defeat the enemy and bring Victory to the 
 South! Nine days later Lee surrendered and three weeks later 
 Davis was a prisoner in a Fortress dungeon! 
 
 Query: If a President will issue a glowing Victory procla- 
 mation within nine days of crushing defeat, what may not the 
 Kaiser say up to the last minute before he meets his Water- 
 loo? It may be that the Allies will tire and accept an incon- 
 clusive peace; it may be that England won't make the sacri- 
 fice she did in her twenty years' implacable war on Napoleon. 
 But my guess is that she will, for if she doesn't, if by hook or 
 crook Germany is allowed to "get away" with her policy of 
 bullying the world, England will cease to be an Empire; she 
 will sink into insignificance as a third rate island. 
 
 Paris, 
 August 21. 
 Lunched recently with Ambassador Sharp who lives in a 
 palatial home at No. 14 Avenue d'Eylau. Mr. Sharp told 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 13 
 
 me his coal bill last winter was over $2,000, and at that the 
 house was not kept warm. What with the cost of coal, the 
 high price of living, the numerous entertainments he feels 
 called on to give, etc., it costs Mr. Sharp some $25,000 a year, 
 over and above his Ambassador's salary ($17,500) to repre- 
 sent the United States in France. Many people think our 
 government ought to furnish its ambassadors a residence in 
 the capital to which they are assigned, together with a suit- 
 able allowance for maintenance and entertainments. The Eng- 
 lish Ambassador in Paris occupies a palace owned by his gov- 
 ernment and he lives in almost regal style. In the opinion 
 of some, this splendor impresses a foreign government and is 
 one of the things that gives supremacy to British diplomacy. 
 Other people, however, say that nowadays an Ambassador is 
 merely a man at the end of a cable, that he acts merely as an 
 intermediary to present to a foreign office the views his gov- 
 ernment cables him to present. Also some people point to 
 the work done by several of our early ministers abroad — 
 notably by Benjamin Franklin who lived in a modest little 
 house not five minutes' walk from the palatial mansion occu- 
 pied now by Ambassador Sharp. The Spartan simplicity prac- 
 ticed by Franklin did not prevent him from doing his country 
 great service in France. 
 
 Ris Orangis, Saturday night, 
 August 26, 1916. 
 I AM writing these notes by the dim light of a tallow candle 
 in a quaint old Inn, after a day replete with interest, pathos 
 and tragedy; for my mission here was to inspect a hospital 
 full of wounded soldiers just arrived from the front. The 
 sight of those poor pieces of wrecked humanity made me 
 shudder, but strange to say, they were not shuddering; they 
 were not even gloomy. Despite their broken faces, their miss- 
 ing limbs, their sightless eyes there was not one of them but 
 seemed absolutely cheerful! 
 
14 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 In the hospital I was met by Mrs. Gertrude Clapp, head of 
 the American nurses, who accompanied me through the vari- 
 ous wards. I found every detail of the great hospital was 
 being looked after with the most intelligent and painstaking 
 care, but no amount of science and sanitation was able to 
 prevent my heart from sinking within me at the sight of so 
 many brave men so frightfully, so uselessly suffering, crippled, 
 mangled! One mere boy, barely 21, had received several 
 terrible wounds while performing a deed of special heroism 
 for which he had been decorated; the bright piece of ribbon 
 was taken to him by his commanding officer and it brought 
 tears to my eyes to see that brave lad struggle up on his pillow 
 so that he might salute his colonel. 
 
 "Restez tranquille, mon enfant," said the officer; and there 
 was a suspicious moisture in his eye, as he stooped down 
 and kissed the boy on both cheeks, then pinned the ribbon on 
 his breast. The colonel made a little speech in which he told 
 how gallantly the boy had behaved and how proud France was 
 of him; this brought a happy look into the poor boy's eyes and 
 a faint smile to his tired lips, but it did little to console the 
 desolate mother who stood weeping at the foot of the bed. 
 The doctors knew the boy would never leave his bed alive and 
 so they had sent for his mother to tell him good-by. She was 
 a plain woman of the people but on her tear-stained face was 
 a look of nobility, of unutterable but calm, uncomplaining 
 misery that I shall never forget. She was proud of her boy; 
 she was glad he had proved himself a hero; perhaps she was 
 even willing that he should die for his country. For oh, how 
 the French do love their beautiful France! But neither the 
 honor nor the thought that she had done her duty by her 
 glorious country lessened that poor woman's suffering. Within 
 an hour after we stood at that bedside and saw that piece of 
 bright ribbon pinned onto the wounded hero's breast the brave 
 boy ceased to breathe. He had paid the supreme sacrifice 
 for land and liberty, for honor and civilization, and his weep- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 15 
 
 ing mother was escorted back to her empty, desolate home — 
 another of War's innumerable victims. 
 
 A blesse with whom I was allowed to talk only a few mo- 
 ments was a youth even younger than the one above men- 
 tioned, a boy of only 19 whose leg had been amputated the 
 day before. He was not sorry to have sacrificed himself for 
 France; his only regret, he said, was that he could fight no 
 more. I thought the feverish light in his burning eyes indi- 
 cated that he might be suffering, but when I asked him if he 
 felt pain he said: "No, not a bit. The only thing that wor- 
 ries me is the itching of my foot. I want to scratch it but can 
 not because it is in the foot that has been cut off!" 
 
 While cheerfulness was the rule, still some there were who 
 seemed overwhelmed by the suddenness and completeness of 
 the wreck of their lives. To be well, vigorous, all the future 
 a beautiful golden promise, then in an instant to become but 
 a piece of broken, crushed humanity, the future black as night, 
 without a single ray of hope — that, indeed, is a thing hard to 
 be borne and the wonder is, not that some give way to sad- 
 ness, but that any can bear bravely such overwhelming mis- 
 fortune. A few of the badly wounded began crying when I 
 approached their bedsides, and some turned their faces to- 
 ward the wall. Their spirits as well as their bodies were 
 crushed; they were beyond consoling and it seemed as if 
 their one wish was that death should come quickly and re- 
 lieve them from their suffering. One young officer with whom 
 I spoke had been laying there on his back since September, 
 19 1 5, a whole year, his wound obstinately refusing to heal. 
 The whole of his right thigh had been torn to pieces by 
 shrapnel shell. God! If monarchs and statesmen who make 
 war could see its fruits before they take the fatal step it prob- 
 ably would never be taken at all. 
 
 The American nurses seem to have endeared themselves to 
 the wounded soldiers; the nurses can't speak French, but for 
 all that they make themselves understood and they are so 
 
1 6 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 smiling, so gentle, so cheery, the soldiers seem to adore them. 
 The moment Mrs. Clapp entered a ward every man who had 
 any strength turned his head toward her and smiled and 
 their eyes spoke as plainly as words the gratitude they felt 
 for what she and her sister nurses were doing. That the 
 nurses take a genuine interest in their unfortunate charges is 
 shown by a letter I received recently from one of them about 
 the conditions at Ris Orangis. In the course of that letter 
 Miss C. said: 
 
 "One can not help taking a warm personal interest here. 
 Last night we received a fresh lot of wounded from Amiens 
 and some of them are in a shocking state and very tired from 
 their journey. One poor fellow has lost his thigh, it having 
 been shot away. Another has a large hole in his forehead; I 
 do not know how he escaped death. Still another has half a 
 dozen wounds in his back, the result of a bursting shell. 
 
 But the one who most interests me is a beautiful 19-year-old 
 boy who received a head injury that has caused partial paraly- 
 sis of the right side. I do not know if it will heal, but I asked 
 Dr. Alba this morning as a special favor to look after this boy. 
 Dr. Alba, our orthopaedic surgeon from New York, has accom- 
 plished some very wonderful things here and I have hope that 
 he may do something for this poor boy. He promised me to 
 do what he can, so I am hopeful and happy. I have to run 
 away when the boy turns his big, pathetic eyes on me. He 
 seems mutely to ask why this awful thing was done to him. I 
 hate war, and I hate the men who caused it and hope it will 
 soon end." 
 
 Moret sur Loing, Sunday night, 
 August 27, 
 I CAME here from Ris Orangis to get away from the hor- 
 rors of the hospital there, and to visit my friend John Terry 
 and his wife who are spending August in this wonderfully 
 picturesque old town which in happier days before the war 
 was a Mecca for the artists of Paris. In the little dining- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 17 
 
 room of the Inn de la Palette where I am writing these notes 
 I see many reminders of those artists who are now gunning 
 for Germans instead of making beautiful pictures; for in- 
 stance, on the door there is a landscape painted by a noted 
 artist, while on the wall above is a hunting scene in the Forest 
 of Fontainebleau, both paintings contributed gratis to the little 
 Inn as a token of the artists' appreciation of its cosiness and 
 cheer. Mine Host is off to the War, but he left his wife be- 
 hind him and John tells me she prepares such bountiful lunch- 
 eons and dinners that it is hard for him to realize France is at 
 war and that the fighting front is only sixty miles away. I 
 am prepared to believe this, for to-night the good woman 
 not only served me the things specified on the regular menu 
 but insisted that I tell her my special "favorites" and then 
 proceeded to serve them, too. When thus amplified by my 
 "specials" (pigeons on toast) the dinner also comprised vermi- 
 celli soup, fried eggs and ham, green peas and caramel pud- 
 ding. As I am paying only six francs, $1.03, for full pension 
 (Dinner, room, breakfast and luncheon) it can not be said 
 that war prices at the Inn de la Palette are high. 
 
 Paris, 
 September 3, 19 16. 
 Word has come from Ambassador Gerard in Berlin that 
 the German government wants us to investigate the condition 
 of the prison camps in Corsica. The German Minister for 
 Foreign Affairs says he is informed that the German prison- 
 ers of war in Corsica are being barbarically treated and if they 
 are not better treated it will be His Majesty the Kaiser's 
 painful duty to take a similar number of French prisoners 
 in Germany and submit them to a similar rigorous treatment. 
 Evidently there is no time to be lost and so, for the sake of 
 the French prisoners in Germany as well as of the Germans in 
 Corsica, I'm off for Nice to-morrow. At Nice Surgeon Major 
 J. R. Church and Captain Marlborough Churchill of the 
 
1 8 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 United States Army, and Hastings Morse of the Paris Em- 
 bassy, will join me to sail Thursday for Bastia. Even in nor- 
 mal times the journey from Paris to Bastia is a tedious one; 
 in these war times it is also dangerous, for the steamer out 
 of Nice, being always crowded with soldiers either going to 
 Corsica on a furlough, or returning from one, are the special 
 targets of the U-boats. They fairly swarm in that part of 
 the Mediterranean and even if they miss you, or are beaten 
 off by the ship's guns, still is the voyage too exciting, too 
 nerve-racking to count as a pleas- e trip. But without thought 
 of pay, or even of thanks (s' far Germany has given us 
 neither) America has underta];en this task of looking after 
 the Down-and-Outs, after the prisoners of war. And so I 
 must be off to Corsica notwithstanding I well know that even 
 while on a German mission Germany will do her best to send 
 me to the bottom of the sea. 
 
 Nice, Wednesday, 
 September 6. 
 
 The round trip ticket, first class, Paris to Nice costs $21 
 and the distance is 680 miles each way; the fare from St. 
 Louis to New York, one way, is $24* and the distance is a 
 thousand miles, or 360 miles less than the round trip between 
 Paris and Nice. To offset this cheaper railroad fare in France 
 I had to pay twice as much for my sleeping car berth and 
 then got only half as good service as one gets in an American 
 Pullman. The berth from Paris to Nice, 680 miles in eighteen 
 hours, costs $10; a berth from St. Louis to New York, 1,000 
 miles in twenty-eight hours, costs $6, with Sambo, the porter, 
 included. And Sambo is an institution you certainly do ap- 
 
 * Railroad rates in the United States have rapidly risen since 
 this entry was written; the rate now (August 1918), St. Louis 
 to New York, is $46.60 for railroad ticket and a berth in a 
 Pullman. The former cost was $30.00, so that the increase in 
 15 months of war is more than 50 per cent. There has not been 
 as large an increase in France after four years of war. 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 19 
 
 predate once you have in his place the porter of a French 
 sleeping car. The middle-aged Frenchman supposed to at- 
 tend to my wants on the way to Nice was too busy reading 
 war news to polish my boots, carry my hand bag or render 
 any other service than to make up my bed, and even that he 
 did in most slovenly fashion. But he was not too busy to 
 expect, nor to take, the tip which I gave him at the journey's 
 end. 
 
 Sharing my compartment as far as Marseilles was a bald 
 Frenchman. His confidence in whipping the Bosch and in 
 France's regaining Alsace and Lorraine was supreme, "It may 
 not be this year, Monsieur," he said, "But it surely will be 
 some time. We will never make peace until the wrong of 1870 
 has been righted." 
 
 "The Germans are powerful," I suggested. "They are still 
 on French soil. What if it proves impossible to push them 
 back?" 
 
 "Bah! It will not prove impossible," exclaimed the bald 
 Frenchman. "You must remember. Monsieur, we were not 
 preparing for fifty years for this war as were the Bosch. In 
 1 9 14 we were not ready, but now that we have been forced 
 to make war we are building a better war machine than our 
 enemy's. In two years we have already equalled him; in 
 another year we shall surpass him. And then on to Berlin!" 
 
 I have talked with many men in France and all, from the 
 high officers down to the poilus in the trenches, from rich 
 civilians down to the poorest cobbler or village baker, talk as 
 did my bald traveling companion. All are sublimely sure of 
 victory. This spirit is worth a dozen army corps and ex- 
 plains in part the victories of Verdun and the Mame. By 
 all sound rules of war the Germans should have won those 
 battles; their superiority in both men and material was over- 
 whelming — but such was the spirit of France that the appar- 
 ently impossible became possible and the Potsdam pirates' plan 
 of world dominion was shattered, let us hope forever! 
 
20 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 At eight o'clock this morning, an hour before we were due 
 at Marseilles, we went forward to the Wagon Restaurant and 
 in spite of the very crowded condition of the train were served 
 without a moment's delay an appetizing and inexpensive break- 
 fast. On an American train that is crowded one has to stand 
 out on the dining car's platform, hungrily watching the diners 
 within, and rushing in to seize the first chair that is vacated. 
 In France there is no need to make such a display of bad 
 manners; there are several services in the dining car, each 
 service at a different hour. You choose your service and are 
 given a pink ticket which entitles you to a seat provided you 
 claim it within five minutes of the time noted on the pink 
 ticket. Last night I selected the eight o'clock breakfast serv- 
 ice and this morning on presenting my pink ticket to the 
 Steward of the Diner I was at once given a seat opposite a 
 gorgeous looking Oriental who bore a striking resemblance to 
 Edwin Booth as Othello; he had piercing dark eyes, dark 
 olive skin, short black beard parted in the middle, a turban 
 on his head, jewels on his hands and around his waist a broad, 
 brilliantly colored sash into which was thrust a regular arsenal 
 of pistols and daggers! 
 
 As I looked out of the comer of my eye at this savagely 
 picturesque fellow, wondering where was his Desdemona, a 
 dainty and remarkably pretty piece of femininity entered the 
 car, advanced to our table and sat herself beside Othello. 
 She was Parisian to the core and so I could not help wonder- 
 ing what trick of Fate had linked her to this fierce Algerian. 
 With his own hands he made her numerous butter-thin sand- 
 wiches spread heavily with jam, and the drink served her was 
 very thick and very sweet chocolate. I could picture how 
 much of her sylph-like form would be left after five years of 
 such diet — but then, no doubt long before five years elapse 
 this oddly matched couple will have separated. When I asked 
 my bald Frenchman, after Othello and Desdemona had left 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 21 
 
 the car, who they were, he shrugged his shoulders and an- 
 swered disdainfully: 
 
 "I do not know his name. I only know that he is one of 
 those Algerian grafters who has been to Paris to get his blood 
 money." 
 
 "What do you mean by blood money?" I queried. 
 
 "That fellow is paid for letting other men shed their blood 
 for France," exclaimed my companion. "He takes good care 
 of his own skin; you will never see him at the front. But 
 he lets his men go and so he has been to Paris to get his 
 pay." 
 
 "And his men," I asked. "What pay do they get?" 
 
 "Four sous (four cents) a day, the same as our French 
 poilus. That is all they get for risking their lives, while for 
 letting them fight their chief gets hundreds of thousands of 
 francs." 
 
 When the train pulled into the great Marseilles station a 
 group of distinguished officials w£is waiting on the platform, 
 and such bowing and scraping I never saw before. Othello 
 surveyed the French officials with their silk hats and red sashes 
 with a lofty, detached manner and suffered himself to be 
 escorted to the waiting automobiles. Desdemona fell demurely 
 behind, accompanied by a bevy of maids and companions, and 
 altogether it was as interesting and theatrical a scene as one 
 sees on Belasco's stage. 
 
 Morse of the Embassy and Major Church and Captain 
 Churchill of the U. S. Army have wired they will be here in 
 the morning. 
 
 Bastia, Corsica, Sunday Night, 
 
 September 10, 19 16. 
 
 The S. S. Pelion was both small and crowded, consequently 
 
 only one tiny cabin was assigned to our party of four. Morse, 
 
 who had wired for a cabin de luxe, was comically upset when 
 
 he saw our small, dirty quarters; the lack of even a wash 
 
2 2 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 basin or chair, the presence of suggestive vomit bowls, the 
 lack of sheets on the beds — all these things made Morse feel 
 that Fate had a grudge against us. The two other members 
 of my party, both soldiers with experience in Cuba and the 
 Philippines, smiled at the woe-begone expression of my young- 
 est and most inexperienced colleague, but in truth they liked 
 that dirty cabin no more than did young Morse, so we re- 
 solved to spend the night on deck. 
 
 As the Pelion steamed out of Nice the scene on her decks 
 was picturesque in the extreme; six hundred "Permission- 
 naires" were aboard, French soldiers returning from the 
 trenches to spend six days with their families in Corsica; 
 these were squatting about the decks, smoking cigarettes, tell- 
 ing camp yarns, singing lively barracks songs, all bubbling 
 over with happiness at thought of going home again! And 
 so, for an hour or two, the Pelion made up in gaiety and good 
 fellowship what it lacked in comfort and cleanliness. After 
 Nice's painted houses with their red, blue and green tiled 
 roofs, faded away in the distance and the darkness of night 
 descended upon us, the ship's officers went about cautioning 
 every one to keep quiet and to make no lights, not even that 
 of a cigarette. German U-boat commanders have sharp 
 eyes and the striking of a match to light a cigarette may 
 suffice to bring a torpedo crashing through the side of the 
 Pelion. 
 
 One would think such ominous warnings might make men 
 a trifle nervous, but the years of war through which Europe 
 has been passing have made people Fatalists. When Death 
 comes, as often he does, suddenly, destructively, killing a 
 whole ship's crew in five minutes — well, all men must die; 
 what matters it if it be sooner rather than later? Such is the 
 mental attitude of the average man in Europe where Death 
 is now so busy and so near. And so even in the silence and 
 the blackness of that September night, around us the deep sea 
 with its deadly submarines the Pelion's passengers were a 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 23 
 
 happy lot. The Permissionnaires laughed and chatted in sub- 
 dued whispers, exchanged yarns about their adventures in the 
 trenches and talked of the six glorious days they were about 
 to spend with their wives and little ones. 
 
 On awakening at day dawn we were relieved to observe 
 on either side of the Pelion a swift torpedo boat sent out from 
 Bastia to convoy us during the daylight part of the voyage. 
 Destroyers which make thirty miles an hour maneuver so 
 swiftly that U-boats dread them, and keep at a respectful 
 distance from them and from the ships they convoy. For two 
 hours before casting anchor in Bastia's harbor we steamed 
 slowly south along the Cape of Corsica, a superb view about 
 us. In the distance were two islands celebrated in fiction 
 and history — Monte Cristo and Elba — while close at hand 
 lofty mountains rose abruptly from the sea, their summits 
 crowned by ancient stone towers built in the time of the wars 
 between Pisa and Genoa. Lower down on the mountain slopes 
 were olive and orange groves in the midst of which stood 
 beautiful stone villas, snow white and glistening in the morn- 
 ing sun. It was so sweet, so peaceful a scene that for the 
 moment we forgot the mad world we had left only the night 
 before and were almost able to think of mankind as being 
 rational, instead of insane and bent upon tearing the world 
 to pieces. 
 
 At seven o'clock, twelve hours after hoisting anchor at Nice, 
 the Pelion made a sharp turn into Bastia's harbor and soon we 
 were looking down upon an affecting scene — the homecoming 
 of six hundred war- weary soldiers! From all parts of the 
 island, from remote mountain sides as well as from nearby 
 fields and villages, wives, mothers, daughters and children had 
 come — many on foot — to greet their returning heroes! Such 
 shouting, such crying, such a babble of voices I never heard 
 before. And when at last the ship was warped alongside her 
 dock and the soldiers had scampered down the gang plank, 
 with what hugs and kisses were they greeted! They were men 
 
24 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 returned from the Inferno of the trenches, and after only six 
 days they would be going back to that Inferno, perhaps never 
 to leave it alive. And so it behooved their women folk to 
 give them a rapturous reception! 
 
 I saw one woman whose hair was sprinkled with gray but 
 whose figure was straight and erect; her face with its classic 
 profile, its nobility of expression would have become the face 
 of a matron of ancient Rome. About her was a group of 
 younger women and half a dozen children, all intently search- 
 ing the sea of soldier faces on the Pelion's decks. Presently 
 finding the face they searched they cried out "Voila Papa! 
 Here we are, Sylvio!" And waved their gaudy handkerchiefs 
 and cried and smiled all at the same time. The gray-haired 
 matron spoke no word, but a lump seemed to rise in her throat 
 and tears came into her eyes as her soldier son ran down the 
 gang plank and crushed her in his strong arms. Home coming 
 is always sweet, but never is it so sweet, so full of deep and 
 tender emotions as when it follows a long absence in the 
 frightful Hell of War! 
 
 The Cyrnos Palace's broad marble terrace overlooks Bastia's 
 great public square in the center of which stands an imposing 
 statue of Napoleon near a Band Pavilion surrounded by 
 flowers and shrubbery and trees. Within half an hour after 
 leaving the Pelion the four of us were seated on this terrace 
 feasting the inner man on good things, and feasting our eyes 
 on the charming panorama around us — the sea to our left, 
 to the right massive mountains whose peaks towered up into 
 the clouds, in front of us Bastia's gaudily painted houses and 
 the open square with its marble Napoleon and its beautiful 
 garden. And to us breakfasting in this fairy-like place came a 
 courtly old gentleman. Monsieur Simon Damiani, a native of 
 Corsica, yet an American for forty years past and at present 
 representing the United States as its Consul in Bastia. When 
 a very young man Mr. Damiani went to the state of Virginia, 
 remained there long enough to become a naturalized American, 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 25 
 
 then returned to Corsica where he has resided ever since, one 
 of the island's wealthiest and most prominent merchants. 
 Having been advised from Paris by cable that we were due 
 in Bastia Friday morning, he called to pay his respects to the 
 "American Delegates" and to accompany us on our visit to the 
 civil and military governors. 
 
 Although the morning was warm Mr. Damiani wore black 
 gloves, as he explained, out of respect to our official dignity. 
 We begged him not to bother about our dignity but with 
 a deprecatory smile the courteous Consul declared he could 
 not be so lacking in respect for the representatives of our 
 great republic as to call upon them ungloved. 
 
 "But Monsieur Damiani," said I, "we want you to break- 
 fast with us, and of course to do that you must remove your 
 gloves." 
 
 I thought in this way to break the ice, but Corsican polite- 
 ness is not a thing lightly to be dismissed. When I passed the 
 omelette to the Consul he, with a self-effacing air passed it on 
 to Major Church who handed it to Captain Churchill who gave 
 it to Mr. Morse. Not to be outdone by the older members 
 of the party, Morse handed it to me, and I again gave it to 
 Mr. Damiani. And he was actually about to pass it a second 
 time to Major Church when I said firmly: 
 
 "Mr. Consul, I insist that you serve yourself. The omelette 
 is getting cold." 
 
 The courteous Damiani sighed and gently shrugged his 
 shoulders, "Since you insist, of course. But Monsieur, it 
 desolates me to do this thing. It is not right. I am at home 
 here; you are strangers and should be served first." 
 
 Half an hour later we arrived at the headquarters of Gen- 
 eral Leddet. Necessary orders were given to admit us to all 
 the monastery prisons, and to the other detention places, and 
 we learned that tins of gasoline would be provided along our 
 route so as to ensure a supply for our automobiles even in 
 remote mountain districts. 
 
26 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 By the time our next visit, that to the big Commandant of 
 Bastia, was finished, the morning was gone and we returned 
 to our hotel, not, however, before asking the Commandant, 
 and also M. Guilbout, the Sous-Prefet of Corsica, to join us 
 that night at dinner. Consul Damiani, of course, was also 
 included, so that our first evening in Bastia was a festive 
 one. The giant Commandant of Bastia with his flaming face 
 and fierce mustaches kept us all enthralled by tales of the 
 most extraordinary adventures in some of the world's wildest 
 places — he has seen service in French China, in Madagascar, 
 in Central Africa and some of his hairbreadth escapes rival 
 those of Dumas' Musquetaires. When the burly Commandant 
 paused between stories to drain a goblet of wine, Sous-Prefet 
 Guilbout told us of his life in Normandy and of the battles 
 in which he fought until wounds caused him to accept a civil 
 post in the rear. Then, by a little persuasion Major Church 
 and Captain Churchill were induced to tell something of 
 campaigning in Cuba and the Philippines, so that all in all 
 our first night in Corsica was one we shall long remember. 
 
 The Caserne Watrin, a massive fortress built centuries ago, 
 stands in the outskirts of Bastia on a huge rock that rises 
 straight out of the sea. From its windows and ramparts one 
 may look twenty miles across the water upon Elba's cliffs 
 where, in 1814, Napoleon used to stand and gaze longingly 
 upon the island of his birth. A fifteen-minute walk through 
 Bastia's narrow, tortuous streets brought Major Church and 
 me to the great arched entrance of the ancient Fortress where 
 an armed sentinel examined our papers, then told us to cross 
 the draw bridge and pass through the inner gate to the Com- 
 mandant's Bureau. Arrived there, we were received cordially 
 and were told we might go anywhere and see anything, but 
 that we could not speak privately with the prisoners. 
 
 In the Caserne Watrin, the Commandant chose to follow 
 literally the War Department's new order, consequently my 
 talk with the Germans within its massive walls was in the 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 27 
 
 presence of an interpreter. One of the Germans, in civil life 
 Captain of a Hamburg-American steamer, had learned excel- 
 lent English in New York and commenced to speak to me in 
 that language, but the interpreter sternly commanded him to 
 speak either in French or German. 
 
 The Fortress' casemates, enormous rooms forty feet long 
 by twenty-eight feet wide, have lofty vaulted stone ceilings 
 and each casemate has a large window that looks out upon 
 the sea. But I found these windows screened with iron bars 
 and their lower halves boarded up with half -inch thick wooden 
 planks. Only by climbing up on a table could I look out of 
 the windows, and so quite naturally those boards have been 
 the cause of bitter complaint. 
 
 "They make the ventilation bad," said the spokesman of 
 the prisoners. Captain Z. of Freibourg, "also they prevent 
 us from seeing anything but our prison walls. Since it can 
 do no possible harm to let us look out on the sea I pray your 
 Excellency to intercede with the Commandant. Get him to 
 remove these boards. It may seem a small thing to you, but 
 to us who for years are doomed to remain within four walls 
 it would be a very great thing could we see a bit of the world 
 that Hes beyond our Fortress prison." 
 
 This complaint seemed so well founded, I took it up with 
 the Commandant and was surprised by the explanation he 
 offered. 
 
 "Monsieur," said he, "the populace of Bastia is bitter to- 
 ward the prisoners. Were the windows unboarded insults, 
 perhaps even stones, would be hurled by the people at the 
 officers looking out of the windows." 
 
 Before making a reply I climbed up on a table, looked 
 down at the sea and judged it lay at least a hundred feet be- 
 low me. Then, my eye following the line of the water, I 
 noted Elba twenty miles away. 
 
 "Monsieur Commandant," said I, getting down from the 
 table, "do you think your fears warranted? The people of 
 
28 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 Elba are too far off to molest your prisoners, and the people 
 of Bastia can not get near these windows unless they swim 
 out to sea. Even in that case they would be a hundred feet 
 below the windows. Under such circumstances, Monsieur, I 
 must frankly say I can but report that the complaint of your 
 prisoners is well founded." 
 
 The Commandant talked very fast and gesticulated with 
 great eloquence, but the situation was really too obvious to 
 admit of discussion and at length he agreed to have the boards 
 removed. I am at a loss to guess his motive in ever placing 
 them over the windows. . . . Each of the large casemates 
 contains ten iron bed frames provided with rope lattice work 
 upon which is spread an isolating blanket. A straw sack is 
 laid on this blanket, then over the sack are spread two sheets 
 and one blanket. A pillow completes the outfit. One end 
 of the forty-foot casemates is curtained off so as to provide 
 a small dressing room. In each of these little rooms are a 
 wash stand, a pitcher, and shelves on which the prisoners put 
 their belongings. Light is admitted through a large window 
 looking out on the sea, and also through a big door opening 
 onto a 90-foot court. On the whole I concluded the officers' 
 sleeping quarters give no real cause for complaint. 
 
 An extra large casemate, 40x30 feet, used as a dining hall, 
 is specially well lighted and is provided with sixteen tables 
 with long benches sufficient in number to accommodate at 
 one sitting the 120 officers at present confined in the Fortress. 
 Their fourteen German soldiers who serve as orderlies were 
 as servile in their demeanor toward those Prussian "Supermen" 
 as if they were back in their slave barracks in Berlin instead 
 of being here in Corsica as fellow prisoners. One of the 
 casemates is used both as a library and a music room, and 
 this caused complaint. 
 
 "We who wish to read, Excellency," said Captain Z. of 
 Freibourg, "can't do so because of the noise the musicians 
 make. They are amateurs and we think the Commandant 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 29 
 
 should let them play in the Chapel, which is used for religious 
 services only on Sunday. Why not let the musicians play 
 there during the week?" 
 
 I referred this request to the Commandant but he peremp- 
 torily refused it, 
 
 "Monsieur," he said gravely, "the casemate dedicated as a 
 Chapel has been consecrated. It would not be right to permit 
 its use for profane purposes." 
 
 My power in the premises is limited merely to recommenda- 
 tions; it is the Commandant's province to say what shall be 
 done — unless I appeal to the Paris authorities, which natu- 
 rally I do not do except in a case of gravity. From what I 
 could judge, none of those Prussian prisoners is orthodox; 
 none would be shocked by the suggested "profane" use of 
 the Chapel, but the Commandant seemed to think it shocking 
 and so the matter was dropped, much to the regret of Captain 
 Z. and the majority of the prisoners who prefer to do their 
 reading without the accompaniment of an amateur German 
 band. 
 
 The officers' exercise place is in an inner court 90x48 feet; 
 there is also a small exercise place on the flat roof of the For- 
 tress whence one commands a superb view of Bastia, its harbor 
 and the islands of Elba and Monte Cristo. When I com- 
 mented on the marvelous beauty of the panorama spread out 
 before us Captain Z., who accompanied us throughout our 
 inspection of the Fortress, said sadly: 
 
 "Excellency, it is beautiful. But as the years roll by we 
 are unable to think of the beauty of Corsican scenery. We 
 think only of our homes, of our Fatherland. The sky over 
 Freibourg is never as blue as it is here, but to me it is more 
 beautiful and I long to see it again." 
 
 When one of the Prussian officers commits an infraction of 
 discipline he is confined in a small casemate about as large 
 as an ordinary room. I found this room lighted and venti- 
 lated, but the cell used as a punishment place for the four- 
 
30 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 teen orderlies when they commit misdeeds has as its only 
 window a narrow slit in the wall looking immediately down 
 upon six latrines. When the cell door is closed the darkness 
 is dense and the smell intolerable. I told the Commandant 
 I thought this cell should be abandoned; the Commandant 
 protested it was the only available place in the Fortress. 
 
 "As to that, Monsieur," said I, "I can not judge. But I 
 am able to judge as to the sufficiency of this cell and I must 
 tell you frankly it does not seem to me a fit place in which 
 to confine a human being no matter what his crime. I must 
 so report to Paris and Berlin, unless a change can be made." 
 
 Now, the effect of such a report would mean a row in both 
 Berlin and Paris; the French authorities do not wish to in- 
 vite reprisals upon French prisoners in Germany, consequently 
 the big men in Paris are apt to make trouble for a Com- 
 mandant whose administration of a prison camp is such as to 
 provoke trouble. No doubt it was this fact that prompted 
 Commandant B. finally to say he would do all he possibly 
 could to remedy this objection. As the fortress is so crowded 
 and so illy adapted to the making of any sanitary changes, I 
 have included in my report this paragraph: 
 
 "Altho' the Caserne Watrin is an ancient fortress it is not 
 unsuitable as an officers' prison provided these changes be 
 made: 
 
 (A) Install stoves; despite the mildness of Corsica's climate 
 the lofty vaulted stone casemates are damp and cold from 
 November to March. 
 
 (B) Install sanitary latrines. 
 
 (C) Remove the prison cell from proximity to the latrines. 
 Unless these things can be done the entire Depot should be 
 
 abandoned."* 
 
 *Note, November, 191 6: Whether the Paris authorities 
 deemed it impossible to install the suggested improvements, or 
 whether for reasons of their own they wished to transfer those 
 Prussian officers to another camp I do not know ; it is a fact. 
 however, that soon after my return to Paris the Minister of 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 31 
 
 At seven o'clock yesterday morning Major Church, Captain 
 Churchill and Mr. Morse set forth for the monastery at Mor- 
 siglia, situated on a mountain at the northern end of Cape 
 Corse, the long "finger" of Corsica which extends due north 
 from Bastia toward the coast of France. For many miles the 
 road runs along the sea, sometimes near its level, sometimes 
 winding up dizzy heights, and always making wonderful turns, 
 like the turn of a hairpin. But our expert chauffeur hardly 
 slackened his pace for even the sharpest turns on the highest 
 parts of the road. At first we shivered and our hair stood on 
 end, but after a while, perceiving that the chauffeur knew 
 what he was doing, we stopped watching him and enjoyed the 
 marvelous scenery. At nine o'clock we reached a small prison 
 camp on the mountain side; it consisted of a wooden bar- 
 racks and several wooden sheds, one used as a kitchen, an- 
 other as a canteen, another as a wash room, etc. A barbed 
 wire fence incloses these buildings, which are occupied by 
 Greeks and Serbians who told me they are badly treated; not 
 that the condition of the camp warrants complaint; on the 
 contrary, while the camp is primitive it is not unsanitary, 
 the food is ample and nourishing, and the sleeping bunks are 
 reasonably comfortable. No, what ails the Greeks and Ser- 
 bians is that they are imprisoned at all; they declare, and no 
 doubt truthfully, that they hate Austria. But they are Aus- 
 trian subjects because of Austria's forcible annexation of 
 Bosnia in 1908 and so legally, if not spiritually, they are 
 enemies of France and as such are to be interned for the 
 duration of the war. The "prison" of this camp is a shed 
 the size of the average coal shed in the average citizen's back 
 yard. When the Guard opened the door of this primitive 
 
 War issued orders for the transfer and thus was the gloomy old 
 fortress again left to the silence and emptiness that had reigned 
 within its walls for centuries prior to the day when the present 
 World War sent Germans there to eat out their hearts in a 
 dreary and apparently endless captivity ! 
 
32 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 prison at first glance it seemed empty, but, looking more 
 closely, I saw a big, sleepy looking fellow perched on a shelf 
 six feet above the floor engaged in the task of peeling pota- 
 toes. The Guard ordered him to climb down and do his 
 work on the floor, but the prisoner didn't budge; he remained 
 perched on his shelf, a grin on his face, his hands busy with 
 the potatoes. The French Guard shrugged his shoulders, 
 locked the door and then conducted me to the kitchen. "That 
 fellow doesn't understand a word of French," said the guard 
 as we crossed the yard. "If he did I wouldn't stand for dis- 
 obedience like that. As it is, what can I do? Mon Dieu! It 
 is not worth while to bother with him!" Such is sometimes 
 the good natured French way of treating prisoners. 
 
 Resuming our journey, we climbed a high mountain until 
 before us perched on a peak we saw Morsiglia's ancient mon- 
 astery. It was not far away, but the road was so winding and 
 so steep, even after the building seemed close at hand it re- 
 quired a quarter of an hour to reach it. As our automobile 
 approached the monastery a great crowd came out to wel- 
 come us; to those hundreds of men who have been marooned 
 in this remote spot for two years the coming of four strangers 
 is an event, especially when those strangers are from the 
 Paris Embassy of the United States, come to look after their 
 interests and to better their condition if betterment is possible. 
 The monastery of Morsiglia contains scores of small cells 
 which once housed barefooted monks, but which now house 
 German civilians of high and low degree, all of whom seem 
 to take captivity very hard. A soldier's lot in the trenches is 
 so unenviable that he sees little hardship in being taken a 
 prisoner; in fact, Fritz being better off in even the worst 
 French prison camp than in the German trenches, does not 
 repine over captivity. It is different with the civilian who is 
 thrust of a sudden from a comfortable, perhaps even a luxuri- 
 ous, home into a bare barrack, or perhaps into some ancient 
 monastery upon a lofty peak on a desolate island! For in- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 33 
 
 stance, the chief of the Morsiglia prisoners, a Dr. Fabian of 
 Berlin, said to me: 
 
 "I left Berlin July 20, 1914, to take a holiday trip on a 
 Hamburg-American steamer that was to make a yachting tour 
 of the Mediterranean. In three weeks I was due back in my 
 Berlin office, but here I am in this lonely place after more than 
 two years. And only God knows how many more years I am 
 to stay here!" 
 
 "How did it happen?" I asked. 
 
 "Why, one fine morning as we were gliding along the Span- 
 ish coast a French man-of-war stopped us, told us war had 
 been declared and took us to Marseilles. Thence I was 
 brought here, and here I have been ever since. Nice ending, 
 isn't it, for a three weeks' vacation trip?" 
 
 The central nave and the chapels of the Monastery Church 
 at Morsiglia are also used to house prisoners; the floors, 
 covered with straw sacks on which the Germans sleep, are 
 none too warm and none too soft. Certainly the contrast 
 between his Berlin home and his bunk in one of the little 
 chapels must be painful to Dr. Fabian, who appears to be a 
 man of wealth and social standing. The only prisoner I saw 
 at Morsiglia who seemed thoroughly contented was a fat bare- 
 footed friar dressed in the garb of his order, a thick brown 
 dress, a rope around his middle, straw sandals on his bare feet 
 and a coarse woolen shirt covering his body. He is from a 
 Bavarian monastery and owes his captivity to the fact that 
 at the moment war was declared in August, 19 14, he happened 
 to be in France, having gone there for the pious purpose of 
 paying devotion to the miraculous Lady of Lourdes. When I 
 saw him in his 5x10 cell at Morsiglia he was tolling beads and 
 fingering the leaves of the life of some saint, and no doubt 
 is quite as well off as he would be in a similar monastery in 
 Germany. Next to this monk's cell I saw a bespectacled 
 young man studying chemistry; in the cell beyond him a pale- 
 faced youth stopped playing on his violin to tell me how 
 
34 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 great had been his hopes of becoming a virtuoso; he said that 
 in 1 9 14 the critics predicted he would rival the old Masters, 
 then, without a day's warning, he had been seized and brought 
 to this dirty, crowded, lonely building! "I have tried to keep 
 up my music," he said, "I have tried hard, but it is useless. 
 In this hole one can not keep up the soul of a violin!" With 
 that the pale-faced youth resumed his playing, but it was easy 
 to see that in truth there was no hope, no soul, in what he was 
 doing. 
 
 The village of Pino, with an excellent inn, is only a few 
 miles from Morsiglia; after inspecting the Morsiglia mon- 
 astery and finding there no real cause for complaint we went 
 to that Pino Inn for lunch, then we climbed another peak 
 that rises a sheer 1,600 feet out of the sea to visit a Franciscan 
 monastery where a hundred Germans are interned. Eight 
 hundred feet directly above this Franciscan monastery at Luri 
 is an ancient stone tower, where the philosopher Seneca is 
 said to have spent the years of his exile after Nero banished 
 him from Rome. Personally I think this is one of history's 
 romances, but if I am wrong in this, then certainly Seneca 
 must have been pretty spry to have chosen this place as his 
 home; a mountain goat, much less a middle-aged philosopher, 
 would find it a tiresome task to climb up to that tower. When 
 Pisa and Genoa were rival republics Seneca's tower afforded a 
 fine vantage ground for the side that happened to be inside of 
 it. The tower commands a view of the Mediterranean on both 
 sides of the island so that no matter from which direction an 
 enemy may come he can be seen and signals given to the people 
 in the valleys. In those old days when an enemy came in 
 force the Corsicans climbed up the mountain to the tower, got 
 inside it by means of rope ladders let down from the top — 
 for there were no doors or windows in the tower, and once 
 inside that massive stone structure only a long siege could 
 dislodge them. 
 
 Among the internes at Luri is a Berliner, Herr Kurt Ger- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 35 
 
 son, formerly of Gitschiner Str. 95 I, Berlin, but more recently 
 of 38 Boulevard de Magenta, Paris. At the latter place he 
 was earning up to the beginning of the war 75,000 francs a 
 year as a Civil Engineer and Constructor of large factory 
 buildings; here at Luri the Commandant has had Herr Ger- 
 son build a road up the mountain from the sea to the mon- 
 astery; the road, as fine a piece of engineering work as one 
 would wish to see, is nearly completed and Herr Gerson told 
 me he will build no more roads if the Commandant does not 
 pay him enough to enable him to keep his wife and child 
 where they are now — in a little house on the mountain side 
 six hundred feet below the Luri Monastery. So far Herr Ger- 
 son has been paid only the regulation amount of four cents 
 a day; the privilege of slipping down the mountain side to his 
 wife and child every night, instead of being made to sleep on 
 a straw sack in the monastery, he deems compensation for 
 the service he has rendered. Herr Gerson would gladly go on 
 giving his skill for four cents a day, could the arrangement 
 about his family go on, too. Unluckily, his savings — at least 
 such of them as he was allowed to take out of Paris — are now 
 exhausted; he has only a few francs left and his wife and 
 child must leave the little house on the mountain side unless 
 the Commandant will pay Herr Gerson enough to support his 
 family. A civilian interne can not be forced to work, conse- 
 quently I told Gerson I hoped to be able to do something for 
 him, and I did on returning last night to Bastia. Sous-Prefet 
 Guilbout, when the case was presented to him, agreed to allow 
 Gerson a modest but sufficient compensation. In these days 
 when every able-bodied man is fighting at the front it is not 
 easy to find a skilled Civil Engineer. M. Guilbout can well 
 afford to allow Gerson a small salary for the fine roads he 
 will build up some very difficult mountains. 
 
 This (Sunday) afternoon at 4 o'clock Consul Damiani's 
 automobile called at the Cyrnos Palace to take us to his villa 
 
36 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 on the mountain side a mile out of town and 600 feet above 
 the sea. From Mr. Damiani's terrace we saw the waves dash- 
 ing against the rocks 600 feet below, while across the waters 
 were the cliffs of Elba with their memories of Napoleon. The 
 affair was supposed to be a tea, but the only liquids served 
 on that lovely terrace were champagnes and liqueurs. Our 
 Consul has a charming daughter and several sons, all "Ameri- 
 cans," although all were bom in Corsica, none has been in the 
 United States and none speaks a word of English. Short as 
 has been our stay in Bastia, already have we heard whispers 
 to the effect that the Corsicans resent the way the young 
 Damianis escape military service because of the legal fiction 
 that they are Americans, their father having become a natu- 
 ralized citizen of our country during a temporary visit there 
 forty years ago. 
 
 Bastia, 
 September 11. 
 During her twenty centuries of history France has been 
 both war-like and religious, a combination whence results the 
 fact that on her coasts, in her valleys, on her mountain peaks 
 from one end of the country to the other one may see ancient 
 fortresses and still more ancient monasteries. As a conse- 
 quence of the law concerning religious orders many buildings 
 which once housed hundreds of pious priests or saintly nuns 
 have been standing for years without an occupant. Naturally 
 these ancient fortresses and monasteries possess no modern 
 plumbing; it must be admitted that they are not ideal places 
 in which to house large bodies of men, yet so great is the 
 number of prisoners in France that the government is forced to 
 use every empty fortress and monastery in the land as places 
 of detention. Modern wooden barracks have been built in a 
 great many centers, and more are being built every day; but 
 these barracks barely suffice to accommodate the stream of 
 new prisoners that is constantly flowing from the German lines 
 over the top into France, consequently there is no present 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 37 
 
 prospect of the monasteries and fortresses being abandoned, 
 a fact which has brought great gloom to the internes of a 
 monastery which we visited at Oletta to-day. 
 
 One of the internes, A. K., a kinsman of Judge G., a St, 
 Louis friend of mine, conducted me through the monastery; 
 when we came to the church, the stone floor of which has been 
 repeatedly upheaved by earthquakes during the course of 
 many centuries, so that now the floor is undulating like the 
 ocean's billows, Mr. K. exclaimed: "Look at this floor! Then 
 look at the thin straw sacks that are laid on the floor for us to 
 sleep on! Can you imagine yourself night after night, year 
 after year, resting on such a bed? The rack of the Inquisi- 
 tion can not have been more sleep destroying." 
 
 Mr. K. said he lived in New York at the Waldorf-Astoria so 
 that the contrast between his present and his former home 
 adds to his despondency. "It was the merest chance that 
 took me to France in July, 1914," he said. "God! How bit- 
 terly have I regretted that evil Fate! Had I waited only a 
 week the news that war had been declared would have reached 
 me and I would have remained in New York. But I started 
 on my journey the last of July without a thought of war, only 
 to find myself a week later a prisoner as I landed on French 
 soil. Then came this horrible monastery with its undulating 
 floors, its small, bare cells, its terrible monotony. Our only 
 bath room is the dirty pool you saw out in the court. It is 
 barely twelve feet long by ten wide, yet is the only place in 
 which 200 men may bathe. The hog wallow on an American 
 farm is not so bad as this pool!" 
 
 Here is a letter which one of the internes at Oletta handed 
 me; he, too, lived in New York, and writes and speaks Eng- 
 lish better than he does German. 
 
 "Excellency : 
 
 We look to you with anxious expectation. Are you willing 
 to open your heart to our never ending suffering? Shall you 
 
38 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 be able at last to change our awful fate? We suffer more than 
 criminals in a penitentiary, since for more than two years we 
 have said good-bye to the world and to the habits and com- 
 forts which alone make life worth living. 
 
 The moral atmosphere, the dreadful uniformity of the days 
 in this camp make a frightful impression on the brain and 
 nerves. Our nourishment consists of soup, soup, always soup ! 
 I do not count the goat meat we receive four times a week, 
 as it is not eatable ; it is always tough and generally is stinking. 
 
 The latrines give forth an odor that is terrible, so terrible 
 that one retains Nature as long as possible. They are never 
 disinfected. 
 
 We feel we can not much longer endure these sufferings. 
 We want to work in our professions in order to breathe, eat 
 and sleep in a human fashion. We have confidence in the 
 United States; we think your great republic will help us. It 
 is a shame, a crime to keep us here." 
 
 I talked with the man who wrote this note and found him 
 perfectly sincere in all that he had written. In fairness to the 
 French administration, however, I must record my own opin- 
 ion, which is that the conditions at Oletta are not half as 
 bad as that unhappy fellow believes them to be; they un- 
 doubtedly are inferior to the home conditions of those Ger- 
 mans and Austrians, and they offer hardships in the details 
 I have noted. It is the fact of being imprisoned at all that 
 makes these internes bitter and dissatisfied. Unlike military 
 prisoners, they have no work to occupy their minds; they 
 have nothing to do all day long, year after year, but to brood 
 over their misfortunes. And so quite naturally, but not rea- 
 sonably, they have come to believe themselves very badly 
 treated. The one thing which we did find absolutely unsuited 
 for the purpose to which it was put was the prison cell. This 
 was a mediaeval dungeon, pitch dark, not a bit of ventilation 
 and so small that one can neither lie nor stand straight in it; 
 the unhappy prisoner must stoop when he is standing, and 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 39 
 
 bend up his knees when lying on the floor. "Monsieur le 
 Commandant," I said, "punishment should be humane and 
 I am bound to tell you that detention in this dungeon is not 
 humane. If the Berlin Foreign Office receives a truthful de- 
 scription of this dungeon, if it learns that it is so small and 
 so absolutely without ventilation that men have come out of 
 it after only a few hours their legs nearly paralyzed, their 
 lungs nearly asphyxiated — can you not imagine, Monsieur, 
 what then would happen to some of your brothers who are 
 prisoners in Germany?" 
 
 As Monsieur could imagine he immediately gave his prom- 
 ise to discontinue the use of this dungeon and to provide a sani- 
 tary place in which to confine violators of discipline. The 
 depressing visit to Oletta lasted until night and had there 
 been any place for us to stay we would not have ven- 
 tured to motor over the mountain in the dark. As it was, 
 we preferred a night ride to sleeping on straw sacks laid on a 
 billowy stone floor. When half way to the summit, which 
 had to be scaled before descending the other side to Bastia, 
 our gas lamps burned out, leaving us in pitch darkness on a 
 road that was both winding and narrow, and that on one side 
 had a sheer drop of hundreds of feet. Under such circum- 
 stances it seemed best for one of us to walk along the edge 
 of the road in front of the automobile and guide the chauf- 
 feur by constantly calling aloud to him. Even then it was 
 a perilous journey, and a frightfully slow one, and we 
 breathed a sigh of relief when after hours of this painful 
 process we at last beheld the lights of Bastia and soon after 
 were again at rest in the Cymos Palace Hotel. 
 
 FolelU, Corsica, Tuesday night, 
 September 12. 
 Willie the waiter served breakfast so early this morning 
 that by half-past six we were ready to leave the Cyrnos 
 Palace Hotel on our two weeks' tour of the island. Captain 
 
40 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 Churchill and Mr. Morse went in one automobile toward the 
 west and south, while Major Church and I in another machine 
 started due south over the one part of Corsica that is level. 
 The plan is for our two parties to meet at Ajaccio. 
 
 Twelve miles south of Bastia, Major Church and I had to 
 leave level country and climb a steep mountain road in order 
 to reach the town of Venzolasca, a weird, picturesque place, 
 the stone houses of which look as if they were thrown hap- 
 hazard against the side of the mountain. Entering one of 
 Venzolasca's houses through a door on the street level, you 
 naturally suppose you are on the first floor, but when you look 
 out of the window on the opposite end of the room you may 
 find yourself five floors above the back yard. 
 
 After visiting Venzolasca and Folelli we motored up into 
 the mountains again, this time eighteen kilometers up a wind- 
 ing road through dense forests of chestnut trees to a "Chan- 
 tier" — small work camp — called Carte Blanche, where a lot 
 of German prisoners are engaged in cutting down trees and 
 hewing out logs. We found almost hidden among the forest 
 of chestnut trees a long wooden barrack in which the Ger- 
 mans sleep. I talked with a number of the prisoners and 
 learned from them that while their work is hard it is in a 
 location high enough above the sea to be healthy, and that 
 they have plenty to eat and a comfortable place to sleep in. 
 "Then," said I, "you have no complaints to make?" The 
 big, burly woodchopper who acted as spokesman for the pris- 
 oners scratched his head a moment, then replied: "Well, of 
 course. Excellency, we would like to have better wages." 
 "Certainly," was my reply. "Four cents a day is not a big 
 wage, but it is what your Government pays French prisoners 
 in Germany, consequently there is nothing we can do for you 
 on that score." 
 
 There has been a good deal of rain in the mountains during 
 the last few days, and this made everything fragrant and 
 pretty and green; but it also made the road dangerously slip- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 41 
 
 pery and more than once on our return journey to Folelli 
 we came near skidding off the road and dropping hundreds of 
 feet into the adjoining canyon. To add to the danger M. 
 Bezert, our chauffeur, is a man who talks with his hands as 
 well as with his tongue. Even while negotiating a hairpin 
 turn alongside a profound abyss, M. Bezert will suddenly 
 take both hands off the steering wheel in order to shrug his 
 shoulders and emphasize his remarks with gestures. 
 
 "M. Bezert," I implored, "please keep your hands on the 
 wheel. I assure you I can understand what you say without 
 seeing your hands." 
 
 "Oui, oui! Pardon, Monsieur!" exclaimed M. Bezert, but 
 at the same instant up flew his hands again, for he simply 
 cannot speak without gestures. 
 
 Cervione, 
 September 13. 
 Our first stop after leaving Folelli this morning was at 
 Taglio. On leaving Taglio, a picturesque town 1,200 feet 
 above the sea, M. Bezert said he could save some ten miles if, 
 instead of returning to Folelli and taking the sea-level road, 
 we took a short cut through the mountains. On securing from 
 him a sacred promise not to take his hands off the steering 
 wheel in order to shrug his shoulders and gesticulate, we 
 gave our assent to his taking the short cut, and thereby had 
 a lot of thrills and saw some of the wildest scenery in Corsica. 
 On either side of the narrow road we were climbing lofty 
 mountains towered up into the clouds; to our left, a thousand 
 feet belov/ us, rushed a foaming, boiling torrent. As we pro- 
 ceeded the gorge grew narrower and narrower; the mountains 
 on either side came closer and closer together until finally it 
 seemed as if soon there would be no place for the road to 
 run between them. But we kept climbing up and up until 
 at last the canyon stopped abruptly, shut in by a stupendous 
 precipice over which tumbled a great waterfall. Obviously 
 
42 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 there was no motoring through that waterfall or up that preci- 
 pice, but right in front of the waterfall a bridge spanned the 
 gorge, the road made a hairpin turn, and so presently we were 
 on the other side of that profound canyon, our motor getting 
 hotter and hotter as we reached higher and higher altitudes. 
 The Devil's Bridge near Andermatt, Switzerland, is one of 
 Europe's show places, but I think it less grand, less spectac- 
 ular than this place to which M. Bezert took us in the upper 
 reaches of the mountains of Corsica. 
 
 In an old monastery here at Cervione are two hundred 
 German military prisoners who, I fear, are ruled with none 
 too easy a hand. The Commandant, a French lieutenant who 
 was shot all to pieces in the Battle of the Marne, has a bad 
 case of nerves which sometimes spells trouble for the Germans 
 in his power. I shall report him to the French Foreign Office 
 and urge that this Commandant be replaced by one whose 
 nerves are in better shape. 
 
 Before leaving Paris the Swiss Red Cross entrusted me 
 with a sum of money to be distributed to the most needy 
 civil and military prisoners, and at each camp I ask the Chef, 
 or spokesman of the prisoners, to designate the four most 
 needy men among their number, the men who have no money 
 of their own and who receive none from their friends in Ger- 
 many. In the beginning I feared this request might cause 
 rivalry among the men, disputes as to who should be favored. 
 This, however, has not been the case; so far there has been 
 complete unanimity as to who most need help and when the 
 four men are brought before me to receive the five or ten 
 francs which I give them their surprise and gratitude are 
 pathetic to witness. Ten francs is not a trifle to a prisoner 
 who earns only four cents a day, hence I am coming to be 
 looked on as a kind of Santa Claus. And to-day in the 
 camp here in Cervione one poor fellow's eyes filled with tears 
 and he was so grateful that he grabbed my hand, stooped 
 over and kissed it! 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 43 
 
 Ghissoni, 
 September 14, 191 6. 
 
 Leaving Cervione early this morning we motored ten kilo- 
 meters through a wild canyon to a mine containing arsenic 
 and other deadly things used to produce asphyxiating gas. 
 The mouth of this mine is on the side of the mountain several 
 thousand feet above the bottom of the gorge, which is spanned 
 by a steel cable. As the ore is brought out of the mine in 
 big buckets it is swung on the steel cable and thus shot across 
 the profound gorge to the opposite mountain, whence it is 
 shipped to "somewhere" in France and finally sent over to 
 the Germans in repayment for their gas attacks. The Ger- 
 mans began this barbarous gas business, for which it is said 
 they are now very sorry, because their enemies have learned 
 to beat them at their own game. The Allied armies' recent 
 gas attacks have created havoc in the German trenches. 
 
 From the mine we again descended the mountain into the 
 valley in order to inspect two camps concerning which the 
 German Foreign Office has made particularly severe complaints 
 — Casabianda and Travo. Casabianda has recently been 
 abandoned, its 1,200 German prisoners having been taken 
 elsewhere; so we motored south along the coast until we 
 came to Travo, where are forty Germans, guarded by six 
 French soldiers, working in a sawmill. Conditions in the 
 mill, and in the barracks where the Germans sleep, are 
 good except for one thing: neither the mill nor the barracks 
 is screened against malarial mosquitoes which abound at Travo. 
 Result: one- fourth of the Germans contract malarial fever 
 and Major Church says the camp should be abandoned. I 
 shall so recommend in my report. ... To reach Ghissoni, 
 where we are spending the night, it was necessary soon after 
 leaving Travo to begin climbing the mountains again, and the 
 bracing air, in contrast with Travo's enervating, malarial 
 atmosphere, gave us ravenous appetites. We hesitated, how- 
 ever, even to ask for food in the villages through which we 
 
44 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 passed, so squalid, so uninviting did they seem. But finally, 
 hunger overcoming scruples, we drew up in front of an an- 
 cient, dirty-looking stone house and asked a slovenly woman 
 who stood in the doorway if she could cook us some fried 
 eggs and ham? She said she could, and bade us wait out- 
 side until she called us. As we waited, the view of the dingy 
 old house with pigs and goats ambling in and out of its front 
 door made us regret having stopped there. It was too late, 
 though, to back out; we had given our order; moreover, we 
 were really very hungry, so we sat in the automobile until the 
 woman leaned out of the third-story window and called to us 
 to come up there. With considerable misgivings did we pick 
 a way among the pigs and goats in the hall and climbed 
 the stone stairs leading to the upper floors; but once in the 
 third floor room our misgivings disappeared, for there upon 
 a table spread with a clean linen cloth was a big bowl of 
 steaming soup that both smelled and tasted delicious. We 
 fell to, feeling thankful that the woman had provided such 
 excellent soup in addition to the ham and eggs we had ordered. 
 Then, when the soup bowl was removed and we were getting 
 ready for that ham and eggs, the woman made her appear- 
 ance with a platter on which was a chicken baked to a beauti- 
 ful brown and accompanied by two or three kinds of vege- 
 tables. Following the chicken came a rum omelette, hot and 
 brilliant with the blue flames that danced all about it, and 
 while eating this the odor of frying ham came floating from 
 the kitchen through the open door of the room we were in. 
 
 "Monsieur Bezert," said I, "is it possible that that good 
 woman, after providing us with this feast, is now going to 
 bring us ham and eggs?" 
 
 Monsieur Bezert said he thought it was possible; we had 
 ordered ham and eggs, consequently ham and eggs we must 
 have. 
 
 "But Monsieur Bezert," I protested, "when we asked for 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 45 
 
 ham and eggs we did not anticipate a banquet. Do tell 
 Madame not to trouble about ham and eggs." 
 
 Monsieur Bezert rushed out to the kitchen, but he was too 
 late; the ham and eggs were already frying, and presently 
 were set before us. Of course, after what had gone before, 
 we could not eat any more — a fact which greatly astonished 
 our worthy hostess, who had conceived the notion that ham 
 and eggs must be a specialty with us, otherwise that we 
 would not have so particularly demanded them. The soup, 
 chicken and vegetables— part of the regular dejeuner served 
 travelers — were followed by cheese, cakes, almonds, coffee 
 and great clusters of delicious grapes. This feast, for it 
 was a feast even measured by a big city's standards, cost 
 the three of us nine francs, about $i.6o. After this expe- 
 rience we shall not judge Corsican cooks by the dingy ap- 
 pearance of Corsican houses. 
 
 Two thousand feet above the wayside house where we were 
 so pleasantly surprised by that Corsican feast the road reaches 
 Ghissoni's level, and there M. Bezert put on a spurt of speed 
 that soon landed us at this quaint old inn, the "Romainee," 
 where we stay until to-morrow. The hour of daylight which 
 remained after our arrival was utilized in walking still further 
 up the mountain side to inspect a Chantier where ten Ger- 
 mans are engaged in building vineyard terraces. We found 
 the sturdy fellows digging away to make level places on which 
 to plant the vines. Near by was a stone hut in which the 
 prisoners sleep. A bench was in front of the hut, and there 
 we sat, looking down upon Ghissoni immediately below us, 
 and at the magnificent mountain scenery all about us, while 
 the French guard went off to fetch the ten prisoners. When 
 they were lined up before us it required only a few questions 
 to learn that they have no complaints, that their condition 
 is in every way as good as that of native Corsicans engaged 
 in similar work. One of the prisoners, however, said he 
 thought he ought not to be interned at all. He was an Aus- 
 
46 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 trian only because of Austria's illegal and forcible annexation 
 in 1908 of Bosnia, and he hates Austria even more since he 
 thus, against his will, became an Austrian than he did before 
 1908. 
 
 "My father, who remained in Bosnia," said this man, "has 
 been imprisoned by the Austrians because they know he de- 
 spises them for their wickedness in robbing the Bosnians of 
 their liberty. And I, who happened to be in France when 
 the war began, I am imprisoned by the French, whom I love, 
 whose cause I should love to espouse, all because through the 
 Austrians' conquest of my country I must now be called an 
 Austrian. Is not that unjust. Monsieur?" 
 
 I said I thought it was unjust, but I could offer the poor 
 fellow little hope of liberty; legally he is an enemy alien and 
 the law does not distinguish one enemy from another. All 
 enemy aliens are interned, and so this Bosnian, although in 
 his heart an enemy of Austria, although his own father is im- 
 prisoned by the Austrians because the family is known to 
 be in sympathy with France — in spite of all this, this Bosnian 
 must remain a prisoner for the duration of the war! 
 
 Sartene, Corsica, 
 September 15, 19 16. 
 Coming hither to-day from Ghissoni we motored through 
 miles of chestnut forests until the altitude became too high 
 for chestnuts, then gradually we came into the pine belt until 
 we reached the Chantier of Marmano, in the heart of a dense 
 pine forest, where ten German soldier prisoners are employed 
 cutting down giant pines and hewing out huge logs sixty or 
 seventy feet long. The Germans sleep in a stone hut near 
 their work; their beds are made of leaves and straw, with 
 three blankets to each man — not too much in that elevated 
 place, 4,000 feet above sea level. A few weeks hence the 
 French guard at Marmano says he will abandon the Chan- 
 tier and take his prisoners to a lower level; at Marmano's 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 47 
 
 level there is severe cold and deep snow even as early as the 
 latter part of October. Some miles beyond Marmano we 
 reached the Col de Verde; a sign announced that the pass is 
 1,283 meters above the sea. 
 
 Our next stop was at Olivese, a picturesque old town on 
 a rock 800 feet above the valley below. In the ancient 
 Monastery of Olivese, a massive stone edifice standing on the 
 edge of a stupendous precipice and commanding a wonderful 
 view of the valley below and the sea beyond, are interned a 
 hundred or so Germans. A card index is kept of all the 
 hundreds of thousands of prisoners of war, so that the War 
 Department in Paris can at any moment put its finger on any 
 prisoner anywhere in France and give all the facts concern- 
 ing him. Here, for example, is a card at Olivese: 
 
 "Johann Land; Student from Koein; born Dec. 30, 1886; 
 married May 6, 191 1, to Katherina, nee Dulkoski ; three chil- 
 dren ; taken prisoner on the Marne, September 1914." 
 
 What does "Katherina, nee Dulkoski," look like? And 
 those three children, do they miss their father? Taken pris- 
 oner in 1914, two years ago; two years out of a man's life 
 mean much. Johann Land, student from Koeln, will require 
 all his philosophy to endure his fate with calmness. Looking 
 through these human documents at Olivese brought to my 
 mind visions of sad-eyed women in many a far-away German 
 home — mothers waiting for sons who will never return, chil- 
 dren waiting for fathers whom they will not recognize even 
 if they do return, so long will this cruel, this insane war keep 
 those fathers torn away from the families they love and long 
 to be with! 
 
 Sartene, our next stop, one of the most interesting cities 
 in Corsica, stands like most Corsican towns on a lofty peak, 
 and commands a superb view of mountains, valley and sea. 
 Its streets are narrow, its houses of stone are spotted and mot- 
 
48 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 tied with age, its architecture is of the vintage of the year 
 one thousand; I don't believe there is a building in the city 
 that is less than 900 years old. Everything is so mediaeval 
 looking, Major Church says he won't be surprised if, on look- 
 ing out of our hotel windows, we should see knights in armor 
 with lances and with visored helmets on their heads. In truth, 
 in this queer old place one has the feeling of having suddenly 
 and mysteriously stepped back into some bygone century. 
 
 As usual, we found the Germans here housed in an ancient 
 monastery, the garden of which overlooks the blue Mediter- 
 ranean a thousand feet below. As we entered this garden we 
 saw hanging over the stone parapet the prisoners' straw sacks 
 which had been put there to be sunned and aired; if one of 
 those bed sacks were to fall over the parapet it would drop 
 nearly a thousand feet, but apparently none fall over — at any 
 rate the prisoners throw the sacks and blankets over the para- 
 pet in a careless way as if they have no fear of their not stay- 
 ing where put. The Chef of the prisoners told us that the 
 gendarme in charge of the detachment had been "short-chang- 
 ing" them in the matter of rations; that is, he kept some of 
 the ration money in his pocket and bought fewer provisions 
 than he was supposed to buy. 
 
 "Our work is very hard," said the prisoners' spokesman. 
 "We break stones and build stone terraces, and that sort of 
 labor can't be done on half rations, so when we saw our guard 
 putting the money in his pocket instead of buying food for 
 us we went on a strike. He threatened to shoot us; we 
 answered we would rather die quickly by bullets than die 
 slowly by starvation. Then the guard put us in cells. After 
 a few days he came to the cells and said: 'Will you promise 
 now to work?' Every man of us shouted: 'No. We will 
 never work until you stop stealing our ration money and give 
 us our food!' Then, Excellency, the guard surrendered. He 
 agreed to let one of our men accompany him when he goes 
 to market so as to see that he puts no more of our food 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 49 
 
 money in his pocket. And so we have no complaints to make 
 now. It would have been different had you come here ten 
 days ago." 
 
 The cells in which the striking prisoners were placed are 
 in a fortress half a mile from the monastery; when we in- 
 spected them we found there only three prisoners — Germans 
 who only two days before had tried to escape; they were cap- 
 tured within a few hours and for those few hours of liberty 
 must now remain thirty days in the cells on a diet of bread 
 and water. When the cell d^or was opened for us the three 
 soldiers sprang from the floor where they were lying, clicked 
 their heels together, brought their hands to their caps in a 
 salute, then stood rigid and motionless as if they had been 
 made of stone. Poor fellows! How they must long for 
 liberty to take the desperate chances they had taken! They 
 must have known they hadn't a chance in a thousand. Italy, 
 the nearest land to Corsica, is fifty miles away — too far to 
 reach by swimming; but even had they succeeded in getting 
 to Italy they would still have been in an enemy land. Poor 
 fellows! I can't help admiring their pluck, but their judgment 
 is considerably below par. 
 
 Ajaccia, 
 September i8, 191 6. 
 We have had two restful days in this quaint and charming 
 old town which gave the world the most talked-of man since 
 the time of Julius Caesar; at every turn there is a reminder 
 of Napoleon. The cafe where you sit at a table on the side- 
 walk to sip a drink and watch the passing crowd is the Cafe 
 Napoleon; the street is the Rue Napoleon, and the town's 
 largest and most beautiful public square is called the Place 
 Bonaparte. In that square facing the sea is an equestrian 
 statue of Napoleon and the four corners of the huge pedestal 
 are adorned by life-size statues of his four brothers — all five 
 Bonapartes are in Roman togas, a fact which to my notion 
 
50 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 shows that the sculptor lacked a sense of humor. All the 
 world knows the Napoleon of the cocked hat and gray military 
 coat — but Napoleon in a toga! It is a preposterous con- 
 ception. 
 
 In the twenty-foot back yard, which bears the name of 
 Napoleon's mother, is a palm tree and an ivy vine grown 
 from a sprout cut from the vine over the grave of Napoleon 
 III. at Chiselhurst, England. In a little house facing this 
 "Place Letizia" lives the custodian of the Napoleon birth- 
 house. I rang his door-bell and the custodian, sensing a fee, 
 lost no time in making his appearance, in his hand a big iron 
 key with which he opened the door of the house where the 
 great Emperor was bom. The entrance is through just such 
 a dingy, stone-paved vestibule as one sees in the houses of 
 the poorer quarters of Genoa or Naples. But, arrived in the 
 living apartments on the second floor, the visitor finds him- 
 self in decidedly pretentious quarters. The living rooms are 
 large, that is, all except the one in which Napoleon was born; 
 that, oddly enough, is a long, narrow, illy-lighted room. And 
 the couch on which Madame Mere threw herself that eventful 
 Sunday morning when she hurried back from church is the 
 most uncomfortable looking piece of furniture in the house; 
 the bed near by seems far more inviting, and one wonders 
 why the couch was chosen. Was it because of the tapestry 
 which covered it, tapestry picturing the heroic deeds of 
 Achilles? The custodian assured me that the furniture of 
 this room is arranged just as it was on August 15, 1769. 
 
 From the "birth" room we passed into a salon some forty 
 feet long by twenty feet wide, and thence on into Napoleon's 
 bedroom, the room he slept in as a boy and until he left Corsica 
 as a young man. As I stood in that room gazing upon the 
 furnishings, the bed, the night-lamp, the chairs which were 
 Napoleon's daily familiars during the first fifteen years of his 
 life, I almost fancied myself back in the eighteenth century. 
 History seems so much closer, so much more intimate and real 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 51 
 
 when in the presence of relics like these. The room adjoining 
 that Napyoleon occupied was used as a business office by his 
 father; the writing desk his father used stands now where it 
 then stood, and near by is the Sedan chair which Bonaparte 
 pere bought for his wife after he was chosen as the representa- 
 tive of the Nobles to the Assembly that met at Paris; for 
 the few years that he lived after his election to that Assembly 
 the Bonapartes lived in some comfort; before that period they 
 were among the poorest people in the city. To the neighbors 
 accustomed to seeing the Bonapartes in shabby clothes, too 
 poor to pay their grocer's bills, it must have been amusing 
 as well as astonishing the first time they saw Madame Mere 
 coming down that dingy alley in a Sedan chair. Madame Mere, 
 however, had the last laugh, for, unlike the rest of her family, 
 she did not "go broke" after Waterloo. Even when her son 
 seemed most secure on the throne of France, even when he 
 was giving kingdoms away as other men give six pences, 
 Madame Mere had a feeling that it wouldn't last; she put huge 
 sums of money in various safe places in Europe, and so, when 
 she died sixteen years after Napoleon died in St. Helena, she 
 left behind her a fortune of many millions. 
 
 When we arrived at Sartene a few days ago I discovered 
 that my note book was missing; it contained all my notes re- 
 garding war prisoners, notes without which it would not be 
 possible to make my report, so I immediately sent this tele- 
 gram to the Commandant at Olivese: 
 
 "Veuillez expedier a Commission Americaine Grand Hotel 
 Ajaccio livre notes oublie hier sur votre table. Vous ex- 
 pedions frais par poste." 
 
 Major Church said my French can be understood only by 
 an Englishman, and that, anyway, I would never get my note 
 book; he didn't believe I had left it at Olivese; but if I had, 
 the Commandant had long since fed it to the prison goat. 
 
52 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 As if this was not calculated to dishearten me, ever and 
 anon on the journey to Ajaccio Major Church, apropos of 
 nothing at all, would remark in his naturally deep and some- 
 what sepulchral voice: "Judge, you will never get your note 
 book!" On arriving at the Grand Hotel this telegram was 
 handed me: 
 
 "Commission Americaine, Ajaccio: Livre notes expedie demi 
 heure apres voire depart a Sartene avec ordre faire suivre par 
 gendarmerie. 
 
 Brunetti, 
 Chef Detachement, Olivese." 
 I silently handed this telegram to the Major; he read it 
 twice, then boomed out again in a sepulchral tone: "Did I 
 not tell you that you would never get your note book?" In 
 truth, I now for the first time began to fear my croaking 
 colleague was right; the book had gone to Sartene, but we 
 had left before it arrived, and now even if it were forwarded 
 to Ajaccio I feared it would find us gone. Morse and 
 Churchill are to arrive to-night, and all four of us are to go 
 to Plana to-morrow. The Major followed my line of thought 
 and comforted me as usual by solemnly repeating that I 
 would never get my note book. Then, just as I was ready to 
 acknowledge he was right, a French soldier approached, sa- 
 luted and said: "Vous etez le Commission Americaine, Mon- 
 sieur?" I never regarded myself as a "Commission," never- 
 theless I replied "Oui"; whereupon the soldier saluted again 
 and added: "Then, Monsieur, this must belong to you." 
 And there once more in my hands was my precious note book! 
 Major Church very handsomely acknowledged that the drinks 
 were on him, and two "Demi Blondes," as the French call 
 half liters of light beer, were forthwith ordered that we might 
 celebrate my good fortune in proper style. 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 53 
 
 Plana, Corsica, 
 September 19, 1916. 
 
 At one o'clock Major Church and I arrived at Cargese, the 
 little town perched on a precipitous peak rising out of the 
 sea, where we planned to pause for "dejeuner." 
 
 Cargese, founded by the Greeks, still contains an old Greek 
 church which visitors may enter for one franc, and near Plana 
 are the "Calanches," the scenic wonder of Corsica, the one 
 thing tourists must see even if they see nothing else. Accord- 
 ingly, as quickly as we could get into dry clothing, we set 
 out on foot to see this strange freak of Nature, which con- 
 sists of a wilderness of peaks and crags, of gigantic obelisks 
 of reddish stone that jut perpendicularly out of the sea to an 
 astonishing height. Some of them are 1,700 feet high in the 
 perpendicular, and then another 1,700 feet high at a sharp 
 angle. One of the usual excellent French roads has been 
 blasted out of the precipitous side of the Calanches, so that 
 the traveler may reach in comfort even the wildest and weird- 
 est part of that sea of crags. I thought myself venturesome 
 when I sat upon the parapet lining the roadside, my legs 
 hanging over the outer edge, below me a sheer drop of 500 
 feet, but young Morse with the enthusiasm, not to say fool- 
 hardiness, of youth actually climbed up on top of one of the 
 smaller Calanches, a great reddish stone obelisk, the top of 
 which was hardly four feet square, and the sides of which 
 rose almost as sheer as the obelisk of Cleopatra in Central 
 Park. Had he become dizzy, or had he stumbled, he would 
 have been dashed to pieces hundreds of feet below. 
 
 While we were dining to-night in the inn at Piana there 
 was brought to us an invitation from Sir Edward Boyle, of 
 63 Queen's Gate, S. W., London, to attend a Serbian enter- 
 tainment nearby. This is one of the advantages of being here 
 ''officially"; the ordinary tourist does not receive such invi- 
 tations. Sir Edward Boyle is head of the Serbian Relief 
 Commission, and located in a large stone hotel on the out- 
 
54 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 skirts of Piana are a number of Serbian men and women who 
 were brought to Corsica from Salonika after they reached that 
 city following their dreadful trek from their native land over 
 the mountains into Macedonia. 
 
 Before the meeting ended Sir Edward made a little speech 
 in French, in which he told the Serbians they were honored 
 by the presence of the "American Commission"; he described 
 the work we were doing and spoke feelingly of the aid America 
 has given suffering Serbia. A tall Serbian with huge black 
 mustaches, dressed in the gaudy costume of his native land, 
 translated sentence by sentence as Sir Edward spoke. Then 
 when Captain Churchill arose and replied in English, as none 
 of the Serbians understood our language, Sir Edward had to 
 rise again and act as interpreter. He turned Churchill's talk 
 sentence by sentence into French; the black-mustached Ser- 
 bian turned the French into Serbian, and thus in this round- 
 about way Churchill made those fierce looking men and 
 handsome black-eyed women understand that we were glad 
 to be with them, that we sympathized with them in their 
 misfortunes, and that we hoped at no distant day they would 
 expel the German invader from their beautiful country so 
 that they might return to their homes again! 
 
 The Serbian men whom we saw to-night, though large in 
 frame and bone, are unable to bear arms; they have under- 
 gone frightful sufferings, their nerves are shattered, and so 
 they have been compelled to leave the army. Sir Edward 
 told us they are all eager to fight again, that not one Serbian 
 man of whom he ever heard has sought to evade military 
 service. They hate the Germans with an undying hatred and 
 never quit the army until absolutely compelled to. The 
 women seemed frail, yet we were told that they each and all 
 had made that epic trek last November over the mountains 
 of Macedonia to Salonika. For hundreds of miles the way was 
 covered deep with ice and snow; one little girl of fourteen 
 who made that awful march told me that her mother dropped 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 55 
 
 dead on the roadside and was buried in the snow. She said 
 scores of Serbians, overcome by the cold and by hunger, 
 dropped dead every day that they were on that frightful 
 journey. I asked how she had managed to struggle so far 
 through the deep snow. "Oh, Monsieur," she replied, "it was 
 necessary! After mama died there was no one but me left 
 to take care of little Mirko!" And then I learned that a 
 brother four years younger than herself had made that trek 
 over the Macedonian mountains. This little Miss had flowers 
 in her coal black hair and her eyes glowed like coals of fire; 
 the gold braided jacket and white skirt which she wore gave 
 her a romantic, picturesque appearance. In spite of the ter- 
 rible tragedy of that journey last November, with its more 
 than a thousand men and women dropping dead of cold and 
 hunger, the child seemed happy — such is the blessed resilience 
 of youth! 
 
 lie Rousse, 
 Wednesday, September 20, 19 16. 
 
 Leaving Plana early this morning we passed the Calanches 
 and stopped for a few minutes to look again at those wonder- 
 ful red obelisks, then continued over the road winding along- 
 side the side of the mountain until we reached Calvi, ninety- 
 two kilometers from Plana. 
 
 One of the interesting things I have noted in Corsica are 
 the forests of cork trees. When I first saw acres and acres 
 of trees with their barks stripped off, their trunks shiny and 
 red, I was puzzled, but M. Bezert promptly explained that 
 they were cork trees; the trunk of the tree, underneath its 
 covering of bark, is always smooth and red, and the bark, 
 once removed, does not grow back again for eight or ten years. 
 A tree must be some twenty years old before it is ready for 
 its first stripping, and even then the bark is of an inferior 
 quality — is the kind that is pulverized and used for packing 
 Malaga grapes, for making foot-mats and for the manufacture 
 
56 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 of a kind of brick that is used to deaden sound. This "virgin" 
 cork fetches a very small price, but the next stripping eight 
 years later is valuable. As a cork tree lives for a century or 
 more it is considered by the Corsican farmer to be as safe 
 and as profitable as a government bond; every eight or ten 
 years there is a crop of cork worth in its rough state $4 per 
 220 pounds. The merchants of Bastia buy the bark from 
 the farmers, boil it in order to clean it — also in order to make 
 it swell — then they sort it into three grades and ship it in 
 bales to the Continent. 
 
 Corsica's population is under 300,000, yet her soldiers at 
 the front number 50,000 — more than one soldier to every 
 half dozen of population! If America does get into this war, 
 and if she adopts Corsica's ratio in raising an army, we will 
 put twenty million soldiers under arms! It is interesting to 
 note how absolutely French in sentiment are these Corsicans 
 who in appearance and speech are as Italian as their kinsmen 
 across the water in Italy. Had Germany annexed Corsica in 
 1769 would the inhabitants by now be heart and soul with 
 the Germans? To the reproach that after half a century 
 Alsace and Lorraine still hate their conquerers the Prussian 
 autocracy replies that half a century is not long enough. 
 Twelve years sufficed to change the South African Boers from 
 bitter enemies to ardent friends of the British Empire. One 
 hundred and fifty years do not seem to suffice for Germany 
 to win the affection of the Polish people whom she robbed 
 of their independence in the several partitions of Poland. 
 
 From the window of my room in He Rousse I look out 
 upon what is not unlike a gigantic camel crouching in the 
 sea; it is a narrow causeway extending half a mile out into 
 the Mediterranean and terminating in a huge red rock; a hill 
 in the middle of the causeway is the camel's hump, and two 
 glowing signal lights on the red rock are the camel's eyes. 
 The houses of He Rousse are painted in gorgeous colors; 
 often the same house may present a variety of colors. The 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 57 
 
 first floor of a house may be owned by A, the second by B, 
 the third by C, and so on; and if A, B and C happen to like 
 different colors, then the several stories of the house will each 
 be painted a different hue. The results, to a stranger's eye, 
 are startling, but the people here seem to like their houses to 
 present fronts painted all the colors of the rainbow. ... He 
 Rousse was founded by Paoli, Napoleon's inveterate enemy, 
 and there is a statue of the patriot in the public square; even 
 to this day there is a party in Corsica which stands by Paoli 
 and reveres his memory rather than that of Napoleon. They 
 are proud of the fame the latter's genius has bestowed upon 
 Corsica, but they regard Paoli as the better Corsican patriot. 
 
 Ficajola, Corsica, 
 September 21, 1916. 
 
 We reached this place, high up in the mountains, after mo- 
 toring over a fine military road that for miles is skirted by for- 
 ests of olive trees. The twenty-five German military prisoners 
 at this camp are engaged in agricultural labor and seem quite 
 as well cared for as the free native labor. In fact, the Germans 
 and the Corsicans work together in the olive groves; they live 
 together in the farm buildings, and we could hardly have dis- 
 tinguished them from the Corsicans had it not been for the 
 big "P. G." (Prisonier Guerre — war prisoner) painted on the 
 legs of their trousers. 
 
 Major Church and Morse return from Ficajola direct to 
 Bastia; Churchill and I will make a detour in order to inspect 
 a camp at Lama. 
 
 Lama, 
 
 September 21. 
 
 This curious town is on a peak so steep it was all Churchill 
 
 and I could do to reach it on foot. We left M. Bezert in the 
 
 automobile on the road far below while we scrambled up the 
 
 rocks in the face of a driving rain and fierce wind that at times 
 
58 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 threatened to blow us back down the rocks into the valley. 
 To make room for a town on this lofty, jagged rock portions 
 of the precipice had to be blow off by mines of powder; on 
 the shelves thus made on the side of the mountain stone 
 houses were built, with narrow passageways between the 
 houses to serve as streets. If provided with a big enough pile 
 of bowlders, one man could stand at the gate of Lama and 
 defy an army to enter; all he would have to do would be to 
 roll the bowlders down on the heads of the enemy. That, no 
 doubt, was the way Lama defended herself in the days when 
 Pisa and Genoa were trying in their petty way to make hell 
 on earth. 
 
 The Germans at Lama sleep in a stone house, part of which 
 is composed of the living rock; the house's windows look 
 down 1, 800 feet into the distant valley below. ... A sorry 
 looking lot were those "Supermen" we saw to-day — but then 
 even a Superman can't look "Super" when he is wet from 
 head to foot, when water is oozing from every inch of his 
 clothes! From such a rain as that which has been falling 
 all day to-day there is no escape; even indoors the air is 
 humid and wet, and so it was that those Germans to-day 
 seemed a saddened and a chastened lot; they no longer expect 
 Germany to conquer Europe and make foreign nations pay 
 the cost of the war; their watchword has changed from "Nach 
 Paris" to "Durch-halten!" "Durch-halten" is the word I 
 generally hear now, when a prisoner gets a chance to say a 
 word to me alone: "Can we durch-halten?" (Can we hold 
 out?) Of course I refuse to express an opinion on that sub- 
 ject; I make it a rule not to talk with prisoners on the large 
 issues of the war. 
 
 Bastia, 
 September 26. 
 After one day's rest in the Cyrnos Palace, reading mail that 
 had accumulated during our tour of the island and writing 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 59 
 
 up my report, my three colleagues and I started on another 
 tour of inspection. Two hours out of Bastia Churchill and 
 Morse got out of the automobile, mounted mules (which had 
 been ordered by telegraph) and started for the top of a lofty 
 mountain to visit a camp of Turkish war prisoners. Major 
 Church and I continued in the automobile as far as Ponte 
 Nuovo, where we expected to find mules awaiting us; but 
 our telegram didn't work as well as Captain Churchill's. No 
 mules were awaiting us, and none were to be had, consequently 
 Church and I were compelled to climb on foot the rugged, 
 steep path leading to the little town of Castello de Rostino, 
 slapped, as it were, against the side of a stupendous cliff 2,400 
 feet above the sea. Part of that climb was through forests 
 of chestnut trees, part was along dizzy cliffs whence we had 
 splendid views of the valley far below us; it was all superbly 
 fine, but it was also excessively steep and rocky and fatiguing, 
 so that it was with no little relief that we finally found our- 
 selves at rest in an ancient inn stuck on the side of the moun- 
 tain in the center of the village of Castello de Rostino. While 
 waiting for the comely daughter of the proprietor to serve 
 us our dejeuner I noted on a wall of the dining-room a framed 
 diploma which read as follows: 
 
 Medaille de Sainte Helene, 5 Mai, 1821. 
 
 Instituee par S. M. Napoleon III. 
 
 Napoleon 1 er 
 
 a ses compagnons de gloire, Sa Derniere Pensee ! Sainte 
 
 Helene le 5 Mai, 1821. 
 
 Le Grand Chancelier de I'Qrdre Imperial de la Legion d'Hon- 
 
 neur certifie que M. Orsini Toussaint Marc, Sergent au 9 de 
 
 Ligne ayant servi durant la periode 1792 a 181 5, a requ la 
 
 medaille de Ste. Helene. Inscrit a la Grande Chancellerie No. 
 
 226,272. 
 
 It was signed and sealed by Napoleon III.'s Minister, but 
 I could not decipher his signature. As a straw showing how 
 
6o THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 the third Napoleon made his putative uncle's glory serve his 
 own ends this faded old certificate is interesting. Note its 
 number, 226,272; quite a respectable army, and no doubt 
 every one of those 226,272 "Companions in glory" treas- 
 ured their certificate just as the worthy Sergeant Orsini Tous- 
 saint Marc did. Our host in that ancient little inn is a great- 
 grandson of the brave Sergeant, who served under the first 
 Napoleon from 1792 to 181 5; he is firmly convinced that the 
 great Emperor's "derniere pensee a Ste. Helene" was of his 
 grandfather, and so, in some curious way that illustrates what 
 a strange, complex thing is the human brain, he has come to 
 fancy that he is a part and parcel of the Bonaparte dynasty. 
 He told us France would have been well out of the war by 
 now if only it had been an Empire under Napoleon instead 
 of a Republic under a lot of lawyers! I reminded him that 
 when France had Napoleon her troubles were as great as those 
 she has now, and that they had lasted a great deal longer 
 than even the worst pessimist believes the present war will 
 endure. The worthy descendant of the brave Sergeant Marc, 
 Napoleon's "Companion in glory," was not in the least feazed 
 by my reply, but Corporal Paul Graziani, who was breakfast- 
 ing with us, remarked gravely: "You are right. Monsieur. 
 France is done with emperors. We admire Napoleon's genius, 
 but we detest his despotism. Vive la Republique!" 
 
 It was late when we got back to Bastia from this trip to 
 Castello de Rostino, with the result that midnight found 
 Morse still pounding away on his typewriter in an effort to 
 bring the reports down to date. The long motor ride and the 
 climb of 2,400 feet up that rugged mountain made me quite 
 indifferent to such a trifle as the clicking of a typewriter, but 
 the occupant of the room above mine was not so sound a 
 sleeper. About midnight I was awakened by a loud and in- 
 dignant voice which was issuing from a window directly above 
 mine. 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 6i 
 
 "Monsieur Locataire! Monsieur Locataire!" cried the 
 voice. "You are murdering my sleep. I beg you to stop." 
 
 But M. Locataire, who was Morse, kept on pounding the 
 keys of his typewriter; I tapped on the wall that separated 
 Morse's room from mine and said: "Morse, I don't know 
 what Locataire means, but you are the only one here that is 
 murdering sleep. Better go to bed, hadn't you?" 
 
 Morse said no, that the reports were not finished yet, and 
 resumed his machine writing. Whereupon the irate French- 
 man in the room above took the law into his own hands: 
 "I will show you. Monsieur, that you cannot murder my 
 sleep," he cried. Then we heard the door of his room close 
 with a bang, followed by the noise of feet through the halls 
 and down the stairs. I thought Morse w . in for a fist fight, 
 or maybe a sword thrust ; that Frenchman seemed mad enough 
 to commit murder. But he did not permit his madness to 
 cause him to commit a folly; what he did had method in it: 
 he went down to the first floor and cut off the electric light 
 of the entire hotel! And so, perforce, Morse was forced to 
 go to bed and let others go to sleep. 
 
 There is but one steamship company operating between 
 Corsica and France and the military have precedence on the 
 steamers of that company; civilians must give up their reser- 
 vations if they are needed for soldiers or officers. When I 
 went to-day to the company's Bastia office to get tickets for 
 our party on to-night's boat a very busy, very indifferent 
 and very haughty man behind an office grill said we could not 
 have passage on to-night's Steamer, nor on next week's either; 
 not even deck space was left on either sailing. 
 
 "Monsieur," said I, "we are willing to defer to the military; 
 we recognize their right to first service. But unless all your 
 passengers are officers and soldiers we must insist upon having 
 places on to-night's steamer." 
 
 The bored and haughty gentleman behind the grill gazed 
 at me with a pained and tired air; plainly he was supremely 
 
62 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 indifferent whether we were or were not willing to defer to 
 the military. I started to explain that, although we were not 
 in uniform, two of my party were officers of the United States 
 Army, and that all four of us were in the diplomatic service, 
 visiting Corsica for our government, not for our own pleasure, 
 and consequently that we were entitled to precedence over 
 ordinary civilian travelers. But the haughty individual be- 
 hind the grill waved me away with a gesture of contemptuous 
 indifference. "C'est fini — it is finished," he said. "And it is 
 useless. Monsieur, to discuss the matter." 
 
 It was useless for me to say more to that obstinate fellow, 
 but I knew of a way to move him and proceeded forthwith 
 to use it. I went from his office straight to that of the Sous 
 Prefet, Monsieur Guilbout, and told him what had happened, 
 and it was a very much chastened steamship clerk who greeted 
 me on my return to the company's office; the four tickets 
 were ready, waiting for me. And so to-night we set sail for 
 France. 
 
 Here is a leaf from the memorandum which I have attached 
 to the report on my observations in Corsica: 
 
 "It may be disastrous to the welfare of many brave French- 
 men in German prisons if the impression is allowed to go 
 forth that France mistreats her German prisoners, an im- 
 pression which will go forth unless the German prisoners 
 are permitted to talk with me freely and without fear of 
 punishment, except in cases where their complaints are found 
 to be untrue and prompted by malice. (This finding should 
 be made by some other authority than the Commandant of 
 the prison.) Some Commandants of their own initiative 
 adopt the policy here recommended. For instance, when a 
 prisoner at Camp du Maroc sent our Paris Embassy a letter 
 alleging the gravest abuses in his camp, the Commandant 
 did not punish that prisoner; on the contrary he requested 
 us to make a painstaking investigation of his camp, which 
 was done, with the result that it was found to be admirably 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 63 
 
 conducted; the German prisoners themselves said the report 
 of abuses was utterly false, that they were well treated and 
 had no complaints whatever to make. Result: The Comman- 
 dant at du Maroc will not be suspected of mistreating his pris- 
 oners, even when a direct charge of bad treatment is made, 
 until and unless our own investigation confirms such charge. 
 Conclusion: 
 
 1. Permit complaints to be made freely without punish- 
 ment; where the Commandant feels that the complaints are 
 at once serious and unfounded, let a special investigation be 
 made by a representative of the American Embassy, a speedy 
 report of his findings to be made (a) to the French Foreign 
 Office, and (b) to Ambassador Gerard in Berlin. 
 
 2. The Corsican prison camps may be roughly divided into 
 two classes: Those in the Highlands, and those in the Low- 
 lands at, or near, the sea level. The latter, for the most part, 
 are on the east coast where malaria is prevalent. At such 
 camps as Folelli, Casabianda and Travo malarial fever is un- 
 avoidable. The mosquito which communicates malaria 
 abounds in these localities and unless exterminated, as the 
 yellow fever carrying mosquito was exterminated at Panama, 
 malarial fever in the Alerian plain of Corsica must be ex- 
 pected. Apparently it is not practical to screen the prisoners 
 from the mosquitoes, hence the 
 
 Conclusion: These Alerian plain camps should be entirely 
 abandoned." 
 
 (Note. — In accordance with these suggestions the French 
 government evacuated the camps mentioned.) 
 
 Monte Carlo, 
 
 September 27, 191 6. 
 
 The scene leaving Bastia last night will live long in our 
 
 memories — nearly a thousand Permissionaires leaving home 
 
 and returning to the front! And at least 2,000 friends and 
 
 relatives crowded on the dock to bid those brave soldiers 
 
64 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 good-bye! The thought that for many of those Permis- 
 sionaires this was their last visit to Corsica, that many of 
 them would be soon laying on the battle-field, their unseeing 
 eyes staring stark at the sun, their bodies rigid in death — that 
 thought produced a feeling of sadness and solemnity in all. 
 It was a very different looking crowd from that which gath- 
 ered a few weeks ago to greet the Pelion's Permissionaires just 
 arriving from the front. . . . From the Pelion's upper deck 
 as we glided northward along Corsica's eastern coast we saw 
 Consul Damiani's white villa nestling amid its orange trees 
 600 feet above the sea, and far above the villa an ancient 
 round stone Pisan tower. Then darkness began to settle down 
 upon the face of the waters and all of the Pelion's human 
 freight, soldiers, civilians and crew, stretched out on the sev- 
 eral decks to await with what composure they could the dawn 
 of a new day. In this submarine infested part of the Medi- 
 terranean no voyager goes to bed on shipboard; the chances 
 of having to abandon ship during the night are too great to 
 make it wise to get far from the open decks and lifeboats. 
 
 Although belonging to France, Corsica's customs laws are 
 peculiar to herself, and one result of this is that tobacco is 
 cheaper and better on the island than it is on the Continent. 
 For example, the "Levint" cigarette which costs 80 centimes 
 a box on the Continent costs only 55 centimes in Corsica. 
 Major Church, who is an inveterate smoker, packed several 
 thousand cigarettes into his bags and suit-cases; M. Bezert 
 warned him that the inspectors at Nice, knowing the cheap- 
 ness of Corsican tobacco, are on the lookout for smugglers, 
 but the Major said "he would take a chance." The event 
 proved it was no chance at all; it was a cinch. For the Major's 
 bump of dignity is so well developed that he overawed the 
 Nice customs men with a single glance. When they asked if 
 he had any tobacco, Major Church answered loftily, "Yes; 
 five thousand cigarettes." The customs people gave a start 
 of amazement; they were unaccustomed to such frankness 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 65 
 
 and were about to open the Major's baggage to investigate 
 when he waved them aside with a sweeping gesture. "Pardon, 
 Messieurs," he said, "but we are of the diplomatic corps, and 
 we are traveling officially." 
 
 The customs officials glanced at the Major's card, also at 
 his passport "diplomatique," then with profuse apologies mo- 
 tioned the Major to pass through the gate into the city, . . . 
 The trolley line from Nice to Monte Carlo is one of the most 
 picturesque in the world — the car climbs up and down one 
 hill after the other, always close to the sea and always either 
 above or below some beautiful villa surrounded by wonderful 
 flower gardens and luxuriant groves of orange and palm trees. 
 Having some hours to wait for our trains, we came over to 
 Monte Carlo where all of us except Morse have won enough 
 money to pay our hotel bills for some days to come. Morse 
 has lost seventy francs, ergo he does not find Monte Carlo 
 as lovely as the rest of our party does. The Casino is a sad, 
 sorry sort of place now, compared to the gay Casino of pre- 
 war days. Only two gaming tables are in use; all the others 
 are covered with a big, black pall-like cloth. And the men 
 and women at the two tables which are still in use are a very 
 different looking lot from the gorgeously dressed women and 
 aristocratic looking men of other days. The contrast is so 
 saddening, we shall be glad when the train from Italy arrives 
 and we can continue on our way. 
 
 Cannes, 
 October i, 1916. 
 Church and Churchill returned to Paris from Monte Carlo, 
 while Morse and I went to Nice and thence on the noon train 
 to Annot, a small town in the valley of the Var, about eighty 
 miles from the sea. We visited the "Camp de Faveur," which 
 is located on the edge of Annot in a series of rambling stone 
 buildings which, prior to the war, constituted the dormitories 
 of a young men's college. As the name indicates, this camp 
 
66 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 extends "favors" to its inmates; they may come and go with- 
 out the presence of a guard, so long as they do not go a 
 greater distance from Aimot than three kilometers (about two 
 miles). They may be accompanied by their families and, if 
 they have money, may buy what food they like and cook it 
 as they please. In many of the rooms in those old stone 
 buildings we saw complete arrangements for housekeeping on 
 a modest scale — a cook stove, domestic utensils of various 
 kinds, cupboards filled with a good stock of provisions, etc., 
 etc. The windows of these rooms look down upon the rushing 
 Var below and across upon the steep mountain which rises 
 into the clouds on the other side of the narrow gorge. For a 
 summer outing both Morse and I thought it would be just the 
 thing to camp out in one of these college buildings — cook for 
 ourselves as we saw the German and Austrian prisoners doing 
 and spend our days, as they spend theirs, in fishing, climbing 
 the mountains, or lazily lolling under the trees in the garden 
 alternately reading and looking across the foaming river Var 
 at the magnificent mountains on the opposite side of the gorge. 
 When I expressed this thought to Monsieur B., of Lyons, he 
 shook his head sadly. 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur, it is beautiful here," he said. "In those 
 happy days before the war I sometimes chose Annot as the 
 place for my family in the hot days of August. But as a 
 place to stay in year after year, and that, too, while your 
 business is going to ruin — ah. Monsieur, that is very hard to 
 bear, especially when one loves France as I do. It seems so 
 useless to make a prisoner of one who is French in everything 
 except the accident of birth." 
 
 Monsieur B. was bom in Vienna, but his parents removed 
 to Lyons when he was only six months old; he has lived in 
 Lyons all his life, save those first six months; he does not 
 speak a word of German, knows not a soul outside of France, 
 is married to a French woman and has a son in the French 
 army. But legally he is an Austrian alien enemy, consequently 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 67 
 
 must be interned as a matter of "reciprocity" — Austria and 
 Germany set the rule and France feels bound to follow it. 
 But she tries to soften the effects of the rule as much as 
 possible by interning "enemies" of this sort in a Camp de 
 "Faveur." Madame F., one of the internes at Annot with 
 whom I talked, though bom in Diisseldorf, has lived in France 
 since she was a child; her husband, a Frenchman, is now 
 at the front in the French army. Legally Madame F. is 
 French, but, unhappily for her, she cannot produce her mar- 
 riage papers; there is no doubt but that she lived for years 
 with Monsieur F. as his wife, but whether with a legal mar- 
 riage, as she alleges, or without such ceremony, as is often the 
 case in France where the cost of getting married is excessive 
 and many people do not care for conventions, cannot be 
 definitely decided. As in such cases the benefit of the doubt 
 is not given to one born in Germany, Madame F. finds herself 
 for the duration of the war a prisoner. And, although in a 
 Camp de Faveur, in beautiful Annot, with its grand scenery, 
 its pure air, its superb location in the valley of the Var, she 
 is none the less discontented and unhappy. Her last words 
 to me as we were leaving were: "For the love of God as well 
 as of justice, Monsieur, plead for me with the French gov- 
 ernment. Show to them that my heart is French, my husband 
 is French, every friend I have is a son or daughter of my 
 beautiful France. I dare say 'my,' Monsieur, for I left Ger- 
 many at the age of six years. I know nothing of her land 
 or her people. Why, then, am I to be kept here for God only 
 knows how many years?" 
 
 I tried to explain that her internment resulted as a matter 
 of reciprocity, but she swept the explanation aside with a 
 bitterness and an impatience which, though illogical, was per- 
 fectly natural. "Because the despicable Boche do a wicked 
 thing is no reason why noble, generous France should do the 
 same wicked thing. It is not right, it is not just. I implore 
 you, Excellency, to intercede for me." 
 
68 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 I promised her I would do so, but I know it will be of no 
 avail; the monster War is implacable, inexorable. It takes 
 no note of individuals. Though millions of men and women 
 are crushed with bleeding hearts to the earth, that monster 
 goes his terrible way, a soulless Juggernaut that devastates 
 and destroys every animate and inanimate thing that lies 
 between it and its appointed goal! I know now, as well as I 
 shall know then, what they will reply at the Foreign Office 
 when I mention the case of Madame F.: "We are desolated, 
 Monsieur, not to be able to allow this request. If Madame F. 
 could prove that she is French by marriage — ah, what happi- 
 ness would it not then give us to restore her to her home! 
 But she has no proofs. Monsieur. We only know that she is 
 German. And so, as a matter of reciprocity, to conform to 
 the German action in similar cases, we have no alternative 
 but to intern Madame F. for the duration of the war." Fol- 
 lowing this interview I shall communicate its purport to 
 Madame F., and then the incident will be "closed." That 
 is what diplomacy calls it; the dossier of Madame F. in my 
 office in the Paris Embassy will show that the incident is 
 closed; we have thousands of such closed incidents, and shall 
 get thousands more. But Madame F. and the thousands of 
 others like her — ah, their heart-breaking longing for home and 
 freedom will not be "closed." The human heart can't be tick- 
 eted and disposed of like a diplomatic dossier; the suffering and 
 misery caused by the mad ambition of a Kaiser and a mili- 
 tary caste to rule the world are breaking hearts in every con- 
 tinent on the globe, and will go on breaking hearts even after 
 the war is over. 
 
 From Annot we motored (in a machine rented from a citi- 
 zen of the town) down the gorge over a superb road to En- 
 trevaux, that wonderfully picturesque city which stands on a 
 huge rock surrounded on three sides by the rushing river Var 
 and whose fourth side is a precipitous rock that rises six 
 hundred feet above the city. On the summit of that lofty 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 69 
 
 rock is a castle built by Vauban. Two centuries ago no doubt 
 that castle with its massive walls, perched on top of a peak, 
 was a place of some military value; to-day, however, it is of 
 no military importance whatever. Even a small gun, as guns 
 now go, could knock the Fortress of Entrevaux to smithereens, 
 consequently for a century or more Vauban's creation has been 
 untenanted, serving merely as a picturesque addition to the 
 wild and weird panorama in which it is located. But since 
 1914 a lot of German officers have been housed in this ancient 
 fortress, and so we went there to see how they are being 
 treated, . . . Entrevaux' streets are too narrow for vehicles; 
 our automobile was left on the other side of the narrow, 
 foaming river Var while we crossed over a drawbridge, passed 
 through a covered stone gateway and entered the quaint and 
 curious town. A few minutes' walk through the two-yard 
 wide tortuous streets brought us to the edge of the 600-foot 
 rock and then began a climb which was almost as fatiguing 
 as the 2,400-foot climb up the mountain to Castello de Ros- 
 tino, so steep is the rugged path, so slippery are its rocks and 
 bowlders. . . . 
 
 Our unheralded arrival at the top of the rock caused no 
 little commotion; the armed sentinel at the fortress gate 
 scrutinized our papers closely; they bear our photographs and 
 are countersigned by the French Ministers of War and Interior 
 and command all prison authorities throughout France and 
 Corsica to open their doors to us and afford us every facility 
 to inspect the condition of both prisons and prisoners. There 
 was no gainsaying the correctness of our papers, nevertheless 
 that sentinel's motto was "safety first." He summoned a 
 guard and directed him to summon the Commandant; while 
 awaiting that official Morse and I remained outside the fortress 
 gate, glad of the chance to recover our breath and to look 
 down upon the unrivaled scene below us — upon the mottled, 
 moss-covered tile roofs of the ancient houses of Entrevaux 
 and upon the towering mountains behind and before us, with 
 
70 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 the foaming torrent of a river in the bottom of the gorge 
 swirling around the huge rock on which Entrevaux stands as 
 it rushes on its way to sea. 
 
 When the Commandant came to the gate, examined our 
 papers and found them perfectly "en regie," the stern look 
 on his face gave place to a smile and he greeted us cordially. 
 "Enter, Messieurs," he said. "We shall be glad to have you 
 visit every part of the fortress and to talk with our prisoners 
 — of course, in the presence of our interpreter. You are 
 aware, Messieurs, of the new rule in this respect?" We told 
 Commandant G. we knew of the new rule that was made 
 necessary by Germany's action, whereupon he declared im- 
 pulsively: "Why need I follow such an example? We have 
 nothing to conceal. Let my prisoners tell you what they 
 wish; if they have any just cause of complaint I shall gladly 
 try to remove it." 
 
 It was with this excellent spirit that our inspection of the 
 fortress was begun and, as was to be expected under so broad- 
 minded a commandant, we found the administration of the 
 place efficient and humane. True, the quarters of the Prussian 
 officers are not modern, consequently are not supplied with 
 modern conveniences such as sanitary plumbing; the floors 
 are of stone instead of wood, and the windows are screened 
 with iron bars. But, given these conditions which are in- 
 herent in the nature of the place, we thought in all other 
 respects the Fortress of Entrevaux quite suited for the 
 purpose to which the French have put it. The spokesman of 
 the prisoners said no one had any special complaint to make 
 excepting a certain Captain B., who was undergoing a thirty- 
 day cell sentence; the Captain, he added, wished to prefer 
 his complaint to me personally. When I asked the Command- 
 ant if this would be permitted he smiled and said pleasantly: 
 "Mais oui. Why not?" And forthwith directed an orderly 
 to bring Captain B. from his cell to the office where we were 
 sitting. In five minutes the prisoner stood before me — a tall, 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 71 
 
 handsome man with upturned blond mustaches, a long welt 
 across his right cheek, made probably by a saber in a college 
 duel. Clicking his heels sharply together, Captain B. brought 
 his right hand to his face in a stiff salute, then stood motion- 
 less, rigid, erect as if he had swallowed a ramrod. 
 
 "Sie wollen mit mir sprechen?" (You wish to speak with 
 me?) I said. 
 
 "Ja, Excellenz!" 
 
 "Proceed." 
 
 And thereupon the Captain related his grievance. He had 
 been sentenced to remain solitary in a cell for thirty days 
 because he had resented an insult offered to his country and 
 his Kaiser. 
 
 "And you know, Excellenz," he continued, "as it was my 
 right to resent such an insult, so it was not the right of the 
 Herr Commandant to punish me. It is a violation of Kriegs 
 Gesetz — (war law) — to punish one for doing that which it is 
 one's duty to do." 
 
 "What was the insult?" I asked. "Who insulted your 
 Kaiser and your country?" 
 
 Replies to this, and to other questions, developed these 
 facts: Captain B. had asked Commandant G. for the field 
 glasses taken from him the day of his capture during the 
 Battle of the Mame. To this Commandant G. had answered 
 he did not have the glasses; they had not been forwarded to 
 Entrevaux. "In that case," Captain B. replied haughtily, "it 
 is my duty to inform you, Monsieur, that your people have 
 stolen my glasses. And, sir, as you know, people who steal 
 are thieves!" To this Commandant G. had retorted: "What 
 is a pair of field glasses compared with the millions the Kaiser 
 has stolen from France and Belgium?" 
 
 Incredible as it may seem, this was the "insult." It did not 
 occur to Captain B. that he himself had offered an insult to 
 the French people by accusing them of stealing his glasses; 
 or if it occurred to him, it did not matter. The French are 
 
72 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 not supermen; an insult to them doesn't count. But to say 
 that the Kaiser has robbed the people of France and Belgium 
 seemed to this haughty Prussian officer a heinous offense. 
 During our colloquy Commandant G. listened attentively, 
 without, however, understanding a word, for we spoke in 
 German. When I translated into French the grievance com- 
 plained of by Captain B., the Commandant smiled and said: 
 
 "Be so good as to say to him. Monsieur, that I did not 
 mean the Kaiser stole personally; I meant that his army stole 
 money and goods, yes and jewelry, paintings, heirlooms, every- 
 thing of value that they could carry away." 
 
 This, translated to the Prussian Junker, increased rather 
 than lessened his anger; he continued rigid, erect, heels close 
 together, his blue eyes cold as steel. 
 
 "Excellenz," he said, "the Herr Commandant has not 
 mended matters. To insult my army is to insult my Kaiser; 
 and to insult my Kaiser is to insult me. Therefore, I repeat, 
 it is a violation of the articles of war to put me in a cell for 
 resenting an insult." 
 
 To this when translated to him Commandant G. shrugged 
 his shoulders and declared that not even for Captain B. would 
 he speak a falsehood, which he would be speaking were he to 
 say that the German armies had not plundered both France 
 and Belgium. "I cannot allow the prisoner's reclamation," 
 he concluded curtly. 
 
 "It is no more than I expected," observed Captain B. coldly 
 when I told him the Commandant's decision. "But that does 
 not alter the fact that an outrage is being done. It leaves 
 one more account to settle when Germany imposes her will 
 upon her foes." 
 
 With this his right hand again came to his head with a 
 stiff salute, his body turned, still rigid as an iron rod, his 
 heels clicked together again in that peculiar German military 
 way, and off he strode to complete his thirty days in a cell. 
 
 It was all so absurd, so unnecessary. With only a modicum 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 73 
 
 of common sense Captain B. might pass the days of his cap- 
 tivity in comfort, if not in pleasure. But even in that fortress 
 prison, perched on a peak high above the river Var, he is a 
 Prussian and a Junker. And so he is as proud, as haughty, 
 as unreasonable at Entrevaux as he was in pre-war days when 
 elbowing common mortals off the sidewalks of Berlin. 
 
PART II 
 
Cannes, Monday night, 
 October 2, 19 16. 
 
 The contrast between the Camp de Faveur at Annot and 
 the Camp de Discipline at St. Tropez is as striking as the 
 names indicate; in the latter camp conditions are as stern 
 and rigorous as they are easy-going and lenient at Annot. 
 Only men of desperate or criminal character are sent to St. 
 Tropez; and, once locked up in the gloomy old fortress on 
 top of a hill overlooking the Mediterranean, the prisoners are 
 watched by grim-faced soldiers who shoot to kill at the slight- 
 est effort on the part of a German to escape. Some of the 
 Germans at St. Tropez are former convicts, some are deserters 
 from the French army, others are classed as "Anarchists." 
 
 A prisoner with whom I talked had been a soldier of 
 France's Foreign Legion; when Germany declared war on 
 France, Fritz promptly skipped out, and, being caught, was 
 court-martialed, found guilty of desertion in face of the enemy 
 and sentenced to seventeen years' imprisonment and to forty 
 years' banishment from France. "Is life in the Foreign Legion 
 very delightful?" I asked Fritz. He looked at me in aston- 
 ishment as he answered, "No, that he had led a dog's life in 
 the Legion." "Is then the pay so good?" I asked. "No, 
 Monsieur, only four sous a day." "So, then," I added, "for 
 a paltry four sous a day you risk your life, take frightful 
 marches across the deserts of Africa. And then for nothing 
 at all, not even four sous, you desert, you take desperate 
 chances of death from hunger and thirst as well as from 
 French bullets, and you land in prison for seventeen years. 
 Why did you do it?" 
 
 "For love of the Fatherland," answered the German proudly, 
 an answer which showed anew what a strange, what an inter- 
 
 77 
 
78 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 esting thing is the animal we call Man. Fritz' desertion was 
 not denied, his punishment was deserved. And yet I could 
 not help feeling for him something akin to admiration and 
 sympathy. . . . Although the discipline at St. Tropez is stern, 
 even severe, it is not more so than seems necessary in the 
 case of such men as are interned there, consequently Morse 
 and I finished our inspection within a few hours and started 
 back on the eighty-kilometer motor ride to Cannes; before 
 seeing Corsica's wonderful scenery to-day's ride would have 
 seemed to us extraordinarily beautiful, but nothing even in 
 Switzerland surpasses the grandeur of Corsica's mountains, 
 hence we did not go into ecstasies to-day as otherwise we 
 might easily have done. For, in truth, few roads in Europe 
 are more beautiful than that we have just traversed along the 
 Mediterranean. On one hand was the deep blue water of the 
 sea, on the other rose towering mountains on whose sides were 
 beautiful villas surrounded by orange, palm and other tropical 
 trees. ... At one point on the road a hydroplane suddenly 
 dropped out of a cloud and landed on the water below us; 
 and a few minutes later our automobile had to draw to one 
 side to let pass a regiment of Russian soldiers which came 
 toward us with long swinging stride, the men singing as they 
 marched a weird, somber Slavic song. Every man in the regi- 
 ment seemed at least six feet one inch high; if they could 
 only fight as well as they look what wonderful soldiers they 
 would be! But they can't, which is why I hear many French- 
 men say they hope for the best, but fear the worst, so far 
 as Russia is concerned. 
 
 Yesterday morning after our arrival at Cannes from En- 
 trevaux, we took a motorboat and went to Isle Ste. Mar- 
 guerite some miles off the coast, where a lot of Germans are 
 interned in the same fortress which housed Marshal Bazaine 
 after he was condemned for betraying France to the Germans, 
 and where — long before Bazaine — the Man with the Iron 
 Mask was imprisoned. The cell where this man of mystery 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 79 
 
 remained so long has a high-vaulted ceiling and a window 
 that looks out on the sea; at one end of the room is a toilet 
 stool which opens direct, without trap or other obstruction, 
 upon the sea at the base of the rock sixty or seventy feet 
 below. Commandant J. — told us that one day the Man in 
 the Iron Mask dropped into the sea through this opening one 
 of the gold plates used in his dinner service; the plate was 
 found by a fisherman who, being honest, took it to the 
 Governor of the Island. This latter, observing that a mes- 
 sage and a name had been scratched on the plate, demanded 
 of the fisherman if he could read, "No, Excellency," returned 
 the worthy fellow. Whereupon the Governor told him he 
 should thank God for being an ignorant man. "Could you 
 read, fellow," said the Governor, "you would never live to 
 see another day." 
 
 What a pity that that fisherman was not at once a reader 
 and a liar! For, in that case, by lying he could have saved 
 his life, and by reading what was scratched on that gold plate 
 he might have solved a puzzle that even after all these years 
 still mystifies the world. . . . Commandant J. — , now Gov- 
 ernor of Isle Ste. Marguerite, is a grizzled veteran who once 
 was in command of Corsica; he has walked all over the island 
 of Napoleon's birth and was much interested in hearing of 
 our inspection of its prison monasteries. "Tell me frankly," 
 he said, "how my management here compares with the places 
 you have visited?" I gladly complied with this request, as 
 in truth my inspection of Isle Ste. Marguerite disclosed no 
 matters worthy of serious criticism. Geofrey Wald, chief of 
 the prisoners, before the war headwaiter of the Hotel Luxem- 
 bourg at Nice, said the fortress now houses 222 Germans, 47 
 Austrians and 4 Turks, and that none has any special com- 
 plaint to make. One big blond German begged me to inter- 
 cede with Commandant J. — for a piano. "My career is 
 gone if I stay here much longer without a piano," said the 
 big German sadly. "Look at my fingers. See how stiff they 
 
8o THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 are becoming! I am, or rather was, an artist, Excellency. 
 Is it possible the French wish to deprive me of my art as well 
 as of my liberty?" 
 
 I felt sorry for the man, and I believe Commandant J. — 
 is sorry for him, too; but the French newspapers have been 
 raising a hue and cry about the way German prisoners are 
 being "pampered"; stories have been printed saying that while 
 the people of France are cold and hungry the Germans on Ste. 
 Marguerite are warm and well fed, that they are given the 
 most beautiful island in the Mediterranean as their home. 
 "In view of this sentiment, Monsieur, it would not be politic 
 at this juncture to have a piano brought to the island." So 
 concluded the Commandant's reply to my submission to him 
 of the big blond German's request, and when I translated it 
 into German the poor fellow looked at his fingers a moment, 
 then without a word turned and walked away, tears in his 
 eyes. For in that reply he saw an end to his hope of becoming 
 a great pianist. 
 
 After looking at the several rooms and the bastion where 
 Marshal Bazaine was confined, and whence he often looked 
 across the blue Mediterranean at the shores of the France he 
 was never to step foot on again (when he escaped he went 
 to Spain and died there), Commandant J. — escorted us down 
 the steep stone stairs leading from the fortress to the sea, 
 and he stood there waving us a bon voyage until our motor 
 launch was well on its way back to Cannes. Queen Victoria 
 made this town popular with the fashionable world, so did 
 her son, Edward VII., to whom, in gratitude, the city has 
 erected a monument near "Les Alices," as they call the mar- 
 velously beautiful park filled with rows of superb trees which 
 is the rendezvous of all who visit Cannes. Edward is repre- 
 sented as a yachtsman, in sack coat, cap on his head and sea 
 glasses in his hands; at the base of the statue is the marble 
 figure of a beautiful girl in the nude. It is said that King 
 Edward was fond both of yachting and of girls — a fact per- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 8i 
 
 haps not unknown to the sculptor who designed this memorial 
 of him in Cannes. . . . 
 
 Quite a number of Germans are interned in the Chateau 
 d'lf, the island where the Count of Monte Cristo was im- 
 prisoned; I had intended stopping in Marseilles in order to 
 visit these Germans, but a wire from the Embassy requires 
 me to return to-morrow to Paris, consequently I cannot now 
 renew the acquaintance with that historic and picturesque 
 prison which I visited in 1885 on my first visit to Marseilles. 
 
 Paris, Sunday night, 
 October 8, 19 16. 
 
 I HAVE just returned from the opera Louise, whose beautiful 
 music is sung by France's greatest artists; the opera is kept 
 open so as to cheer the people, especially blind soldiers who 
 no longer ma}^ see the beauties of the world but who still can 
 enjoy music and song. Scores of these unfortunates were 
 there to-night, and apparently they were unmindful of their 
 affliction — indeed, they seemed actually gay. But to me the 
 sadness of seeing brave men so afflicted, so helpless, left little 
 room in my heart to enjoy the beautiful stage setting or the 
 still more beautiful music of Louise. Between each act every- 
 body went out into the foyer where the blind soldiers prome- 
 naded up and down, led by ladies who laughed and chatted 
 in a brave attempt to make them forget their misfortune. 
 In leaving the opera after the performance ended I saw the 
 blind soldiers being led away, to each guide four soldiers, 
 who let their right hand rest lightly on the guide's shoulder 
 as they followed him docilely out into the blackness of the 
 great city. . . , 
 
 Although the war is more than two years old, food condi- 
 tions in France seem no worse than in the United States. The 
 other day when Mr. and Mrs. Dodge, of the Embassy, dined 
 with me at a cafe on the Boulevard des Italiens dinner for 
 the three of us, including a bottle of Saumur Mousseux, cost 
 
82 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 27 francs — about $4.64. We had hors d'oeuvres (sardines, 
 anchovies, olives, radishes, etc.), roast chicken, fried potatoes, 
 lettuce with egg and French dressing, cheese, coffee and wine. 
 I know of no first-class restaurant in New York where so good 
 a dinner may be had at so reasonable a price.* 
 
 Paris, Sunday, 
 October 15, 191 6. 
 
 One really great good that the war has done for mankind is 
 in the way of developing the science of surgery, especially 
 plastic surgery. Operations are performed now which only a 
 year ago would have been considered impossible; it is a com- 
 mon sight to see soldiers with new faces, faces practically made 
 by the surgeons. Your nose or your jawbone may be smashed 
 to pieces by a piece of shrapnel, but do not despair, the sur- 
 geons will patch you up so that you can eat and breathe just 
 as well as before. You may not be quite so handsome, but 
 that will be more than compensated for by the hero's mark 
 that will be yours for the rest of your life, a mark worth 
 having, judging by the consideration given everywhere to the 
 soldiers who bear on their faces or bodies the evidence of 
 sacrifice for France. 
 
 The French postage stamp bears the picture of a woman 
 sowing grain, a fit symbol for this beautiful land which every- 
 where, even after two years of war, is a veritable garden. A 
 woman fructifying the earth, sowing seed that the harvest may 
 bring gladness and happiness to the sons of men! How much 
 better is this than the ruin and desolation and despair that 
 follow in the wake of war; yet some countries place on their 
 stamps and coins the effigy of a King or Kaiser, a destroyer 
 instead of creator of happiness for mankind. France may 
 instead of creator of happiness for mankind. It is something 
 to have an ideal, and every democrat loves France which 
 
 * Compare prices at this same restaurant in June, 1918 (see 
 page 286). 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 83 
 
 honors woman fructifying the earth, France which carves on 
 all its public buildings those grand words: 
 
 Liberty — Equality — Fraternity ! 
 
 In Paris one is struck by the fact that most of the men 
 wear mustaches, and many wear bushy beards. ''Only priests 
 and waiters wear smooth faces," said a Parisian to me the 
 other day. It is a matter of fashion. During our Civil War 
 beards seem to have been the rule, if one may judge from the 
 portraits of that period. . . . 
 
 The Callot sisters, Paris' famous dressmakers, have recently 
 opened a three million franc establishment a few doors from 
 the Hotel Alexandre III., just off the Champs Elysees, and 
 recently I accepted an invitation to inspect the establishment. 
 After observing and admiring a score of boudoirs, decorated 
 in the tapestries and furnishings of different epochs — Louis 
 XIV., Louis XV., the Empire, etc., etc. — the woman who 
 acted as my cicerone asked if I wished to see the Manikins. 
 I said, yes, thinking she meant to conduct me to the large 
 salon where girls prance up and down in beautiful gowns be- 
 fore buyers who come from America and other foreign 
 lands to see the latest Paris creations. But instead of taking 
 me to the grand salon Madame conducted me to a dress- 
 ing room where were a score of young women in various de- 
 grees of nudity. Some were just taking off their street gowns, 
 others had already disrobed, still others had begun to don 
 the gorgeous creations of the Callot sisters which were about 
 to be exhibited in the Grand Salon. To me the situation as 
 I entered that room and saw that exhibition of unadorned 
 loveliness was embarassing, but the Manikins, after a casual 
 glance at the masculine intruder, went on with their toilets 
 as unconcernedly as if no man were within a hundred miles. 
 Half an hour later I saw the same girls in the Grand Salon 
 arrayed in finery that Solomon in all his glory would have 
 envied — and perhaps in vain, for the prices charged for those 
 gowns were exorbitant. I noted one that reached barely to 
 
84 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 the knees and extended upward little, if any, above the 
 waist; and on one side there was an opening from the knee 
 to the waist, so that the amount of goods contained in the 
 garment was almost negligible, yet the price was Frcs. 
 3,000. A fat, florrid faced buyer from New York who sat 
 on the bench next to me fingered this gown, turned the Mani- 
 kin around, poked her in the back and finally gave an order 
 for the garment — to be sold, I presume, to a Broadway chorus 
 girl; surely so extreme a cut will hardly be in favor with any 
 one not in a ballet. 
 
 I lunched yesterday with a French acquaintance, M. Robert 
 Le Griffon, who has recently returned from Revigny: while 
 in that city, which was once occupied by the Germans but 
 which the French have reconquered, a German airplane flew 
 over the lines and dropped thousands of circulars addressed 
 to the French people and aimed at arousing their fear and 
 suspicion of the English. M. Le Griffon said the Frenchmen 
 he saw picking up the German circulars did not read them 
 through; after a mere glance they threw them on the ground 
 and to emphasize their contempt for the boche, spit upon 
 the message he had dropped down from the clouds. I was 
 more curious and so read from beginning to end the circular 
 which my friend kindly gave me as a souvenir: here is an 
 exact copy: 
 
 Berlin le 26 Juillet, 1916. 
 "Fran^ais ! 
 
 Vos aviateurs au moyen de lancement de bombes ont tue un 
 grand nombre de civils, hommes, femmes et enfants dans ces 
 dernieres semaines, bien en arriere du front, en Allemagne. 
 
 Rien qu'a Karlsruhe le 22 Juin 1916 on a compte 48 morts, 
 parmi lesquels 30 enfants innocents. Mulheim fut bombarde 
 le 22 Juin, Fribourg le 16 Juillet, Kandern, Holzen et Mappach 
 le 17 Juillet, Heitersheim pres Fribourg, et Mulheim, le 22 
 Juillet. 
 
 Dans toutes ces attaques on a eu a deplorer des victimes, 
 tant en morts qu'en blesses. Tous ces endroits n'ont pas la 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAr 85 
 
 moindre importance au point de vue militaire, comme chacun 
 meme n'ayant aucune notion militaire doit pouvoir s'en rendre 
 compte en jetant un coup d'oeil sur la carte. 
 
 Le Commandant militaire Allemand a tout d'abord hesite a 
 croire que le gouvernement Frangais et le generalissime etaient 
 capables de se rendre coupables d'un tel acte de barbaric. II 
 avait pense que vos aviateurs avaient pu se tromper dans I'exe- 
 cution de leur mission. 
 
 Franqais ! 
 
 Vos aviateurs ne se sont pas trompes ! Un hasard nous a per- 
 mis de connaitre la source de ces crimes ! Nous savons au- 
 jourd'hui sans qu'il puisse y avoir le moindre doute a cet 
 egard qu'ils ont ete commis sur I'ordre expres de voire gou- 
 vernement! 
 
 C'est votre President Poincare lui-meme qui a suggere cet 
 ordre et il n'a pas honte d'avoir prete I'oreille a la basse insti- 
 gation des Anglais ! 
 
 Tout aussi bien que vous et nous, les Anglais savent que 
 le peuple Franqais est las des sacrifices de sang que lui coute 
 cette guerre. C'est pourquoi il fallait chercher un moyen pour 
 attirer de nouveau la colere et la haine contre I'Allemagne. 
 Y-avait-il pour cela une meilleure maniere que de faire bombar- 
 der vos villes paisibles par des escadres d'aviateurs AUemands? 
 
 Eh bien ! Pour arriver a ce but les Anglais ont conqu le plan 
 diabolique de faire bombarder Karlsruhe et d'autres endroits 
 paisibles loin du territoire des operations militaires. Le Presi- 
 dent Poincare, aujourd'hui esclave de I'Angleterre, et qui tom- 
 bera aussitot que vos drapeaux auront ete roules, se fit I'ins- 
 trument sans conscience de cette action. 
 
 Voila le plan tel qu'il fut conqu; et n'oubliez pas que c'est 
 un plan Anglais ! 
 
 L'Allemagne fait la guerre aux armees Franqaises, elle ne 
 la fait pas a la population civile, aux femmes et aux enfants. 
 Elle espere que ces explications suffiront pour empecher de la 
 part des escadres Franqaises de nouvelles attaques barbares de 
 ce genre. En cas de recidivre I'Allemagne se verrait obligee 
 de prendre des mesures semblables afin de se defendre. 
 
86 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 Mais vous saurez alors, Frangais, que cet esclave de I'Angle- 
 terre, M. Poincare, sera responsable du sang repandu par des 
 victimes innocentes, et que c'est la barbaric Anglaise qui nous 
 aura obliges a apporter la destruction et le deuil dans vos villes, 
 loin en arriere du front !" 
 
 Translation : 
 
 "Berlin, July 26, 1916. 
 Frenchmen : — 
 
 By dropping bombs your aviators have killed a great num- 
 ber of civilians, men, women and children, in the past few 
 weeks behind the front in Germany. At Karlsruhe alone on 
 June 22 there were 48 deaths of which 30 were innocent chil- 
 dren. Mulheim was bombed June 22, Freibourg July 16, Kan- 
 dern, Holzen and Mappach July 17, Heitersheim near Freibourg 
 and Mulheim July 22. 
 
 In all these attacks there have been both dead and wounded. 
 None of these localities is of the least importance from a 
 military point of view, as any one with even the least military 
 sense must see with a mere glance at the map. 
 
 At first the German military command hesitated to believe 
 that the French government was capable of such an act of bar- 
 barity; it supposed that your aviators made a mistake in the 
 execution of their mission. 
 
 Frenchmen ! Your aviators made no mistake ! Chance has 
 enabled us to learn the source of these crimes. We now know 
 without the least doubt that they were committed by the express 
 order of your government ! 
 
 It is President Poincare himself who conceived that order 
 and he has not been ashamed to lend an ear to the base instiga- 
 tions of the English ! 
 
 The English know as well as you and we that the French 
 people are tired of the sacrifices entailed by this war, hence 
 it was necessary to find a means to arouse anew your anger 
 and hate for Germany. And what better way could they invent 
 than cause your peaceful cities to be bombed by German 
 squadrons of aviators ? 
 
 Well, in order to accomplish this object the English con- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 87 
 
 ceived the diabolical plan to cause bombs to be thrown on 
 Karlsruhe and other places far from the field of military 
 operations. President Poincare, now a slave of England's, who 
 will fall from power just as soon as your flags have been 
 furled, made himself the conscienceless instrument of that 
 scheme. That is the plan he conceived ! And do not forget 
 that it is an English plan. 
 
 Germany makes war against armed Frenchmen ; she does not 
 war against the civil population, against women and children. 
 She hopes these explanations will suffice to prevent further 
 barbarous air attacks by French aviators, but in case such 
 attacks are repeated Germany will find herself obliged to de- 
 fend herself by adopting similar measures. But you will then 
 know, Frenchmen, that it will be that slave of England, M. 
 Poincare, who will be responsible for the blood which will be 
 shed by innocent victims ! You will know that it is the 
 barbarity of the English which will have forced us to bring 
 destruction and desolation to your villages far behind the 
 front !" 
 
 Five hundred years ago when the English ruled this part 
 of France and burned poor Joan of Arc at a stake in Rouen it 
 required heroic effort on the part of the French to make 
 them go home. There is now fifty times as big an English 
 army in France as there was half a thousand years ago, but 
 to-day no sensible Frenchman fears that the English will stay 
 a day longer than is necessary to thrash the Boche. Germany, 
 however, woefully ignorant of the psychology of other na- 
 tions, thinks by such silly circulars as the above to set the 
 French against their English ally. . . . 
 
 To-day I saw the holes made by a German bomb in the 
 wall of a building near our Embassy; our Ambassador, who 
 happened to be passing when the bomb came tumbling down 
 from the sky, had a narrow escape. This, however, was some 
 time ago. Of late the French seem to have been able to keep 
 the German Taubes from reaching Paris. As soon as one 
 crosses the lines flying west a swarm of French airmen rises 
 
88 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 up to meet it, with the result that since January, 191 6, no 
 German aviator has dropped any bombs upon the capital. 
 Last Sunday while dining at my friend Terry's on the Avenue 
 Victor the siren sounded and all of us jumped to our feet and 
 rushed to the window. Quick as we were, the French avions 
 had already risen in the air from their field across the Avenue 
 Victor, just outside the city's wall, and it was a beautiful sight 
 to see them spread out in fan shape and disappear in the east 
 on their way to intercept the Germans. When the siren sounds 
 Parisians are supposed to take refuge in the cellar, but such 
 was our confidence in these French aviators that we resumed 
 our places at the table and calmly finished our dinner. Half 
 an hour later the signal sounded that the danger was over, 
 and we knew that the Boche had either been brought to the 
 ground or forced to fly back beyond his own lines. . . . 
 While Paris thus seems immune, air raids over London are in- 
 creasing in frequency and intensity. 
 
 It so happens that a friend of mine was in London early in 
 August: on the night of the third he was at a theater per- 
 formance and instead of seeking refuge in the cellar, when the 
 siren sounded he in common with the rest of the audience 
 rushed out onto the street to see the sight. "Our chief, if 
 not only, emotion," he said, "was that of curiosity. And 
 verily it is well worth while to witness a Zeppelin raid — what 
 with the huge arms of light piercing the heavens, the roar 
 of anti-aircraft guns, the exulting shouts of the multitude 
 when the search lights find the Zepps and the great airship is 
 clearly seen in the fierce white lights, — that is a thing long to 
 be remembered! 
 
 "But what of the danger?" I queried. 
 
 "Oh, nobody thinks of that. Why should they? The odds 
 are all in your favor. For instance, this raid of August 3d 
 killed and wounded only 87 people. That, of course, is re- 
 grettable, but in London, with its six million population more 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 89 
 
 people are injured every week by motor buses and auto- 
 mobiles." 
 
 And this was the raid which the German people were told 
 killed 15,000 people! . . . 
 
 From the London Times of September 27, 1916, I note an 
 account of the first visit of "War Brides" to British prisoners 
 interned in Switzerland. Torn from their husbands in Au- 
 gust, 19 14, these wives have been widows for two years; 
 and now at last, Germany having sent the prisoners to Switzer- 
 land because they are totally disabled, their wives may visit 
 them — if they are financially able to do so. Somebody wrote 
 the Times it would be a graceful thing to enable the women 
 to visit their husbands; the suggestion was acted on, a fund 
 was raised and the first batch of women went to Switzerland 
 a few weeks ago; for 14 days they remained with their hus- 
 bands at the Chateau d'Oex, then returned to England. Both 
 on the going and the returning trip they were looked after by 
 the Red Cross; they were met at Havre and supplied with 
 hot coffee and warm coats and blankets for the cold ride 
 through France; and, arrived in Switzerland, they were given 
 comfortable quarters with their husbands. One can imagine 
 the joy of those meetings after the two past frightful years 
 during which those women had not heard from their husbands 
 and had given them up for dead. Verily war does arouse 
 some of the noblest as well as the basest feelings known to 
 the human heart. Heavily taxed as they are, the people of 
 England voluntarily tax themselves still more to help put a 
 little sunshine, a little gladness into the lives of others. The 
 Times announces that money will be raised in sufficient sums 
 to send to Switzerland all the "War Brides" whose husbands 
 have been allowed by Germany to become interned in the 
 mountain republic, and the Red Cross has agreed to look 
 out for the physical welfare of the voyagers as they pass 
 through France. The Red Cross never misses a chance to do 
 good. 
 
90 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 Paris, Wednesday night, 
 
 November i, 191 6. 
 To-day, along with the President of France and some 200,- 
 
 000 Frenchmen, I went to the cemetery of the Pere La Chaise, 
 this being the day which the French people dedicates to the 
 memory of its dead, le jour des morts! On this day graves 
 are covered with flowers, even though they are not remem- 
 bered at any other time: it seemed as if all Paris was stream- 
 ing to its cemeteries. Each one was filled with people and 
 the Pere la Chaise was so crowded, only with difficulty could 
 
 1 wedge a way through its maze of narrow streets in quest of 
 the monuments I wished to see. On the Avenue Principal, to 
 the left just after entering the main gate, is the grave of 
 Rosinni; the great composer died in 1868 and for a while his 
 body rested under the monument which bears his name, but 
 in 1887 it was removed to the city of his birth, Florence, Italy. 
 Near the Rosinni monument is that of Alfred de Musset, who 
 in his will asked his friends to plant a willow over his grave 
 so that it could always weep for him, and so that he might 
 hear the rustling of its leaves. His friends, as poetic in feeling 
 if not in expression as he, planted the willow at the head of 
 his grave and there it stands to-da/, its leaves rustling in the 
 cold November wind for De Musset to hear, if only the spirits 
 of the dead have power to listen. ... A short walk brought 
 me to Alphonse Daudet's grave, and nearby to the tombs of 
 three of Napoleon's marshals, Massena, Lefebre and Grouchy, 
 he whose slowness at Waterloo changed the course of history. 
 Marshal Lefebre 's plot comprises 23 square meters of ground 
 and an inscription on the monument records that his remains 
 are to stay buried in that plot "in perpetuity." Pere la Chaise 
 is so crowded, unless one is a marshal, or very rich, one can't 
 stay there long; the average grave is rented for only five 
 years. After that term ends, out you go unless more rent 
 money is forthcoming. Two square meters "in perpetuity" 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 91 
 
 cost ijOoo francs; the fifth and sixth square meters cost 2,000 
 francs each ; the more ground you buy in perpetuity the higher 
 the price per square meter; the object is to discourage you 
 from taking up too much space after you are dead. . . . Not 
 far from the three marshals is a beautiful white monument 
 erected in memory of poor Ney, whose body was brought 
 here after he was shot to death in the fosse of the Luxem- 
 bourg by French soldiers whom he had led to a hundred vic- 
 tories on a hundred battlefields. . . . Another interesting tomb 
 is that of La Vallette with its bas relief showing the French- 
 man in his prison changing clothes with his wife so as to 
 escape the guillotine on which the Terrorists had condemned 
 him to die; the ruse succeeded and La Vallette lived to a ripe 
 old age, not dying until forty years after the Revolution, in 
 1830. Other interesting tombs I saw to-day were those of 
 Balzac, Cambaceres and Sieyes (Napoleon's co-consuls), Junot 
 (Napoleon's marshal), and Walewski (Napoleon's son), who 
 sleeps in a large mausoleum. 
 
 Interesting as were the tombs of these great Frenchmen, a 
 tomb which possessed for me even greater interest was Oscar 
 Wilde's — a great block of gray stone on one side of which is 
 carved the winged figure of an Assyrian in a crouching, flying 
 attitude — a weird, uncanny thing, quite in keeping with the 
 strange being in whose memory it was made. On the back of 
 the huge block of stone are these words: 
 
 "Born October 16, 1854; Died, fortified by the sacraments 
 of the Church, November 30, 1900, at Hotel d'Alsace, 13 Rue 
 des Beaux Arts, Paris. 
 
 And alien tears will fill for him 
 Pity's long broken urn ; 
 For his mourners will be outcast men, 
 And outcasts always mourn." 
 
 In small letters at the bottom of the pedestal are the words: 
 
92 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 "Given by a lady as a memoir of her admiration of the 
 poet. . . . Designed by Jacob Epstein." 
 
 On the grave lay a single bunch of fresh flowers; were 
 they, too, "given by a lady?" By her who erected this costly 
 monument? What romance lies hidden behind that huge 
 block of stone and under that modest bunch of flowers which 
 I saw to-day at the grave of Oscar Wilde? , . . Some weeks 
 ago, happening to be on the Rue des Beaux Arts, I paused 
 to look at No. 13, the Hotel d 'Alsace where the poet died 
 sixteen years ago. It is a shabby, dingy street and No. 13 
 is a shabby, dingy house. What a place to witness the friend- 
 less, unattended, lonely last moments of one of England's most 
 miserable and most gifted men! 
 
 Only less touching than Wilde's tomb are the graves in 
 Pere la Chaise of the German prisoners; ''les tombes des pris- 
 oniers allemands se trahissent par leur nudite." True; dying 
 in an alien land, far from their homes beyond the Rhine, these 
 Germans alone have no flowers over them on this, the one 
 day of the year, when all other graves, however humble, are 
 sure to be remembered. 
 
 Paris, Friday, 
 November 3, 191 6. 
 Word has come from Berlin that German prisoners at Rouen 
 are being badly treated. The Note Verbale, a memorandum 
 of the alleged bad treatment of the Germans by the English 
 and French, is sent by Mr. Gerard to our Minister to Switzer- 
 land, Mr. Stoveall in Berne; Mr. Stoveall sends it to the Paris 
 Embassy and when I complete my investigation of the condi- 
 tions complained of, my report will be sent in the same round- 
 about manner to Berlin. That our work does great good can 
 hardly be doubted; it is having a humanizing effect upon even 
 the most callous Commandant of the most remote prison camp. 
 Russia has interned Germans in eastern Siberia, but distant as 
 is that part of the world from Petrograd representatives of our 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 93 
 
 Embassy in that city are in the habit of dropping into those Si- 
 berian camps at the most unexpected moments in order to 
 see how the Russians are treating the German prisoners. The 
 fact that such visits may be made at any moment has an 
 excellent effect in deterring Commandants from giving way 
 to bad temper or bad nerves and mistreating the men in their 
 power. . , , The Germans at Rouen may be badly treated; 
 if so, I shall tell the truth about it. But there are two good 
 reasons for believing that Berlin has received false reports: 
 first, the French seem disposed of their own free will to be 
 humane and kindly; second, even were they not a kind, hu- 
 mane people, they would not mistreat German prisoners, 
 knowing that I, or one of my assistants, would make the fact 
 known to Berlin and thus invite reprisals upon Frenchmen in 
 Germany. 
 
 Rouen, Saturday night, 
 
 November 4, 19 16. 
 
 When Beamer (my wife) and I rolled into Rouen in our 
 roadster before the war a sleepy octroi officer at the city gate 
 asked if we had anything to declare; we said "Rien," where- 
 upon the octroi man said "Allez", and into the city we went. 
 It isn't that easy to-day. Being in the war zone, no one may 
 enter Rouen without a military pass and at that you are con- 
 sidered a spy until you prove you are not one. At the railway 
 station, on arriving to-day, my two assistants (Dr. Mullen and 
 Morse) and I had to run three gauntlets. First a French 
 officer took us in hand; after telling him our history (including 
 the maiden names of our mothers), an English officer cross- 
 examined us; after him a Belgian officer quizzed us. And not 
 until all three of these inquisitors were convinced that we 
 were really from the American Embassy were we allowed to 
 pass through the gates and take a taxi to our hotel. 
 
 Rouen is a different place from that which Beamer and I 
 knew before the war. Then it was quiet, almost sleepy; to- 
 
94 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 day it is about the busiest city in France. And it is more 
 English than French. At every corner stands a big English- 
 man in uniform, the letters "M. P." on his sleeve. "Mem- 
 ber of Parliament?" said Morse to one of the big fellows. 
 "No, military police," answered the Englishman without 
 cracking a smile. There are many thousand "Tommies" in 
 Rouen, some of whom occasionally get a bit too gay — "lit up" 
 as the boys say. And then these big M. P. fellows take the 
 Tommies in hand ; the French have nothing to do with punish- 
 ing an English soldier for misbehaving. 
 
 The last time the English were in command in Rouen they 
 were unwelcome visitors; the sight of an English head in 
 Rouen 500 years ago was the signal for firing a French bul- 
 let. To-day the sight of the English arouses French enthu- 
 siasm. Rouen's shops look like London's; English goods, 
 English styles are seen everywhere and English Tommies are 
 on every street arm in arm with French lassies with whom 
 they can't exchange a word that either understands; but for 
 all that both seem thoroughly pleased with the situation. No 
 petty barrier of race or language can keep Youth apart! 
 
 After dinner to-night we went to a "Revue" at a theater 
 on an island in the Seine, opposite our hotel. The theater 
 was crowded with English, French and Belgian soldiers and 
 the air was thick with tobacco smoke, but we endured the dis- 
 comfort for the sake of seeing those soldiers and learning a 
 little about their way of forgetting the horror of the trenches. 
 On the stage there were several really good vaudeville acts, 
 including some pretty and almost naked girls, but these, 
 though applauded by the soldier audience, did not arouse as 
 much enthusiasm as did a tableau representing the poster 
 which one now sees all over France, the poster showing a 
 poUu with uplifted hand, rifle slung over his shoulder, rushing 
 forward, the joy of victory in his eyes as he cries: 
 
 "On les aura!" ("We'll get 'em!") 
 
 The tableau was an excellent representation of this poster, 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 95 
 
 the soldier looked exactly like the one in the picture and the 
 audience literally howled its approval. There was no need 
 of a paid Claque to-night; the soldier audience seemed to en- 
 joy even the poorest numbers of the Revue, nevertheless the 
 Claque was there; and it operated in an open, matter of fact 
 way that to us was surprising. The leader occupied a bal- 
 cony seat near and just above the stage. When applause was 
 desired this leader waved his hand, as an orchestra leader 
 waves his baton, openly and unashamed. And when he 
 thought the applause had lasted long enough, he waved his 
 hand again and instantly the noisy tumult ceased. It was 
 all done openly; the entire audience could see the Claque 
 leader and his docile applauders; but, apart from Morse, 
 Mullen and I, nobody appeared to think the proceeding either 
 strange or absurd. 
 
 Rouen, Sunday night, 
 November 5. 
 This morning on finishing coffee and adjourning to the 
 reading room of the Hotel de Paris we found there Captain 
 Georges Gromaire who in civil life is Professor Gromaire of 
 the Lycee Buff on, 189 Rue de Vaugirard, Paris, author of a 
 number of critical literary works; but for the duration of the 
 war Captain Gromaire is Aide to Col. Fleury, Commandant 
 of this military Region, and we speedily found him to be a 
 very cultured, amiable gentleman. He took us first to the 
 Hotel de la Poste where our luggage was left, then the big 
 Renault limousine whirled us across the Seine to the English 
 camp on the outskirts of Rouen. Col. Catell, Commander of 
 the English camp, received us cordially and told us to stay 
 as long as we liked and see as much as we wished. Acting 
 on this invitation, we went from one end of the camp to the 
 other; we inspected the dormitories and kitchens, the bath 
 houses and latrines, talked with the prisoners alone and tasted 
 the food served to them by ten German prisoner cooks. Not 
 only did we find none of the evil things mentioned by Berlin, 
 
96 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 but in the opinion of Dr. Mullen, Morse and myself Col. 
 Catell's camp is even more sanitary and more humanely man- 
 aged than ordinary. The wooden barracks are heated by 
 stoves and lighted by electric lamps; the sleeping bunks, raised 
 eighteen inches above the wood floors, are provided with straw 
 mattresses and blankets; the grounds around the barracks are 
 drained by subsoil pipes; the food not only complies with 
 the convention between Great Britain and Germany, but in 
 addition to the stipulated amounts agreed on by the two 
 belligerents Col. Catell gives each of his prisoners half a pound 
 of meat a day — more than many German peasants were ac- 
 customed to having even before the war. I asked if the Ber- 
 lin government was treating English prisoners to this extra, or 
 to its equivalent; Col. Catell smiled sadly. 
 
 "I fear not," he said. "According to the reports we get our 
 poor fellows do not receive even the amounts of food agreed 
 on. However, no doubt that is because food is becoming 
 scarce in Germany." 
 
 The quarters of the "Tommies" in small tents, eight men to 
 the tent, contain no bunks, no mattresses, no stoves, no elec- 
 tric lights; the soldiers sleep on the wooden floors of the tents 
 with only such warmth and comfort as are afforded by a 
 couple of army blankets. 
 
 "Col. Catell," said I, "were I obliged to stay here I cer- 
 tainly should prefer to be one of your prisoners rather than 
 one of your soldiers. Conditions being what I have noted, 
 why does Berlin say such bad things about you?" 
 
 Col. Catell smiled. "Come this way and you will under- 
 stand," he said. I followed him to his office where, heaped 
 upon a table, was a pile of letters. "My prisoners are engaged 
 in loading and unloading ships on the Seine," he explained. 
 "Their one effort is to smuggle into the pocket of some neu- 
 tral sailor a letter to people back in Germany. Generally 
 my watchful Tommies catch them in the act; the result is 
 such piles of letters as you see here. But sometimes Fritz 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 97 
 
 gets his letter into a Dutch or Danish sailor's pocket when 
 my guards aren't looking and then there finally reach Berlin 
 such reports as that which brings you here. Read some of 
 these letters and you will see what I mean." 
 
 The first one I read was from a prisoner to his wife in 
 Germany. An English guard had intercepted it as it was 
 being passed to a sailor on a Dutch steamer. Here is a trans- 
 lation of the letter: 
 
 "Dear Lena : 
 
 I must bid you good-bye. You will never see me again. They 
 are slowly starving me to death here, and torturing me besides. 
 They make me sleep in pools of water. I am wasted to a skele- 
 ton and am so weak from rheumatism and cold that I want to 
 die. 
 
 Good-bye, dear Lena ; never forget what these English swine 
 have done to me. I should love to see you once more but that 
 can never be, as I can never leave this frightful (schrecklich) 
 prison alive. So good-bye from 
 
 Thy Hermann." 
 
 My look of indignation as I read this letter amused the 
 British Colonel. "Tough, isn't it?" he said, "to have them 
 write like that when we try to treat them so well." 
 
 "Tough?" I repeated. "It is villainous. What can prompt 
 men to write such falsehoods when they know the terrible 
 reprisals their lies may bring upon innocent prisoners in Ger- 
 many?" 
 
 "They don't think of that," replied the Colonel. "Often 
 their only idea is to pose at home as martyrs. The other day 
 the Censor brought me a letter written by one of my Tom- 
 mies to his wife in England. He began with the usual camp 
 gossip, then a dash followed by: 'Excuse me, Mary, for being 
 so disconnected, but a bomb fell near my tent just now and 
 killed poor Bill Jones.' Then more camp gossip, then another 
 dash followed this time by: 'Excuse me again, Mary, but the 
 bullets are flying so thick I can hardly hear myself think!' 
 
98 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 When that fellow was brought before me I sternly demanded 
 why he wrote such stuff back to England when he knew 
 that the German lines are nowhere near Rouen and that no 
 bombs have fallen here since the beginning of the war. 
 Tommy squirmed and twisted and didn't want to answer, 
 but I kept after him and at length he said in a shamefaced 
 way: 'Well, sir, of course, sir, I had to make it a bit inter- 
 esting for the old woman at home!' Now, that may be all 
 that ails Hermann; Lena wouldn't have much sympathy for 
 a husband that lives in a warm, electrically lighted house and 
 has more and better food than she has at home in Germany. 
 But after reading such a letter as that you have just seen, 
 when Hermann finally returns to his home across the Rhine 
 he would be greeted as a hero snatched from the jaws of 
 death. This is my guess as to the reason for the fellow's 
 lies, although no doubt his government encourages such let- 
 ters. You see, if the people in Germany knew how well we 
 treat prisoners they wouldn't hate us so, and their soldiers 
 would surrender more readily." 
 
 We had luncheon in the British officers' mess room — a bowl 
 of beef-px)tato soup, Bully beef (corned beef, Americans call 
 it), bread, cheese and wine. It tasted good but Col. Catell 
 said he believed we would not care for it after a year or two. 
 No doubt the Tommies do get tired of Bully beef, but it is 
 satisfying and nourishing and the soldiers seem to thrive on 
 it; I haven't seen one of them who doesn't look hard as nails. 
 . . . Lieutenant Wood, Col. Catell's interpreter, sat next to 
 me at luncheon; — a keen, alert officer who once lived in Bos- 
 ton and speaks with an American rather than an English 
 accent. During the meal he said: 
 
 *'We English have made an awful lot of mistakes in the 
 past two years, and it's not our fault that we haven't been 
 bally well licked before now. But we are like you Americans 
 of whom some one said you try your best to go to the devil 
 but the good Lord just won't let you. Every time you get 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 99 
 
 on the edge He pulls you back to safety again. Our luck, not 
 our sense, has pulled us through, but we certainly had a nar- 
 row escape. At one time after the first battle of Ypres it 
 seemed all was over. The Germans had us beaten." 
 
 "But now?" I queried. 
 
 "Oh, we've turned the corner," replied Lieut. Wood smil- 
 ing. "It is friend Fritz' turn to worry now. He has stopped 
 talking of our contemptible little army." On the way from 
 Col. Catell's camp to the French prison at Biesard we mo- 
 tored across a bridge over the Seine and for two miles passed 
 between mountains of boxes containing ammunition for the 
 British army. Hundreds of motor trucks streamed along the 
 road loaded with supplies just taken out of steamers on the 
 Seine, destined for the English Tommies at the front. We 
 saw ships from Norway unloading lumber; others from the 
 Argentine carried frozen beef; from American ships auto- 
 mobiles and motor trucks were being unloaded — an impres- 
 sive object lesson in Sea Power! Despite Germany's U-boats 
 here were ships coming from all parts of the world with sup- 
 plies for the French and British armies, whereas apart from 
 two lone voyages of the Submarine Deutschland, carrying on 
 the two trips less than an ordinary tramp steamer, Germany 
 is unable to get any over-sea supplies whatever. 
 
 An unofficial visitor can sooner enter the gates of Paradise 
 than the gates of a camp of prisoners of war, but the papers 
 we bore, viseed by the French Minister of War were an open 
 sesame for us. On showing them the armed sentinel in front 
 of the twelve-foot high gates of Camp Biesard saluted, stood 
 to one side and without delay permitted our limousine to pass 
 through into the great hollow square of the camp. The bar- 
 racks form three sides of the square, while the Seine forms the 
 fourth; a high barbed wire fence runs around the entire place. 
 The "Adrian" barracks provided by France for prisoners of 
 war are built of wood in sections 100 feet long by 25 feet 
 
loo THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 wide. The parts are standardized so as to be quickly assem- 
 bled ; after a big battle a quantity of the parts is rushed to the 
 desired point and within a few hours quarters are ready for 
 any number of new prisoners. To-day the Biesard camp con- 
 tained 1,198 men but to-morrow 360 more are coming and 
 so when we made our inspection to-day we saw French soldiers 
 busy assembling the parts of several new Adrian barracks. 
 Each barrack contains two rows of two-story bunks; that is, 
 one bed is placed four feet above the other. In the center 
 between the two rows is an aisle provided with long tables and 
 benches. Electric lamps light this center aisle and the pris- 
 oners use the tables not only to dine on but for playing cards, 
 writing, etc. 
 
 As we entered one barrack a prisoner band was playing on 
 home-made, or rather prison-made, instruments; the frame of 
 the big bass violin was made of thin boards taken from a 
 macaroni box; the violin keys were cut out of bones from the 
 kitchen. A cold November rain was falling outside; in con- 
 trast with the drear exterior that barrack with its lively music, 
 its red hot stoves, its hundreds of prisoners crowding around 
 to listen to the music, seemed a very cheerful place, indeed. 
 Judging from the looks of those Germans they were not sorry 
 to be prisoners instead of soldiers in the trenches with bombs 
 and bullets raining about their heads! 
 
 In Biesard's kitchen we saw eleven German cooks standing 
 beside as many huge caldrons; the cooks ladled out soup into 
 the tin bowls of the prisoners as they filed by, and so expert 
 were they, the line did not halt — it moved slowly, but con- 
 tinuously, so that the twelve hundred men were served in less 
 than half an hour. As each man passed out of the kitchen 
 he went to his barrack and there ate his dinner of steaming 
 soup, bread, coffee and water. The soup, filled with potatoes 
 and beef, tasted good to me, but no doubt after two years I 
 would have as great a distaste for it as some of the prisoners 
 told me they have. But none said the food was insufficient 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT loi 
 
 in quantity or that it lacked nourishment; in fact, the ex- 
 cellent physical condition of the 1,200 men is obvious even 
 to a layman. Dr. Mullen, who closely examined the camp's 
 health records as well as the men themselves, says he is as- 
 tonished to find among so many men so few cases of sickness, 
 and those cases of so trifling a nature. 
 
 In the library at Camp Biesard, containing 1,000 books, I 
 noted a German reading the life of Helen Kellar; another was 
 deeply absorbed in a German work on Watt and the Steam 
 Engine. A number of the men were studying French books. 
 The day being Sunday, all prisoners were in the camp, some 
 listening to the band, others mending their clothes, still others 
 writing letters. They are permitted to write two letters and 
 four postal cards per month. On week days the Germans 
 unload coal from steam ships on the Seine nearby — a very 
 dirty work; complaint was made that the number of 
 douches is insufficient; as every one of the 1,200 men must 
 strip at night on returning from work and stand under a 
 douche in order to wash off the coal grime, and as the camp 
 now contains only four douches, the complaint seemed war- 
 ranted, so I urged the Commandant to install at least a dozen 
 more, which he agreed to do; he also accepted my recom- 
 mendation that the present allowance of one pound of soap 
 per month per man be increased. 
 
 Biesard's prison cells in wooden sheds are each 6x8x10 feet 
 high; a small hole in the roof admits light and air, also water 
 when it rains, which it does about every day during the win- 
 ter. We found only one cell occupied — by a prisoner under- 
 going a 30-day sentence for attempting to escape. He is per- 
 mitted to leave his cell once a day for one hour in order to 
 bathe, exercise, etc. One day a week he receives the regular 
 rations; the other six days he gets nothing but water and a 
 half ration of bread, i. e., half instead of a whole pound. Pris- 
 oners are allowed to receive packages from home. They ap- 
 point their own committee to manage the receipt and delivery 
 
102 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 of all gifts sent them and no package is opened until its owner 
 is present. While we were in the receiving room to-day we 
 saw one parcel opened, the contents of which seemed pathetic 
 — a dilapidated pair of old shoes into which were stuffed a 
 small piece of cake and a handful of dried apples! — what a 
 pitiful offering! but it was the offering of love, perhaps of a 
 wife, or an old mother. At any rate, the man to whom it 
 was sent could not have looked more delighted had the gift 
 been of great intrinsic value; he hugged the shoes close under 
 his arms and grinned happily as he walked away, the envy 
 of his fellows who had not even such a gift to remind them 
 of home and loved ones across the Rhine. 
 
 The dining-room of the Hotel de la Poste to-night was 
 crowded with English officers; there were only a few French; 
 next to our table sat the members of the Swiss Commission, 
 doctors who visit all the prison camps in France and recom- 
 mend for internment in Switzerland all prisoners whom they 
 find to be totally disabled. As Switzerland without work is 
 preferable to France with forced labor, naturally many claim 
 to be disabled who, in truth, are quite fit for work. It is the 
 disagreeable duty of the kindly looking doctors to whom we 
 were introduced just now to say no to malingerers and to 
 pass only those really entitled to their recommendation. I 
 have frequently been importuned by German prisoners to use 
 my influence with the Swiss Commission. Some have even 
 offered me large sums (to be paid by relatives in Germany) 
 if I would get the Swiss doctors to pass them into Switzer- 
 land. Naturally, I have told such prisoners that I have no 
 influence with the Commission, and that I would not use in- 
 fluence in such a way even if I had it. 
 
 Rouen, Monday night, 
 November 6, 191 6. 
 This morning Captain Gromaire took us to a prison camp 
 at Grand Aulnay, five miles down the Seine, in the direction 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 103 
 
 of Trouville. The superb road is lined on both sides by tall 
 trees whose leaves are a vivid red and gold, and so swiftly 
 did we fly, in fifteen minutes we found ourselves at our destin- 
 ation, a farm seven centuries old. Over the door of the main 
 farm house a stone tablet records the fact that the house was 
 erected in the year 11 95 — seven hundred and twenty-one years 
 ago! Yet it seems as solid, as serviceable as if it had been 
 erected last month. 
 
 The farm buildings, all of stone, are ranged around a hol- 
 low square and in one of them, a huge barn 150 feet long by 
 36 wide, with a steep gable roof 40 feet high, we found 186 
 straw mattresses on as many wooden bunks. In the center 
 of this big barn is a large stove; at one end of the barn is a 
 small stove, but so big is that barn, so lofty is its roof that 
 the fire of the two stoves seems to produce no heat at all. 
 It is a dark, damp, cheerless abode, but the Commandant 
 says it is the best he can do; coal is too scarce and too costly 
 to give the prisoners more fires, and so the poor fellows have 
 a hard winter before them. ... In other of the stone houses 
 around the hollow square of Grand Aulnay are 437 more beds, 
 so that the camp contains in all 623 inmates. Commandant 
 M. permitted me to talk alone with Herr Hess of Darmstadt, 
 the prisoners' spokesman, and from him I learned that there 
 are two causes for complaint. 
 
 "What are the things you complain of?" I queried. 
 
 "Excellency," replied Herr Hess, "we think a change should 
 be made in the manner of marking our clothing. Why would 
 it not suffice to sew on the back of our coats a red cloth 
 bearing the letters 'P. G.' (prisonier Guerre)?" 
 
 "That would not do," I replied. "An escaping prisoner 
 could easily rip off the piece of red cloth." 
 
 Herr Hess admitted the justice of this objection and after 
 thinking the matter over said: 
 
 "Well, at any rate, if holes must be cut in our coats the 
 openings should be filled up with some substantial stuff. At 
 
104 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 present although the slit made in our great coats is three inches 
 wide and ten inches long only a flimsy cotton cloth is used 
 to fill in the opening; and that, Excellency, means cold and 
 rain and snow to chill us and sicken us and perhaps even to 
 kill us." 
 
 I told Herr Hess I would take up this complaint with Com- 
 mandant M., then asked what was the other thing he wished 
 me to consider. 
 
 "The question of baths," said he. "Until the weather be- 
 came cold we bathed in the Seine, but for the past six weeks 
 that resource has not been open to us; it has been too cold 
 and wintry." 
 
 "Are there no douches?" 
 
 "No, Excellency." 
 
 I took up both complaints with the Commandant; con- 
 cerning the cutting of holes in the back of overcoats he said 
 that is done only in the case of civilian coats; the German 
 military coat identifies itself. "But, M. Commandant," said 
 I, "the prisoners' spokesman says the military coats are also 
 cut." 
 
 "Un mensonge" — (a lie), returned the Commandant, shrug- 
 ging his shoulders. I translated this to Herr Hess; he said 
 nothing, but continued to stand erect, at attention, respectful 
 as became a prisoner. "Well, what have you to say?" I de- 
 manded. "Why did you tell me the military as well as civilian 
 coats are mutilated?" 
 
 "Because they are. Excellency." 
 
 "But the Commandant says they are not." 
 
 Herr Hess made no reply; he continued to stand erect, dig- 
 nified, respectful. I was puzzled; Commandant M., not speak- 
 ing German, did not understand our conversation. Presently 
 I said: "Can you show me a military great coat that has been 
 mutilated?" 
 
 "Gewiss — (certainly), if the Herr Commandant will permit." 
 
 When I explained matters Monsieur M. gave his con- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 105 
 
 sent and Herr Hess left the room, returning in a few min- 
 utes with a German military overcoat cut precisely as he 
 had described — in the back just under the collar was a slit 
 three inches wide by ten inches long; and the cloth used to 
 cover this opening was thin, flimsy cotton stuff wholly unfit 
 to keep out either cold or rain. The Commandant's face 
 flushed and he expressed great surprise; he said it was a case 
 of some subordinate misunderstanding orders and certainly 
 it would not happen again. Then I mentioned the matter of 
 baths. "From the nature of their work — unloading coal from 
 barges in the river — the men need baths as a matter of health 
 as well as comfort; but Prisoner Hess states that no one has 
 been able to bathe since it became too cold to swim in the 
 Seine." 
 
 To this Commandant M. gave no reply other than a shrug 
 of his shoulders and a hopeless look in his eyes, as if to 
 say: of what use is it to answer such lies? At that moment 
 Morse and Dr. Mullen, having completed their inspection of 
 the Camp, came into the office where the Commandant, the 
 prisoners' spokesman and I were holding this conference. To 
 my amazement, the first thing they mentioned was the Camp's 
 bath house — "Quite the best bathing arrangements we have 
 yet seen," said Morse. "The douches are in a new building 
 erected specially for the purpose; over the concrete floor is 
 laid a wooden rack and there is a fine flow of both hot and 
 cold water." After what Herr Hess had told me, this was 
 stupefying; I asked Morse to repeat what he had said; when 
 he had done so and I was certain I was not dreaming, I sternly 
 demanded of Herr Hess why he had preferred such a com- 
 plaint? 
 
 "Because, Excellency, what I have said is true; none of us 
 has had a bath for six weeks." 
 
 He was very respectful, but very firm; not a word of his 
 complaint would he retract or even qualify. If I were not a 
 lawyer, in the habit of sifting contradictory testimony in an 
 
io6 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 effort to get at the bottom of things, this question of the baths 
 at Grand Aulnay might have remained a puzzle; as it was, 
 after more questions propounded to Commandant M. I de- 
 cided to inspect the bath house myself, with the result that I 
 found it to be all Morse said it was, with the one important 
 exception that it contained no water! The pipes have not 
 been installed, so a five-gallon can was rigged up in such a 
 way as to let water flow when Morse opened one of the 
 spickets! Of course Morse had kept the faucet open only 
 a moment, consequently had not guessed that there was not 
 water for one bath, much less for 623, the number of Germans 
 who need a douche every night on finishing their day's labor 
 on the dirty coal barges. 
 
 It is in truth hard to get plumbers; mechanics of every 
 kind are scarce, and I do not doubt Commandant M.'s state- 
 ment that he has done his best to get the water pipes installed, 
 and that they will be installed at the earliest possible mo- 
 ment; but it would have been better to say this frankly in 
 the beginning, rather than resort to a shifty trick to mislead 
 me. The fact that an excellent bath house has been built 
 shows that it is not the French policy to deprive prisoners 
 of necessary sanitary arrangements; it is evident that the 
 authorities want to install proper bathing facilities; that they 
 have not done so is due solely to delay in finding plumbers. 
 Under such circumstances I can not see that the situation 
 at Grand Aulnay calls for adverse criticism and shall so state 
 in my report. . . . From Grand Aulnay we motored to Camp 
 Lavesseur where are 1,304 military prisoners housed in the 
 usual Adrian barracks and engaged in the work of unloading 
 coal from barges on the Seine. Our inspection was not finished 
 until nightfall and as we were leaving the scene was one 
 worthy of Turner. Our acetylene lamps threw a dazzling 
 glare on the prisoners as they came marching through the 
 gate of the Camp; their bodies, black with coal dust, their 
 faces grimy, their hair matted and dirty — all stood sharply 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPi^OMAT 107 
 
 silhouetted against the blackness of the night, thrown into 
 bright relief by the glare of our lamps. We lingered to see 
 those "supermen" — 1,300 of them — march up to the douches 
 and with the aid of soap and water become white again; then, 
 still guarded by French soldiers, they marched into their bar- 
 racks, passing the kitchen on the way and getting, each of 
 them, a big piece of bread and a jug of steaming meat soup. 
 When the last man had passed through the door into his bar- 
 rack, we entered so as to observe them at supper. The in- 
 stant we appeared in the doorway the noncommissioned Ger- 
 man officer in command of that barrack cried: "Achtung!" 
 And instantly every prisoner sprang to his feet, saluted and 
 stood at rigid attention; they stand thus as long as visitors 
 remain, so as we did not wish their supper to get cold, we 
 quickly withdrew, and motored back to our own supper at 
 the Hotel de la Post. 
 
 Rouen, Wednesday night, 
 November 8. 
 Yesterday morning Captain Gromaire crme to our hotel at 
 nine o'clock, as usual; and as usual there was a steady down- 
 pour of rain as we climbed into the limousine and started on 
 the day's inspections. It has rained every day since our ar- 
 rival in Rouen and they tell us we may expect rain every day 
 until Christmas. The first visit yesterday was to the Quai 
 de France in the city's outskirts; although we found there 
 1,256 Germans our visit was a short one. The spokesman for 
 the prisoners said they had no complaints. After luncheon we 
 motored to St. Aubin Epernay, a factory building which be- 
 fore the war housed French soldiers but which now contains 
 1,635 German prisoners. While Morse and Dr. Mullen looked 
 the place over I conferred with the chief of the prisoners; 
 he reported that the Commandant governs the depot kindly 
 and supplies their wants adequately, consequently our visit 
 was soon ended and we were back in Rouen in time to receive 
 
io8 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 Col. Catell, whom I had asked to dine with us at the Hotel 
 de la Post. About the harshest thing he said of the Germans 
 was that they are not "good sports," they "don't play the 
 game fair," etc. . . . 
 
 This morning our first visit was to the camp at Oissel, 9 
 kilometers from Rouen up the beautiful valley of the Seine. 
 There we found a fifteen-foot high barbed wire fence sur- 
 rounding several acres of courts and barracks and patrolled 
 by a number of sentinels with fixed bayonets and loaded guns; 
 but there was no Commandant to receive us. A corporal con- 
 ducted us inside the inclosure to the "Bureau," whither after 
 some delay came the Commandant with his head swathed in 
 bandages, profusely apologizing for keeping us waiting; he 
 said he had been detained because of the fact that he had just 
 been obliged "to kill a couple of Chinamen." The Com- 
 mandant said this in so matter of fact a way I fancied it was 
 meant as some sort of a French joke, but it proved to be a 
 mere statement of fact; war causes men to change their sense 
 of proportions. 
 
 Just beyond the Oissell stockade is a detachment of 300 
 Chinamen, brought from China to do the rough work of level- 
 ing the ground, digging for foundations, etc, 
 
 "These fellows," explained the Commandant, "have vil- 
 lainous tempers; as a rule I let them fight it out among them- 
 selves, but occasionally when things become serious I inter- 
 pose. When I did so this morning the two rascals stopped 
 fighting each other and turned against me. I had to kill them ; 
 it was either their life or mine. But for that, Monsieur, I 
 should not have detained you. It took the doctor some min- 
 utes to bandage my head." 
 
 Of course this explanation was accepted; a Commandant 
 who has to wait to kill a couple of Chinamen can hardly be 
 punctual in receiving visitors, . . . 
 
 Ten kilometers further on we stopped near Motteville at 
 the farm of M. Lebegue, where ten Germans were at supper 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 109 
 
 with the farmer and his family. Another run of ten kilo- 
 meters brought us to the dairy farm of Mme. Kampan, an 
 energetic woman who owns thirty cows and employs a dozen 
 German prisoners of war to help her milk them and run the 
 farm. Mme. Kampan pays the government 80 centimes per 
 day for each prisoner, in addition to providing them with food 
 and lodging. Of the 80 centimes paid to the government the 
 prisoner gets 20, so that the daily wage of a war prisoner in 
 France is his food, lodging and a little less than four cents a 
 day. As we arrived at Mme. Kampan 's the milk was being 
 run through separators; the cream flowed into a bucket on 
 one side while the skimmed milk ran into another bucket on 
 the other side. On a shelf were stacked a row of cakes of 
 newly made butter. It was all so "homey," the prisoners 
 seemed on so friendly a footing with their French companions, 
 it was hard to believe that they were deadly enemies of the 
 good woman who employed them. 
 
 The farms visited to-day have been so far apart that we 
 did not get back to Rouen until late to-night; the regular 
 dinner was over, but an omelette and mutton chops were pre- 
 pared for us, and while disposing of them a few moments 
 ago there was handed to us a Paris newspaper with Hughes' 
 picture and the announcement that he won yesterday with 
 300 electoral votes sure and 20 more probably his when the 
 full returns are in. The paper is jubilant over Wilson's de- 
 feat — which prompts me to marvel at the situation, for the 
 Berlin newspapers to-day are jubilating, too. Berlin and 
 Paris rejoicing over the same event! One would sooner ex- 
 pect the lion and the lamb to rejoice together, but that is 
 what the world is witnessing to-night. Germans hate Wilson 
 because he has not, in violation of neutrality, prevented muni- 
 tions from being sold to the Entente Allies, while Frenchmen 
 — if they do not hate our President, at any rate strongly dis- 
 like him because he has not entered the war on their side. It 
 will not be possible for Mr. Hughes to please both countries 
 
no THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 that are to-day rejoicing over his success; which one will he 
 disappoint, France or Germany? My guess is that his for- 
 eign policy will not materially differ from President Wilson's. 
 
 Rouen, Thursday night, 
 
 November 9. 
 This has been a strenuous day; although it was midnight 
 when we got to bed last night, this morning found us up so 
 early that Boots had not yet cleaned our shoes; hence we 
 went down in muddy ones and hunted all over the hotel be- 
 fore we found a gargon to give us coffee and rolls. Captain 
 Gromaire was waiting for us, calm, fresh, untired — I doubt 
 if anything short of an earthquake would discompose this 
 courteous, philosophical Frenchman. Our first stop was at a 
 sugar mill where 70 Germans help keep France provided with 
 sugar. We saw a train load of beets pull in on a switch track 
 running through the mill; hung over the cars was a big hose 
 which shot a stream of water down upon the beets, washing 
 them off the cars into a trough alongside the train; a stream 
 of water in this trough carried the beets on to their appointed 
 destination, the mill, from which after various processes they 
 emerged in the shape of sugar. The Germans working in the 
 mill said they are glad to be there, that it is the warmest, 
 most comfortable place in France. ... A hundred yards 
 from the sugar mill runs a swift brook which divides Nor- 
 mandy from Picardy; we crossed this brook and at two o'clock 
 arrived at Treport on the sea coast — in summer a famous re- 
 sort. All in all, the 200 Germans may be considered lucky 
 fellows to be interned at Treport instead of fighting in 
 trenches. . . . Just above this camp at Treport, on a white 
 chalk cliff 300 feet high, is a great white building looking 
 down on the sea. Before the war pleasure seekers filled that 
 building; now it is filled with wounded Canadians. All over 
 Europe one sees summer resort hotels converted into places 
 for trying to bring back to life and health the hundreds of 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT iii 
 
 thousands of men whom the Monster War has tried to crush 
 and destroy. . . . 
 
 We have now completed our inspection of prison camps in 
 and dependent upon Rouen and in not one of them have we 
 found such evil conditions as Berlin complained of. It is to 
 be hoped our report will stop Berlin's wicked talk of reprisals. 
 
 Paris, Sunday, 
 November 12, 19 16. 
 
 I HAVE changed my lodgings — too much "atmosphere," too 
 little sanitary comfort at my Robespierre home on the Rue 
 Richepanse. At Mme. Chalomel's where I now am, near 
 the Place Victor Hugo on the Rue Copernic, my room looks 
 out on a charming little garden; there is an electric lamp by 
 my bedside (on the Rue Richepanse I had only the same sort 
 of lights that Robespierre had — tallow candles) and, blessed 
 thought! There is a bath! I am fortunate to have read 
 Lamartine's Girondists on the Rue Richepanse; reading his 
 history in the room where Robespierre lived, my windows look- 
 ing out on the corner where that other great figure of the 
 Revolution, Danton, lived — that, of course, made Lamartine's 
 pages more vivid than ever; nevertheless, I am glad to ex- 
 change all that "atmosphere" for electric lights and a bath. 
 At 8.30 a. m. Marie Louise, a comely rosy cheeked maid, 
 brings to my room chocolate, bread and butter; at 12.30 p. m. 
 I return from the Embassy, a short ten minutes' walk, for 
 dejeuner consisting usually of an omelette, a mutton chop, 
 potatoes, cheese, "comfiture" (a sweet preserve) and wine; at 
 7 p. m. there is a dinner even more elaborate than the de- 
 jeuner, and the charge for all these good "eats" and for my 
 room is only eight francs a day ($1.38). 
 
 Mme. Chalomel's place before the war was a popular "Pen- 
 sion" for Americans; now I am her only American guest, and 
 of other guests she has very few — two Armenian ladies, a 
 French lady and a French Abbe who has been drafted and 
 
112 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 appears at table opposite me in his soldier's uniform. The 
 Armenian ladies' home is in Constantinople, but in July, 19 14, 
 they came to Aix les Bains for the cure, where war overtook 
 them and they have not been able to return to Turkey, and 
 will not be able to return for nobody knows how many years. 
 "Is it not frightful, Monsieur?" said one of these Armenians 
 to me at dejeuner to-day. "I expected to be gone from my 
 home only six weeks, and so, of course, did not come prepared 
 to remain for years; my clothes, my children, everything I 
 love is in Constantinople, but I can not go to them, I can not 
 even hear from them. Surely, Monsieur, you must admit this 
 is frightful!" 
 
 The little French woman who sits to my left during our 
 meals at Mme. Chalomel's is very quiet and very sad; it was 
 some time before I got her to tell her story but when told 
 it seemed even more pathetic than that of the Armenians. 
 Late in July, 19 14, Mme. D, left Paris for a short visit to her 
 parents in Lyons; then like a peal of thunder from a clear sky 
 war burst upon the world: ten days passed before Mme. D. 
 could find a way to go to Paris; on arriving there her hus- 
 band was gone, mobilized in the army. And that is all that 
 she knows certainly about him. Two years ago the War De- 
 partment sent her Monsieur D.'s wrist tag accompanied by a 
 letter stating that the tag had been found on the battlefield 
 and that "presumably" he was dead. 
 
 "Sometimes, Monsieur," she said, "I think it would not be 
 so bad if I knew that he is dead; it is the uncertainty that is 
 so hard to bear." 
 
 "But is there really any uncertainty?" I asked. "Is not 
 the finding of his wrist tag evidence that Monsieur D. died on 
 the battlefield?" 
 
 "Ah no, Monsieur," replied the little woman sadly. "The 
 tag proves nothing at all, as a friend of mine has learned to 
 her sorrow. Her husband's tag was picked up on the heights 
 near Verdun two years ago. Marie thought surely Joseph 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 113 
 
 must be dead, so last September she married again. Can you 
 blame her, Monsieur? Joseph had been gone two years. But 
 a month ago a letter came from him; he is in a fortress in 
 Germany and now what poor Marie is to do the good God 
 only knows." 
 
 Verily even the small by-products of war are horrible. 
 
 Paris, Saturday night, 
 
 November 11. 
 This afternoon I called a taxi and, after half an hour's 
 fast driving, arrived at the other end of Paris beyond the 
 P.L.M. Gare to inspect a French school for blind soldiers. 
 From the outside one would not suspect the character of the 
 place: when my taxi stopped before a big stone building, for 
 all the exterior indicated it might have been a factory. But 
 on passing through the front door I found myself in an open 
 garden around which are a number of rambling old struc- 
 tures containing scores of large rooms in which all manner of 
 trades and arts are taught the poor fellows whom the Monster 
 War has robbed of their sight. Some are learning carpenter- 
 ing, others shoe making, others broom making, still others 
 are acquiring the art of making bead-chains and some of this 
 work that I saw is not only beautiful but wonderful; I can 
 not understand how a blind man can know just when to use 
 a different colored bead, but they do. The chains they make, 
 woven in many different colors and patterns, seemed to me as 
 perfect as if the makers of them had possessed the use of their 
 eyes. After walking through building after building I was 
 shown into a large audience chamber where all the blind sol- 
 diers, several hundred in number, gathered to hear music and 
 recitations rendered by some of the greatest artists in France. 
 One, a celebrated actress from the Theatre Frangaise, read 
 selections from Moliere which elicited enthusiastic applause 
 from her sightless hearers. Another artist, a great singer, 
 after singing several operatic selections, went among the sol- 
 
114 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 diers and took their hands, pinched their ears, patted their 
 heads and said "Mon brave gargon, how glad I am to be able 
 to give you a little pleasure. You are doing magnificently. 
 You do not know how proud France is of you!" 
 
 It was an affecting sight; I was not ashamed of the tears 
 that came to my eyes, nor was I alone in showing emotion. 
 All in the room seemed to be swallowing lumps in their throats 
 — that is all who were not blind. They, the soldiers, were not 
 sad at all; smiles were on their lips and the pleasure they 
 showed while France's great artists sang and read to them 
 was as evident and as genuine as the pleasure which children 
 show at their first Christmas pantomime. 
 
 Almost, but not quite, as depressing as the visit to the 
 school for blind soldiers was my visit yesterday to the Cana- 
 dian hospital at St. Cloud; there on the race tracks, in the 
 grand stand, in the Jockey Club, in all the buildings where in 
 happy peace days I have seen the gay world of Paris assem- 
 ble to enjoy itself, are now gathered the wrecks and pieces of 
 men. I saw one poor fellow so swathed in bandages, only 
 his eyes were visible, but they burned like two coals of fire — 
 German shells had mangled the poor fellow's body but they 
 had not conquered his soul; when I spoke a word of encour- 
 agement to him he made no spoken reply — his face was too 
 mangled to permit him to speak, — but he nodded his head 
 and the added sparkle in his eyes showed that he heard and 
 understood. ... In front of the Grand Stand, on the pad- 
 dock just beyond the race course, lay a wrecked aeroplane; 
 above, only a few hundred yards up in the air, circled round 
 and round over my head two planes; the telephones at the 
 front had just sent word that German aviators had crossed 
 the lines going in a westerly direction and those two sentinels 
 of the air were on the alert to give the Boche a warm welcome 
 in case he came over St. Cloud. . . . The nurses, doctors and 
 help, as well as the patients, in the race track buildings at St. 
 Cloud are all from Canada; as I sat in the Director's room 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 115 
 
 sipping a cup of tea, everybody about me talking English, it 
 was hard to realize that I was in France and not in Canada; 
 the world war certainly is mixing up the nations of the earth 
 in a wonderful manner. 
 
 Paris, Tuesday night, 
 
 November 21. 
 In the Montmarte region of Paris, at No. 16 Rue Fontaine, 
 is a building which before the war was used as a Spanish the- 
 ater; the stage is still there, so too are the gorgeous chande- 
 liers, candelabra and gilded boxes. But the orchestra seats 
 have been removed and in their place are now long tables at 
 which impecunious artists and "Intellectuals" (writers, re- 
 porters, etc.) may dine, and dine well, for sixty centimes 
 (lie). The use of the building was given by Mme. R,, wife 
 of an officer of the Metro (Paris' Subway), and in addition 
 to this gift, Mme. R. in the outset of the work brought her 
 own servants and herself superintended the cooking and serv- 
 ing of the dinners. The so-called "Intellectuals" have been 
 harder hit by the war than any other class; laborers and 
 skilled workmen have received increased wages. But poets, 
 painters, writers not only have received no increase in their 
 income, they have seen their incomes disappear altogether 
 and many of the poor fellows faced starvation before Mme. 
 R. began this worthy charity — a charity so skilfully conducted 
 that it has not the appearance of charity. The long-haired 
 artists of the Montmartre Quarter enter the old Spanish the- 
 ater with a feeling of self-respect; are they not going to pay 
 for their dinner the same as a millionaire pays for his at 
 the Tour d'Argent? Yes, of course. The only difference is, 
 the millionaire pays a good deal more than his dinner is 
 worth, while the Montmarte artist pays a good deal less than 
 the dinner he gets would cost anywhere else in Paris. The 
 soup, omelette, roast chicken and salad, vegetables, wine and 
 coffee served for sixty centimes in the former Spanish theater 
 
ii6 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 would cost elsewhere, even in a second rank restaurant, at 
 least six francs. To-day when I paid for my dejeuner I handed 
 the cashier ten francs and said "keep the change." Mr. T., 
 a millionaire American, who has made his home in Paris for 
 some years, handed the cashier a thousand francs with the 
 same remark; that is what enables the long-haired artist to 
 get his dejeuner for sixty centimes. Well-to-do-persons are wel- 
 come, but when they come they are not expected to count 
 their change. I asked Mme, R. if she was not often imposed 
 upon. "What is to prevent persons from coming here who 
 look poor but who are well able to pay the regular price for 
 their meals?" 
 
 Mme. R. replied with a smile that sometimes persons of 
 that type do come, but they never return. 
 
 "We know the artists of this quarter," she said. "We can 
 detect a make-belief in a moment, and we do not hesitate to 
 tell them to begone. Your veritable artist is proud; it was 
 hard at first to get him to dine here. He knows, of course, 
 that his sixty centimes barely pay for the bread we serve. Yes- 
 terday one of them whom I had personally to beg to give us 
 his patronage, and who has been coming now for a long time, 
 when he finished his dejeuner handed the cashier a five-franc 
 note. 'Keep the change,' he said with a wave of his hand when 
 Mme. B. started counting out to him four francs forty. 'But 
 Monsieur!' protested Mme. B., 'our price is sixty centimes.' 
 'I know, Madame,' returned the artist, 'but I beg you to do 
 me the favor to use the change for those who are less for- 
 tunate than myself.' And away he went with the air of a 
 grand seignior. 
 
 We learned later that he had just sold one of his paintings 
 for twenty francs, doubtless the first sale he has made for a 
 year." 
 
 When funds begin to get low Mme. R. sends to well-to-do 
 people a note like this: 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 117 
 
 "Les Re pas des Artistes, 
 
 16 Rue Fontaine. 
 L'Oeuvre du Repas des Artistes rapelle a ses nombreux amis 
 
 que le Dejeuner du Mercredi 
 subsiste toujours, et que leur aimable presence a la table du 
 Comite est accueillie avec un vif plaisir." 
 
 It was this letter that took me to the Rue Fontaine to-day 
 and I felt well repaid for going; if my presence was a "vif 
 plaisir" for the Committee, certainly it was a "vif plaisir" 
 to me to watch those long-haired hungry artists, most of whom 
 looked exactly like the artists of caricature on the stage — 
 flowing fluffy ties, velvet coats, beards and mustaches, and 
 long, thin hands with fingers well manicured in spite of their 
 poverty. . . . 
 
 Havre, late Tuesday night, 
 
 December 5, 19 16. 
 No sooner do we settle one of Berlin's troubles than some- 
 thing else goes wrong — or is claimed to go wrong. My re- 
 port on the Rouen camps quieted the German Foreign Office 
 for a moment, then Herr Zimmerman took his pen in hand and 
 sent Ambassador Gerard another Note Verbale. This time 
 he said his compatriots in Havre, Caen and other coast cities 
 of France are being badly treated and that unless they are 
 cared for in a humane manner a good many thousand French 
 prisoners in Germany will wish they had never been born — 
 or words to that effect. And so it is that I have just arrived 
 in Havre, accompanied by Surgeon Major S. H. Wadhams of 
 the U. S. Army. We came here to the Hotel Normandie where 
 Beamer and I stopped on our motor trip before the war, and 
 as I stood on that landing a moment ago I could see my sweet 
 Beamer standing there in that happy day before the war — 
 the contrast between the present and the past made my heart 
 sink. What would I not give, what would not mankind give 
 for power to bring back the past! Surely, knowing what we 
 
ii8 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 now know, not even the ambition-crazed military party of 
 Prussia would start a war if the world could only go back to 
 19 14 again. 
 
 Havre, Wednesday night, 
 
 December 6. 
 
 Admiral Varney, a kindly, amiable old gentleman, received 
 us cordially, said he would do all in his power to facilitate 
 our mission and directed one of his men to take us to "Les 
 Abbatoirs" in Havre's outskirts. There we met Command- 
 ant Douille, in charge of all the camps in and near Havre, 
 and he escorted us through Les Abbatoirs, Havre's great stock 
 yards and market which are now used as quarters for 3,179 
 German military prisoners. 
 
 On the way back to the Hotel Normandie our automobile 
 stopped near one of Havre's great basins where several thou- 
 sand German prisoners were busily engaged in unloading 
 steamers that had come from all parts of the world laden with 
 supplies for the English and French armies. From one ship 
 frozen beef from the Argentine was being taken, from an- 
 other men were unloading lumber, from a third huge cranes 
 were hoisting out of the holds American motor trucks. While 
 gazing upon this animated, this interesting scene, I observed 
 a few yards away a stalwart German on whose face was a 
 look of bewilderment. He had just come down, along with 
 a squad of newly captured prisoners, to the banks of the Basin 
 and seemed dazed at what he saw. And presently tears began 
 to trickle down his cheeks. "What is the matter?" I queried, 
 surprised at seeing tears in the eyes of a soldier. The fellow 
 answered my question by asking another one. 
 
 "Where are all these ships from?" 
 
 "From all parts of the world," I answered. "But tell me, 
 why are you crying?" 
 
 Then the poor fellow explained what ailed him ; in common 
 with all the rest of the Germans, he had been told, and until 
 that moment he had believed, that in the great naval battle 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 119 
 
 off the Skaggerack on May 31, 19 16, the British fleet had been 
 annihilated. He had supposed that France and England were 
 being blockaded; then all of a sudden there was brought to 
 him the crushing knowledge that his government had deceived 
 him, that Germany's fleet, not England's, had fled to port for 
 shore gun protection, that Germany, not England, was being 
 blockaded, that both France and England were receiving sup- 
 plies from all parts of the world, while grass was growing in 
 the streets of Bremen and Hamburg! No wonder this pris- 
 oner was stunned. And it would have been difficult to be- 
 lieve his story if I had not already seen evidence of the man- 
 ner in which Prussian autocracy blinds its dupes. For ex- 
 ample, within a month after the battle off the Skaggerack 
 Fliegende Blaetter, Munich's well-known humorous journal, 
 published a cartoon representing a stalwart German with a 
 spear in his hands, slaying a sea serpent labeled "British Sea 
 Power." In the picture's background was a ship loaded with 
 bales of goods and underneath the cartoon was the inscription: 
 "Germany's Commerce Going to the Seven Seas!" 
 
 Although published in a humorous paper, that cartoon was 
 not meant as a joke, nor was it received as one by the Ger- 
 man people. On the contrary, they believed what they were 
 told; the schools of Berlin, Dresden and other large cities 
 were closed to allow the children to celebrate Germany's great 
 naval "victory" and the newspapers of the Empire nomi- 
 nated the Kaiser "Admiral of the Seas!" 
 
 Havre, Thursday night, 
 
 December 7. 
 At nine o'clock this morning an English military automobile 
 called at the Hotel Normandie to take us to the British War 
 prisoners' camp just outside the city where 1,479 Germans 
 are engaged in the work of constructing dock buildings and 
 unloading ships for the French government. The French pay 
 the English 75 centimes (about 13c) per day per prisoner; 
 
120 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 of this sum the German gets 20 centimes, while the balance, 
 55 centimes, is used by the English to help pay the cost of 
 the prisoner's upkeep. When we drove up to the camp a file 
 of English soldiers, bayoneted rifles in hand, stood at atten- 
 tion; and as we passed through the gate the soldiers fell in 
 line behind us. Then, on proceeding to inspect the various 
 buildings, that file of soldiers followed us everjrwhere; it sur- 
 rounded us as we entered a barrack, and when we emerged 
 through the door at the further end of the building, there 
 with arms presented, waiting for us, were those same soldiers. 
 It got on my nerves and finally I asked Col. Wright, the offi- 
 cer escorting us, if it was necessary for us to be guarded. 
 
 "Dear me, no," returned the Colonel, smiling. "That is a 
 guard of honor." I explained that it made me uncomfort- 
 able to feel that I was giving so much useless trouble to so 
 many men, whereupon the Colonel smiled again as he said: 
 "They don't mind it in the least. On the contrary, it is a 
 diversion for them to escort the representative of the Ameri- 
 can Embassy. But I shall dismiss them, if you wish." 
 
 The rest of our inspection was performed with less cere- 
 mony. Although there were no unfavorable conditions requir- 
 ing detailed attention, yet so large is the English camp that 
 lunch time found our work still unfinished and Col. Wright 
 urged us to "take pot luck" in the officers' mess. "If you 
 insist," he said, "I'll be glad to take you back to your hotel, 
 where no doubt you will get a better dejeuner. But we should 
 like to have you in our mess." 
 
 Of course we accepted this invitation, and although the 
 bully beef and potatoes served us were not as appetizing as 
 the dainty dishes of the Hotel Normandie, we counted our- 
 selves fortunate, for it was a treat to meet those cultivated 
 Englishmen and to see how calmly, how uncomplainingly they 
 bear the evils of this insane war. All of the officers with whom 
 we lunched are educated gentlemen, most of them are men of 
 wealth, some of them are lords; all have been accustomed to 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 121 
 
 the luxury which wealth and high station in England confer. 
 Now, and for the past two years, they have lived in a fashion 
 that would not be borne in peace times by a self-respecting 
 laborer — sleeping in cold, wind-swept barracks, living on bully 
 beef, cabbage and potatoes, cut off from Society and social 
 pleasures — yet withal cheery, content and hopeful! When I 
 asked Captain B., one of the younger officers, what he thought 
 of the Germans he answered: 
 
 "Oh, Fritz isn't a bad lot. But, of course, it's a bally shame 
 he went and turned the world upside down as he did. It 
 makes things so beastly uncomfortable, don't you know." 
 
 "But you didn't have to go in," I said, so as to draw him 
 out; Captain B. eyed me with manifest surprise. "England 
 was safe on her side of the channel," I continued. "Your 
 navy controlled the sea; had you remained neutral Germany 
 would not have bothered you." 
 
 "There's no knowing what Fritz wouldn't do," exclaimed 
 the Captain. "And anyway we couldn't leave little Belgium 
 in the lurch. I would rather live in this barn and eat bully 
 beef the rest of my life than stand for such work as Fritz did 
 in Belgium." 
 
 That is the sentiment expressed by every Englishman with 
 whom I have talked; they don't expect the war to last long, 
 but they mean to keep on the job and "get" the Kaiser, even if 
 it takes as long as it took them to "get" Napoleon! . . . 
 
 Caen, Saturday night, 
 December 9. 
 We spent a busy day in Havre yesterday, visiting more Ger- 
 man prison camps, and inspecting the great steel works (the 
 Trefilories) where 10,000 Frenchmen work in the mills, and 
 where a large number of Germans are employed in the con- 
 struction of new buildings. The steel company now makes 
 shells in prodigious quantities, so that many more factory 
 buildings are required. . . . 
 
12 2 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 The small steamer which plies between Havre and Caen is 
 only three hours in the open sea and we purposed taking it 
 until we got down to the Quai this morning; then we took 
 the ferry to Trouville instead, for not only is the Caen steamer 
 a small, unseaworthy looking tub, but out there in the estuary 
 of the Seine we saw projecting above the surface of the water 
 the smoke funnels of several steamers and the masts of two 
 schooners. "How happens it," I asked the skipper of the Caen 
 steamer, "that so many boats are sunk out there in the mouth 
 of the Seine?" 
 
 "They were not sunk out there," answered the skipper. 
 "They were torpedoed on the sea outside and tried to make 
 a run for the docks, but couldn't quite do it, so they went 
 down out there in the river." 
 
 Major Wadhams and I held a hurried consultation; we are 
 not afraid of submarines, oh, no! But as we looked at the fun- 
 nels of the steamers and the masts of the schooners projecting 
 up out of the Seine the thought occurred to us that we might 
 reach Caen quicker by taking the ferry to Trouville and mo- 
 toring thence to our destination. The ferry lay alongside the 
 Caen boat and within five minutes after our talk with the 
 skipper our grips were out of the Caen boat and onto the 
 ferry and we were on our way to Trouville instead of on that 
 dinky Caen boat offering a tempting target to the Kaiser's 
 pirates of the sea. An hour later, half frozen, we stopped at 
 the Inn of William the Conqueror and there forgot our dis- 
 comforts as M. Gemoie, the host, gave us steaming hot coffee, 
 a delicious omelette, toast and home-made preserves, served 
 on a table in front of a blazing log fire! 
 
 I showed M. Gemoie a full page illustration of his Inn ac- 
 companying the account of my visit there in Seeing Europe 
 by Automobile. The picture shows Beamer standing by a 
 quaint well in the garden of the court and I fancied the fact 
 that I had enthused so over his Inn would please this worthy 
 Norman. Perhaps it did please him, but it did not excite him. 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 123 
 
 Too many authors have sung his Inn's praises for M. Gemoie 
 to care what my modest pen may say of it. Conducting me 
 into the "Chambre du Roi" — a great room where centuries 
 ago France's kings dined when they stopped at this, the then 
 half-way house between Normandy and Brittany, — M. Gemoie 
 pointed to a dozen or more books scattered about on top of 
 a long table that is carved and rich with the dull dark color- 
 ing that comes only with the years of centuries. 
 
 "Voila, Monsieur!" he exclaimed. "Regardez les livres! 
 They are only a few that tell of my Inn." 
 
 After that I said no more of my modest tribute in Seeing 
 Europe by Automobile. 
 
 Arrived in Caen, and our grips deposited at the Hotel 
 d'Angleterre, we drove up a steep and narrow road to the 
 Chateau du Caen, a marvelously picturesque castle dating 
 from the time of William the Conqueror, now used as a 
 prison for 400 Germans. The Commandant of all the pris- 
 oners of war in this military region is a wiry little colonel 
 sixty-six years old who was wounded in 1870 and who, 
 therefore, as he told us, is not able to go to the front now. 
 His age alone seemed to me sufficient reason for seeking serv- 
 ice behind the firing lines, but Col. Bayze declared with evi- 
 dent sincerity that he would be at the front if it were not 
 for the wound in his knee. 
 
 While I stood at one of the Chateau's upper windows, look- 
 ing down upon the city of Caen spread below me a German 
 approached and asked if he might speak to me. "Gewiss — 
 (certainly). What is it you wish?" I asked. 
 
 "Excellenz," he said, "we should like permission to read 
 some French newspapers, especially now that they contain 
 good news for us Germans." 
 
 "What do you mean?" I queried. "What good news for 
 you do the French newspapers contain?" 
 
 "We are not allowed to see the newspapers," replied the 
 prisoner. "Nevertheless, there comes to us some knowledge 
 
124 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 of what they say and we know that the news from Roumania 
 is good." 
 
 Alas! From a German point of view this is only too true. 
 Poor little Roumania seems in a fair way to be crushed by 
 the Prussian Colossus. ... I asked the prisoner why the 
 reading of French newspapers had been forbidden. "Be- 
 cause," said he, "the Austrians are jealous of us, especially 
 those who only became Austrians when Bosnia was annexed 
 in 1908. When the newspapers report French victories these 
 traitors cry 'Vive la France!' Of course that angers us true 
 Germans and it is true that we sometimes have tried to beat 
 a little sense and a little patriotism into the Austrians' heads. 
 It is for that reason that the Herr Commandant forbade us 
 reading the papers any more." 
 
 "And he was quite right," said I. "If you can't keep the 
 peace among yourselves it is his duty to remove the cause of 
 the disturbance." 
 
 "Gewiss — (certainly), Excellenz; and I do not ask that the 
 papers be given to those traitorous Austrians who make the 
 trouble. If the Herr Commandant will but let us true Ger- 
 mans have them we will give our word of honor not to let the 
 Austrians read a line of them. That will prevent the least 
 trouble from occurring." 
 
 The unconscious self-revelation which this man displayed 
 was interesting; so, too, was the light he threw on the feeling 
 existing between Germans and Austrians. Of course, I refused 
 even to refer his request to the Commandant, whereupon the 
 prisoner said in a tone the dominant note of which was tri- 
 umphant pride: "Very well, Excellenz. We are prisoners of 
 war and must submit. But though they keep their newspapers 
 from us they can not keep from us the knowledge that the 
 Fatherland is conquering its enemies. We can afford to bide 
 our time, Excellenz!" And with that he brought his hand to 
 his cap in a stiff military salute, then turned on his heels and 
 walked away. 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 125 
 
 Caen, Sunday night, 
 December 10. 
 
 Commandant Bayze called for us this morning at eight 
 o'clock with his military limousine and drove us to Monder- 
 ville, 4 kilometers from the city, to inspect a new camp that 
 is barely finished. In a great square 400x500 feet, inclosed 
 by a high barbed wire fence, are nine long wooden barracks 
 in which are quartered a thousand war prisoners, mostly Aus- 
 trians and Czechs who were captured by the Servians in the 
 first year of the war; when later Germany overran Servia and 
 the army of that little country retreated over the mountains 
 into Macedonia it carried thousands of prisoners along with it. 
 For a while these prisoners remained in Greece, then they 
 were taken to Italy whence recently they were brought to 
 France; by the time they get back to Austria in comparison 
 with their experience Ulysses' wanderings will seem common- 
 place. 
 
 Normandy has been a pastural country for twenty centuries 
 and is still noted for its apple orchards, its splendid cattle, its 
 fine dairies, its delicious milk and butter. But a change seems 
 imminent. The steel mills at Monderville are being built not 
 only because iron ore has been discovered hereabouts, but also 
 because there has been found a fine vein of coal, the same 
 vein which in England has made that country rich and power- 
 ful. The vein dips under the channel and reappears in Nor- 
 mandy and so in a few years this part of France, instead of 
 being sweet and clean and peaceful, may be busy with the 
 dirty work of coal mines and blast furnaces. Col. Bayze 
 says that the iron ore here is 62 per cent pure, as compared 
 with only 54 per cent for the ore of the same vein in England. 
 
 When we entered the Camp at Monderville this morning the 
 guard of "honor" drawn up to receive us was a pathetic sight, 
 not a man of them was less than forty-five, and they were 
 of all sizes, fat and lean, short and tall, and their worn, rusty 
 old uniforms looked as if they were ready for the rag man. 
 
126 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 But from the eyes of those soldiers shone an unconquerable 
 spirit; Col. Bayze called them "Mes enfants" (my children) 
 and they called him "Mon Commandant!" That is a thing 
 which instantly strikes an observer in France — the fatherly 
 attitude of officers toward their soldiers and the affection which 
 the men seem to have for "Mon Commandant." Captain Le 
 Rasle, an Aide of Col. Bayze who accompanies us on our 
 trips about Caen, bears on his left arm a gold "V," which indi- 
 cates one year of service at the front without leave; on his 
 right arm are two gold "V's," which indicate that he has been 
 wounded twice; when the "Guard of Honor" saw these V's 
 on the Captain's sleeves their eyes glistened and they cried, 
 "Vivre notre brave Capitain!" 
 
 In Germany under similar circumstances German soldiers 
 would not do such a thing; but if they did commit such a 
 breech of discipline it would be the guard house and bread 
 and water for them. Here the enthusiam of those soldiers, too 
 old to fight at the front, fit only to guard prisoners in the rear, 
 caused only a smile and a pleasant word from the Captain. 
 Speaking of his year at the front Captain Le Rasle said : 
 
 "We capture few German officers for the reason that they 
 stand behind their men and drive them forward; being in the 
 rear, in case of defeat the officers have the best chance to 
 escape. With us an exactly opposite custom prevails. Our 
 officers lead their men and so when a charge fails the French 
 officer, being in the front, is the first to be taken prisoner." 
 
 Speaking of the war of 1870 Col. Bayze remarked: 
 
 "Had England said to Germany in 1870: 'You must not 
 take Alsace and Lorraine!' the course of history would have 
 been changed. But at that time England, fearing France, not 
 Germany, kept silent and we were thrown into Russia's arms, 
 with the result that Germany, in order that she might keep the 
 provinces stolen from us, made an enormous increase in her 
 armaments." 
 
 I asked Col. Bayze if France had abandoned thought of re- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 127 
 
 gaining the lost provinces. His eyes gleamed and his reply 
 came swiftly and clearly: 
 
 "No, Monsieur. Now that in her greed to get more of our 
 dear France Germany has attacked us, now that she has 
 forced this frightful war upon us, we shall never make peace 
 until the crime of 1870 has been undone!" 
 
 As showing the spirit of France this talk with Col. Bayze 
 seems worth noting. . . . One Prussian prisoner at Monder- 
 ville complained that he was being treated as a private soldier. 
 "Well, are you not a private soldier?" I asked, observing that 
 he wore a private's uniform. He explained that, although he 
 was a private at the time of his capture, two months there- 
 after he had been granted an officer's commission. "And 
 that," he added, "makes me an officer with the right to be 
 treated as such." When this was translated to Col. Bayze he 
 said that under the regulations commissions as officers are not 
 valid unless issued within thirty days after capture. The 
 Prussian, who understood French, exclaimed: 
 
 "Das ist eine Luege!" And, as if that were not bad 
 enough, he added in French: "Ce n'est pas vrai!" . . . 
 "Put that man in a cell for fifteen days," ordered the Colonel. 
 And off the haughty Prussian strode, accompanied by a 
 "sawed-off" little French soldier who barely came up to his 
 shoulder and was old enough to be his father. Had that Prus- 
 sian said: "You are mistaken, are you not, M. Commandant? 
 I think the limit is sixty, not thirty, days," he would not now 
 be in a cell; it might even be that his commission would be 
 recognized and that he would be accorded an officer's privi- 
 leges. But he thinks himself a "Superman" and that his cap- 
 tors are a lot of miserable little Latin monkeys; the accident 
 of war has placed him temporarily in their power, but he does 
 not admit that as any reason why he should abase himself be- 
 fore them, or even why he should be polite to them; soon the 
 Fatherland will conquer France, then over the good wines and 
 the good dinners of the restaurants of Paris he will forget 
 
128 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 the indignities which mere accident has enabled his contempti- 
 ble foes to heap upon him! Such are the feelings of the Prus- 
 sion prisoners with whom I have talked, and I have talked 
 with scores of them in all parts of France and Corsica. 
 
 Fifteen kilometers from Monderville we visited 200 Ger- 
 mans who work unloading trains of coal at Moult-Argences. 
 Leaving Moult-Argences ("Much money" in old French) we 
 motored to the village of Argences where we had dejeuner at 
 a dear little Inn with the rather magniloquent name "Hotels 
 de Normandie et du Grand Cerf." 
 
 Half an hour after leaving Argences on the way to Periers, 
 40 kilometers distant, the motor went wrong; it was too cold 
 to sit still in comfort, so we all got out of the limousine and 
 went ahead on foot, expecting the chauffeur to fix his motor 
 in a few minutes and then overtake us; we marked off the 
 kilometers, however, with no sign of our limousine coming 
 after us, until finally we walked into St. Pierre-sur-Dives, 
 eleven kilometers from the place where the motor had broken 
 down; the chauffeur did not make his appearance until we 
 had thoroughly inspected St. Pierre's queer old houses with 
 ancient arches and gable roofs covered with moss grown tiles; 
 at one corner of the town square stands a noble Gothic Abbey 
 with three fine towers, relics of an ancient Norman edifice. 
 As we stood looking at those towers suddenly from within 
 the Abbey came the deep, full tones of an organ and then a 
 crowd of black-robed women came forth through the doors, 
 on their faces a look of sorrow mixed with hope and exalta- 
 tion. They were the mothers, sisters and widows of fallen 
 heroes; we uncovered our heads as they passed, as an act of 
 homage to those who have given to France that which is more 
 dear than their own lives — the lives of their fathers, sons and 
 husbands ! 
 
 At Periers we found 200 Germans working in an enormous 
 quarry; by their sides labored as many old Frenchmen and a 
 hundred or more sturdy Norman women; but for their high 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 129 
 
 cheek bones, and the "P.G" on their clothes, we could not 
 have distinguished the prisoners from the free men — all were 
 working together on apparently equal terms and in good 
 fellowship with one another. In a compound near the deep 
 quarry is a barrack 225 feet long by 28 feet wide, heated by 
 five stoves and lighted by fifteen oil lamps; fifty feet distant 
 from this long barrack is a two-story stone house with nine 
 beds on each floor. As we entered this house the rich voices 
 of a male choir singing a German folks song fell on our ears; 
 our appearance was the signal for the Feldwebel's usual "Ach- 
 tung!", followed by all the prisoners standing rigidly at atten- 
 tion and staring straight before them. But I begged the Feld- 
 webel to have his men continue their song and after a mo- 
 ment's hesitation, as if finding it difficult to believe that the 
 representative of the American Embassy could waive the cere- 
 mony with which military regulations required that he should 
 be received, he gave the necessary order, and presently I was 
 having what the Germans call "eine ganz gemuethliche halbe 
 stunde" — a perfectly "homey" half hour. The men had good 
 voices and once I had made them feel at ease they seemed to 
 take delight in displaying their musical talent; when at length, 
 after listening to half a dozen really sweet songs, I turned to 
 leave them they followed me to the door and bade me good 
 luck and God speed. "Good luck and God be with you" I 
 returned. "You are prisoners now but some time, though we 
 know not when, the war is bound to end and then, men, you 
 will go back to your homes across the Rhine and once again 
 be with your wives and children. The best I can wish you 
 is that God may hasten the coming of that happy day!" . . . 
 The engine which furnishes the power to crush the stone from 
 this great quarry, which is centuries old, also furnishes heat 
 and hot baths, so that these quarry workers enjoy a luxury 
 unknown in these days of war to even the majority of resi- 
 dents in Paris. 
 
130 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 Caen, Monday night, 
 
 December ii. 
 
 Our forenoon to-day was spent in visiting a great military 
 hospital in the outskirts of Caen; of the hospital's 1,200 
 beds only 500 are occupied, and of these 500 forty are Ger- 
 man prisoners not yet recovered from their wounds; this is 
 the "dull" season. Once winter is over and big fighting be- 
 gins, every one of the 1,200 beds will be occupied by a piece 
 of bleeding, suffering humanity. A red-cheeked nurse whom 
 I addressed in French answered in English with a strong 
 Scotch accent; she comes from Inverness. I asked how she 
 happened to be in this out of the way place, far from Scot- 
 land, and even far from the English lines in France. 
 
 "My brother was killed on the battle-field two months 
 ago," she said, "and mother died when I was a baby. So 
 father is all I have left. He is fighting in Flanders. I came 
 to France so as to be near him. This is as near as they will 
 let me stay, but if father is wounded they promised me I 
 might go to his hospital and nurse him." 
 
 All she has now! The girl spoke quietly, simply, in a mat- 
 ter-of-fact way; but it was easy to see that she spoke with 
 great feeling, that she is haunted with the fear that her 
 father will also make the supreme sacrifice and that then she 
 will be quite alone in the world. ... In the next room I 
 entered after talking with this Scotch girl from Inverness lay 
 a dying soldier. Over his head hung the bauble with which 
 he was decorated yesterday. The nurse told me the poor 
 boy — he is barely twenty — struggled to raise himself on his 
 pillows so that he might salute the officer who came to 
 honor him, but he was too weak; his head sank back on the 
 pillows and after pinning the croix de la guerre on the young 
 hero's breast the Colonel leaned over his bedside and kissed 
 him on both cheeks. A smile parted the boy's lips even as 
 his eyes closed. "And, Monsieur," concluded the nurse, "they 
 have not opened since. For eighteen hours he has been un- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 131 
 
 conscious. The doctor says he has but a few more moments 
 to live." At the foot of the bed stood a middle-aged woman 
 silently crying — the boy's mother! She had been sent for, 
 from her home near Grenoble, and stood there in hopeless 
 despair awaiting the moment, almost come, when she, too, 
 would give her best beloved boy a victim to the insatiable 
 monster War! 
 
 Before starting for May-sur-Orne, after dejeuner. Col. 
 Bayze took us on a stroll through Caen and pointed out some 
 of its sights, not the least interesting of which is Charlotte 
 Corday's house on the Rue St. Jean not far from our hotel. 
 The roof is very steep and from its sloping sides peep a num- 
 ber of quaint dormer windows; the ground floor is a jeweler's 
 shop; Charlotte's room was right over this shop. A girl was 
 leaning out of the window of this room as we stood across 
 the street looking at the house, just as Charlotte probably 
 leaned out of that same window the day before she went 
 to Paris to kill Marat in his bath. The house itself leans 
 so far out over the sidewalk I thought it must be in the way 
 of soon falling down, but Col. Bayze laughed and said it 
 had been leaning over the street for several centuries and 
 probably will continue to stand a little longer. , . . Caen- 
 sur-Orne — Caen on the river Orne; that is the city's official 
 name, but the Orne would scarcely be deemed a creek in 
 America. Insignificant, however, as is this tiny stream, it has 
 been widened and deepened so that boats of considerable size 
 come up from the sea laden with supplies. In America we 
 do not make as much use even of such mighty rivers as the 
 Mississippi as in Europe are made of petty streams like the 
 Orne in France and the Neckar in Germany. 
 
 Nancy, Sunday night, 
 December 17, 191 6. 
 On arriving in Paris I found a note from the Ambassador 
 saying he wished me to accompany him on a special mission 
 
132 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 to Lorraine. His train left the Gare St. Lazare soon after 
 mine came in, thus giving me little time to rest up. But the 
 discomforts of that journey were forgotten once I was with 
 the Ambassador and his party on the way to Nancy. In 
 addition to Mr. Sharp's two sons we have with us Mr. Ed- 
 ward Schuler, Paris representative of the Associated Press, 
 and M. Andre Chevrillon, who is not only a nephew of Taine, 
 the noted writer, but is himself a French author of brilliant 
 reputation and attainments. Amid such a company one does 
 not stop to think of physical discomforts; moreover, the train 
 to Nancy was well heated and the dining car service was 
 excellent. Even on trains going into the war zone the French 
 do not overlook the important matter of eating; on no dining 
 car in the United States can one get a better dinner than 
 that yesterday on the train to Nancy, and none so good can 
 be had at the modest price we were charged — -five and a half 
 francs (97^), including a bottle of wine. 
 
 Our train was due at Nancy at 7 p. m., but a great move- 
 ment of troops has been going on; troop trains, one after 
 the other, were given the right-of-way, so that instead of 
 arriving at seven o'clock it was midnight before our train 
 rolled into the station at Nancy, Late as was the hour a 
 committee of distinguished men was awaiting us; the General 
 in command of this sector had remained at the station until 
 ten o'clock, then — not feeling well — had gone to his room, 
 leaving M. Mirman, Nancy's celebrated prefet, to present his 
 apologies and respects. Ambassador Sharp not only accepted 
 the General's apologies, but expressed his regret that any- 
 body had so inconvenienced himself as to remain at the rail- 
 way station until midnight to receive us. 
 
 "Your Excellency," said M. Mirman, one of France's states- 
 men and orators — sent from Paris to Nancy in 19 14 when 
 it was thought the city would be captured by the Germans 
 and when a "big" man would be needed as prefet — "your 
 visit is too great an honor for us to permit you to enter Nancy 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 133 
 
 unattended, no matter what the hour of your arrival. We 
 know after so long a journey you and your party need re- 
 freshing; automobiles are waiting outside and dinner will be 
 ready by time you have rested a moment at your hotel." 
 
 The nice part about it is, these French make you believe 
 they really mean it; it cannot be possible that M. Mirman 
 and the distinguished officers who formed his reception com- 
 mittee liked to wait five hours in a cold railway station. But 
 they did like to make the American Ambassador feel at home 
 in Nancy, hence they had waited for us. After a rapid drive 
 through the pitch-black streets of the city to the Grand Hotel 
 on the Place St. Stanislas, and after ten minutes to freshen 
 up and remove the stains of travel, we were conducted to a 
 private dining-room where was served us an excellent dinner. 
 On arriving at midnight in New York or Chicago one may 
 expect to be able to get a good dinner, if so inclined; I con- 
 fess, however, we were surprised to find equal comforts in a 
 French city that is now, and that for two years has been, 
 under the fire of German guns! 
 
 This morning at nine o'clock, after finishing the "pettiest" 
 kind of a petit dejeuner (the midnight dinner robbed us of 
 appetites) we entered the military limousines waiting in front 
 of the hotel and were whirled off to see the forests and fields 
 where was fought in 19 14 the great battle of the Grand 
 Couronne de Nancy. From the high hill of Leomont whence 
 on those August days two years ago the French General di- 
 rected the movements of his army, we to-day looked down 
 upon the scene of that fierce struggle and had it explained to 
 us by Commandant Thomasson, who stood on the hill by the 
 General's side during the battle. "There in yonder wood," 
 said this officer, pointing to a small forest in the valley half 
 a mile away, "the carnage was frightful. For three days was 
 that wood bitterly contested; there was hand-to-hand fight- 
 ing; the men dodged behind trees; he who leaned forward 
 to see through the forest risked having his head shot away or 
 
134 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 a bayonet thrust through his body. The French pushed the 
 Germans back. Then Bavarian reinforcements came up and 
 we were pushed back. But we never gave up that forest; to 
 the edge of it, yes, Messieurs, they pushed us back to the 
 edge. And then our brave poilus refused to budge another 
 inch! Steadily they pressed forward, and at last the wood was 
 ours. It is not too much to say. Excellency, that civilization 
 itself was saved by the victory which, after days of terrific 
 fighting on the fields you see yonder, finally perched upon 
 our banners!" 
 
 Col. Thomasson explained this assertion by outlining to 
 us the military situation as it existed in those August and 
 September days of 19 14. Von Kluck's legions were pouring 
 across Belgium and into France from the northeast; the Crown 
 Princes of Prussia and Bavaria, with two enormous armies, 
 were approaching from the east and the southeast. Had their 
 forces joined von Kluck's an unbroken line composed of mil- 
 lions of men would have advanced upon Paris. The French 
 victory on the fields and in the forest we saw to-day upset 
 the German plans. The two Crown Princes were hurled east 
 and north; the French retained contact with their forces all 
 the way to Paris; Gallieni's "Taxicab" army sprang up, as it 
 were, from the pavements of the capital and rushed to the 
 front; General Foch made his celebrated wedge attack and 
 von Kluck was forced, first to stop his advance, then to re- 
 treat, in order to link up with the armies of the Prussian and 
 Bavarian Crown Princes. And then came the Battle of the 
 Mame, an historic victory — too close as yet for us fully to 
 appreciate its meaning and importance to the world. For 
 Germany is not yet beaten. But when she is beaten — and 
 she will be — then for a thousand years to come the pens of 
 philosophers and historians will tell how in September, 19 14, 
 near the calm, peaceful little river of the Marne was won a 
 victory which led to the undoing of autocracy and to the 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 135 
 
 ultimate triumph of the principles of democracy and Chris- 
 tianity. 
 
 Shortly after noon we arrived at the ruined village of Vitre- 
 mont which a wealthy Californian, Mrs. Crocker, has gen- 
 erously agreed to rebuild at her individual expense; Miss 
 Daisy Polk, a friend of Mrs. Crocker's, who occupies one of 
 the few undestroyed stone cottages in the village, will super- 
 vise the work of restoration. Three-fourths of all the houses 
 were destroyed by the Germans during their brief occupation 
 in August, 19 14, and it is Miss Polk's intention to rebuild 
 the people's homes on their former sites and in precisely the 
 same size and style as before. French peasants are not pro- 
 gressive; they not only do not demand modern, sanitary 
 homes, but strenuously object to any changes from the houses 
 that were built centuries ago. The only concession Miss Polk 
 has been able to wring from them is to permit the placing 
 of the big manure piles in the back, instead of in front, right 
 on the street. I remember when motoring through the vil- 
 lages of Lorraine before the war how unsightly, how ill smell- 
 ing were the piles of manure heaped up on both sides of the 
 main street. Once, when I asked a prosperous looking vil- 
 lager why they didn't stack the manure behind instead of in 
 front of the houses, he looked at me in surprise. "Why," said 
 he, "it has always been put out in front." And for him that 
 was an all-sufficient reply! 
 
 Since 19 14 the Vitremonters have lived in the ruins of their 
 homes, with only makeshift roofs over their heads — a piece 
 of tin or a few boards; at night they have been exposed to 
 wind, sleet, snow and rain, while in the day they have worked 
 hard, tilling their fields; soldiers come from the front line 
 trenches not far away and put in their vacation helping the 
 Vitremonters in their plowing, sowing, reaping and other agri- 
 cultural work. Soon, thanks to Mrs. Crocker's generosity, all 
 will be under shelter; the cost of rebuilding averages $3,500 
 per cottage, so that the thirty-six destroyed homes will cost 
 
136 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 Mrs. Crocker more than $100,000; restoration of the village 
 church will cost $5,000 more. A wealthy American wanted 
 to pay for this, but Mrs. Crocker declined the offer; she 
 wishes the restoration of this quaint old Lorraine town to be 
 entirely her affair. 
 
 As our party drove up in four automobiles Vitremont's 
 entire population, in their Sunday clothes, was there to receive 
 us. The Mayor, a horny-handed peasant with a bright sash 
 — badge of his office, reaching over his shoulder to his waist 
 — welcomed Ambassador Sharp as he stepped out of his limou- 
 sine and escorted him to a platform a few yards away, in the 
 center of a mass of ruins. At the windows of one of the few 
 houses not in ruins sat some old veterans of 1870, who were 
 too feeble to remain standing during the ceremony of laying 
 the cornerstone of the first home to be re-erected. In an 
 eloquent speech M. Mirman spoke so feelingly of the old vet- 
 erans over there looking at us from their windows that tears 
 moistened the eyes of all who heard him; the Prefet described 
 how those veterans had fought and bled and suffered for 
 France forty-five years ago, how now their gaze was fixed 
 upon their sons and their grandsons to see if they were worthy 
 of the France that in every department of human knowledge 
 and human affairs has won immortal glory! M. Mirman also 
 referred to Miss Polk whom the people of Vitremont first 
 viewed with coldness, even with suspicion; they could not be- 
 lieve that a yoimg and beautiful girl would leave her home 
 of luxury to cross the seas and suffer hardships in a ruined 
 town in order to help those who were total strangers to her. 
 But they had learned this was what Miss Polk had done, and 
 so now Vitremont regarded her with love, aye, even with 
 veneration! The town authorities had conferred upon her 
 their highest honor — the title of Citizeness of Vitremont — 
 and as such she would ever be trusted, ever loved by the 
 people of Lorraine! Mr. Sharp answered M. Mirman's speech 
 in English, then with a trowel he laid the cornerstone while 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 137 
 
 War Department movie operators turned the cranks of their 
 machines so that soon all France may see on the screen how 
 the American Ambassador gave his official sanction to Mrs. 
 Crocker's generous work. . . . From the laying of the corner- 
 stone we went on foot, followed by the entire population, to 
 a temporary wooden house, erected as a town hall, and there 
 we inscribed our names in a big book of records. M. Laon 
 Pobe, the grave, sad careworn looking mayor, told us that in 
 future years when tourists come to Vitremont they will be 
 shown this book of records so that for all time posterity may 
 know that the first reconstruction work of the great war was 
 done by Americans. As time goes on others will give of their 
 plenty that the people of invaded France and Belgium may 
 be put on their feet again, but the honor of the first sys- 
 tematic housing of an entire town belongs to an American 
 woman ! 
 
 We thought Vitremont sad and desolate, but it is almost 
 gay compared with the next city to which we were taken — 
 Gerbeviller, called La Martyre because of the martyrdom it 
 suffered at the hands of the Huns. Pompeii, destroyed nearly 
 twenty centuries ago by a convulsion of Nature, presents no 
 more melancholy, no more soul-sickening sight than does 
 Gerbeviller which owes its destruction, not to Nature's blindly 
 violent forces, but to the deliberate vandalism of a German 
 army! As we walked through a mile or more of its streets 
 we saw on either hand nothing but stark, staring walls — no 
 roofs, no homes for the people, not even kennels for the dogs, 
 nothing but destruction, desolation, ruin! On that dreadful 
 day in 19 14 when the Germans entered the little city of Ger- 
 beviller their front line soldiers carried cans of petroleum 
 with syringes attached; they sprayed the walls of the build- 
 ings on both sides of the streets; detachments of soldiers went 
 inside the houses and sprayed the furniture, the portieres, the 
 bedding, the pictures. Then came torch bearers who set fire 
 to everything within their reach. It was all done with scientific 
 
138 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 efficiency — and fiendishness! — so thorough that within the 
 space of a few hours the Germans accompHshed more ruin 
 in Gerbeviller than Vesuvius did in days at Pompeii. Four- 
 fifths of the city is a complete ruin; then of a sudden we 
 passed out of desolate, soul-sickening destruction and found 
 ourselves in a town of life again. Why this sudden, this re- 
 markable change? Why did the Germans burn and destroy 
 a whole city up to a certain line, then desist from their devilish 
 work? Did a French army suddenly appear on the scene and 
 compel them to stop burning Gerbeviller? No; it was not 
 force that wrought the change; at least, not physical force. 
 It was a miracle! An old nun who was not even good look- 
 ing, except for a certain wonderful sweetness and spirituality 
 which shone forth from her eyes, came out from her hospital, 
 raised her hands and said: 
 
 "Messieurs, you must not burn any more!" 
 
 Those are words which any one can speak; it is not wonder- 
 ful that Sister Julie uttered them. But it is wonderful that 
 the Germans heeded them. The President of France has paid 
 his homage to this sweet-faced nun; the decoration of the 
 Legion of Honor has been conferred upon her; her pictures 
 are sold throughout France. And so, to-day, we too went to 
 that little hospital to tell her that America also shall learn 
 of what she has done. "Oh, votre Excellence," she said mod- 
 estly, "it was not I who did anything. It was God who at 
 last put it in the hearts of the Germans to stop their cruel 
 work." 
 
 "Madame," said I, "until you stepped out there in front 
 of your door and told them to desist, God seemed to have 
 little place in their hearts. Rather did Satan possess them. 
 Tell me how you did it. How was it possible for you to make 
 those benzine sprayers and torch bearers stop their fiendish 
 work?" 
 
 "I cannot tell you. Monsieur, any more than that they did 
 desist when I told them. You see. Excellence, it was impos- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 139 
 
 sible to allow them to go on with such work; had they burned 
 another building it would have meant the death of every one 
 of the wounded poilus in my hospital." 
 
 We think of Joan of Arc as working miracles; and she did 
 accomplish miraculous things: an illiterate country girl, who 
 never in her life so much as heard of military strategy, suc- 
 ceeded in doing that which France's greatest generals had 
 failed to do — she defeated and drove out a foreign invader — 
 surely that was a miracle. And so too was it a miracle when 
 a mere word, a mere gesture from a homely, sweet-faced nun 
 suddenly caused the German army to desist from its sys- 
 tematic destruction of the little city of Gerbeviller. We are 
 too close to the World War to realize its proportions; we fail 
 to see it in its true perspective. But centuries hence our pos- 
 terity will recognize the heroes and miraculous deeds of this 
 war, just as we recognize those of the Crusades a thousand 
 years ago! 
 
 In the outskirts of Gerbeviller is a little stream spanned 
 by a stone bridge; at that bridge the French rear guard, com- 
 posed of only sixty soldiers, held back the Germans for seven 
 hours; it is said that the town's martyrdom was inflicted as 
 punishment for what that brave rear guard did. Whatever 
 the reason, that the martyrdom was very real and very ter- 
 rible may be seen by any one who walks through Gerbeviller's 
 streets to-day. And while that ruin was being wrought on that 
 dreadful August day in 1914, German soldiers surrounded the 
 burning houses and shot to death the men and women as they 
 fled from the flames out into the street! 
 
 In the village of Herimenil through which we passed after 
 leaving Gerbeviller we were shown a church into which the 
 Germans put the townspeople while they set fire to their 
 homes; one woman and her two young daughters failed to 
 comply with the order to get inside the church; for this 
 "crime" the Germans took them out of the cellar of their home 
 where they were hiding, stood them up against the wall of 
 
140 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 the house opposite the church and shot them to death! Not 
 content with this, they left the bodies of the three women on 
 the pavement for two days and threatened to shoot any one 
 who sought to remove the poor broken, bleeding pieces of 
 humanity! A score or more men and women who lived 
 through that awful week crowded around our party and gave 
 us minute details of the things that happened. "There is 
 where the bullets that went through poor Mme. Juban's body 
 struck the wall," said one man, pointing to several holes 
 three feet above the ground. "I was looking through the 
 church window. I saw them drag her and Susanne and Jose- 
 phine out of the house and stand them up against the wall. 
 Oh, Monsieur, it was frightful! Their bodies lay there night 
 and day. I wanted to go to them and close their eyes. It 
 grieved me, Monsieur, to see their eyes wide open looking up 
 at the sun. As they were dead I knew the sun could not 
 hurt them, still I wanted to close their eyes. But when I 
 asked permission to go to them for only a moment the sol- 
 diers said they would shoot me if I stepped my foot outside 
 the door! And so, Monsieur, during all of two nights and 
 two days we were crowded here in this church, the bodies of 
 our poor friends right here — this is the very spot, Monsieur. 
 Oh, it was frightful, frightful!" 
 
 And the man shuddered and put his hand before his eyes 
 as if to shut out the dreadful sight. He may shut it out from 
 his physical eyes, but not from his mind's eye; as long as life 
 endures the forty-eight hours passed crowded together in that 
 village church will remain burned deep in the consciences and 
 memories of all who were there. Almost as horrible as the suf- 
 fering actually borne during the forty-eight hours is the scar 
 left upon the souls of those men and women. Hate, a deep, 
 deadly, undying hate is a hideous thing, a thing no one may 
 indulge in without searing and scarring the soul. But that 
 is the kind of hate the people of Herimenil feel for the Ger- 
 mans; I could see it glowing in their faces, burning in their 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 141 
 
 eyes, vibrating in their voices as they pointed out to us the 
 place on the pavement where the bodies of that mother and 
 her daughters were left lying for forty-eight long hours I 
 
 At two o'clock we arrived at the village of St, Clement near 
 the front, at the headquarters of General de Buyer, in com- 
 mand of this sector, where an elaborate luncheon awaited us; 
 at each plate was an individual menu card with the guest's 
 name written in a fine copper plate hand beneath the French 
 and American flags. General de Buyer smilingly admitted 
 that he did not have so elaborate a dejeuner every day, "Mais 
 que voulez vous?" he added. "Neither are we honored every 
 day by the presence of the American Ambassador and his 
 Special Assistant!" . . . We were not surprised to learn 
 that such luncheons are not spread on the General's table 
 every day; what surprised us was to know that such a variety 
 of excellent food, cooked in so delicious a way, could be had 
 at all so near the front, within sound of the German guns. 
 Had we been at Sherry's in New York we could not have had 
 a better repast. In our Revolutionary war Sumter was glad to 
 be able to offer a baked sweet potato to a distinguished guest; 
 and in our Civil War Gen. Lee counted himself fortunate if he 
 found upon his camp table a rasher of bacon with corn bread. 
 No pate de foie gras washed down by fine wines in those wars. 
 Both France and Germany have a long way to go before 
 either country is reduced to anything like the straits suffered 
 by the soldiers of Washington and the Southern Confederacy. 
 
 After the General's party was over we motored to Lune- 
 ville, where the Mayor, M, Georges Keller, had arranged a 
 reception for us in the City Hall (Hotel de Ville) ; after de- 
 livering an address of welcome in French, to which Ambassa- 
 dor Sharp replied in English, M. Keller introduced to us a 
 number of the city's prominent people — among them a M. 
 Kahn, president of the Jewish Society of Lorraine and a busi- 
 ness man of the highest standing and integrity. M. Kahn 
 
142 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 related to me the frightful fate of his mother, aged ninety- 
 eight. 
 
 "It was in August, 1914," he said, "the day the Germans 
 entered Luneville. Mother was sitting in a chair at a window 
 of her room looking down on the street; my brother and I 
 stood by her side. As the Germans came abreast of our 
 house shots were fired. The muzzles of their rifles were point- 
 ing straight up in the air and I saw the soldiers pulling the 
 triggers. And so when their commander cried out: 'Wer hat 
 geschossen?' (who has fired?) I, unhappily, cried back: 'It is 
 your own men who fired. I saw them doing it a moment ago.' 
 My words infuriated the officer. He halted his men, ordered 
 them toward our house and the next instant they were batter- 
 ing down the door with the butts of their guns. My brother 
 rushed down to open the door; he wished to open it so as to 
 give them no cause for violence, but alas! as he reached the 
 lower hall the door was battered in and the Germans shot 
 my brother to pieces; a score of bullets struck him — he was 
 horribly mangled. I fled for my life through the rear of the 
 second floor, and as I ran I looked back and — oh. Monsieur, 
 the thought of what I saw unmans me even now, after more 
 than two years. It was awful!" 
 
 M. Kahn paused and covered his face with his hands; for 
 a long minute there was absolute silence; I had not the heart 
 to speak. What could one say to such a story? Presently, 
 having recovered from his emotion, he added quietly: 
 
 "Monsieur, I saw the Germans run their bayonets through 
 my mother. Think of it, through that dear woman who 
 would not have harmed a hair of their heads even had she 
 been able. But she was not able, for. Monsieur, she was 
 ninety-eight years old. I have two brothers in America; one 
 of them is Gustave Kahn, a professor in Baltimore. The 
 other is M. Felix Kahn, at 1207 Rue Custin, New Orleans. 
 I will thank you, sir, to tell them that mother died with a 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 143 
 
 smile on her lips. She seemed without fear as well as without 
 hate." 
 
 As I wiped my eyes I promised to comply with this re- 
 quest; to hear such a story even at second hand is deeply 
 moving. To hear it from one of the actors, from a son who 
 with his own eyes saw his aged mother butchered by bestial 
 soldiers — ah, that is a thing that stirs the very depths of 
 one's being. I try to jeel neutral as well as to be neutral, 
 but the thing can't be done. The Germans themselves just 
 won't let me be neutral. I should despise myself if I could 
 withhold pity and sympathy for the French, the victims of 
 such horrors, or if I could help feeling a deadly scorn and 
 contempt for a soldiery capable of committing such senseless 
 as well as barbaric deeds! 
 
 Another story told me at Mayor Keller's reception was con- 
 cerning the experience of a Monsieur H., who happened to be 
 in Belgium when war burst upon the world in August, 19 14. 
 
 "It was at Aerschot," said Monsieur H., "and when the 
 Germans entered the town from the east I was horrified to 
 see women with babies in their arms in front of the front line 
 of the invaders. They were using our wives, mothers, daugh- 
 ters and babies as a screen, Monsieur. The Belgian soldiers 
 did not have the heart to shoot their own flesh and blood, 
 so they retreated without firing a gun and the Germans 
 marched on into the great square of the city. The Burgo- 
 meister's home was on the public square; just as the Com- 
 mander of the German army was entering the door of the 
 Burgomeister's house a shot was fired — by whom, Monsieur, 
 no one but God knows. The Germans claim a Belgian fired 
 that shot. Heaven knows, what had just happened was enough 
 to prompt some father, some brother to fire on the men who 
 used women and babies to protect their own cowardly lives. 
 But the Belgians claim the shot was fired by a German. 
 There was great confusion. Twice an alarm was given that 
 a Belgian army was coming to attack the town and the Ger- 
 
144 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 mans fired a volley at what they thought were approaching 
 troops; it is possible, Monsieur, they may have fired tlie 
 shot that killed the German General. However that may be, 
 after the German General fell dead in the doorway of the 
 Burgomeister's house, the officer who succeeded him in com- 
 mand ordered every male inhabitant of Aerschot who was 
 fourteen or more years old to be conducted to the outskirts 
 of the town. There all — boys of fourteen, old gray beards of 
 eighty, fathers of families, youths just beginning life — all were 
 drawn up in a line. A sergeant counted them off — eins, zwei, 
 drei — one, two, three. Every third man had to take two 
 steps forward, so that when the sergeant had finished count- 
 ing there were two lines — one-third in front, two-thirds at 
 the back. And then. Monsieur — God help me, but every one 
 of those in the front line was shot to death, shot where he 
 stood — boys, old men and all! That, Monsieur, is what the 
 Germans call 'Schrecklichkeit' — Frightfulness. They think 
 thus to crush us with fear, to stupefy us with horror and wipe 
 out all opposition. Ah, how little they understand the human 
 soul! But for their barbarity we might have been willing 
 to make peace. As it is, the war must go on until the world 
 is rid of the Prussian horror!" 
 
 Another prominent citizen who attended the reception in 
 the Hotel de Ville told us that the day Luneville was cap- 
 tured the Germans put the Rabbi and his wife in the Synagog, 
 then set it on fire and burned them to death! 
 
 In many departments of human knowledge Germans are 
 far in advance of other nations, but in the matter of under- 
 standing the lessons of history, of understanding the psychol- 
 ogy of other peoples, they seem as ignorant as children. Is 
 it not strange that with the history of Rome known to them, 
 with such an example as that of Cardinal Mercier before 
 them, Prussia's autocracy cannot understand the fact that 
 material things are not, in the long run, more important, 
 more powerful than spiritual things which appeal to the 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 145 
 
 sense of truth and justice, inherent in the breast of all man- 
 kind? 
 
 Mayor Keller's home is in the palace where was signed the 
 treaty of peace between Austria and France after the Battle 
 of Marengo in 1801 ; we went there for tea, when the reception 
 at the City Hall was over, and there in the same salon where 
 Napoleon dictated terms to his future father-in-law we met 
 more dignitaries of the city and also a number of very beauti- 
 ful and very charming women; then we motored rapidly back 
 to Nancy so as to be there in time for a banquet at the Prefet's 
 palace at eight o'clock. As mp>y be imagined, after the elab- 
 orate dejeuner in the trenches with General de Buyer, followed 
 by tea, cakes and sandwiches at the home of Mayor Keller 
 in Luneville, neither the Ambassador nor I had much appetite 
 for a banquet; we enjoyed, however, M. Mirman's hospitality 
 and were glad to meet the distinguished soldiers and states- 
 men who were gathered around his table. Because of the ex- 
 ceedingly strenuous day we had passed Mr. Sharp begged the 
 Prefet to excuse us early; it was only ten o'clock when we 
 got back to our hotel, but it is now past midnight, for I have 
 been propped up in my bed for two hours writing these notes 
 of a long day's doings. Even though I write in shorthand, 
 so much has happened that after two hours my notes are still 
 unfinished ; they must wait now till to-morrow. I am too tired 
 to write more to-night. 
 
 Nancy, Monday night, 
 December 18, 19 16. 
 Here are a few points about Vitremont which I forgot to 
 note last night (was too sleepy) : the town's population in 
 1700 was 270; in 19 14, 265; the population now is only 135. 
 Thirty-six houses and the school and town hall were com- 
 pletely destroyed; ten houses which were injured by shells 
 (not burned by incendiarists) were only slightly damaged, and 
 this damage has been repaired. Mrs. Crocker is rebuilding 
 
146 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 the thirty-six houses that were totally demolished, not by the 
 accident of war, by chance shells, but destroyed with malice 
 aforethought by the incendiary's torch. . . . 
 
 We purposed going to Rheims to-day but M. Mirman called 
 at our hotel early this morning and said he had a telegram 
 from the General commanding the sector at Rheims request- 
 ing us to postpone our visit twenty-four hours. Ambassador 
 Sharp, surmising that the delay was in order to give the 
 Rheims authorities time to arrange receptions, dinners, etc. — 
 a surmise justified by the exceeding hospitality with which 
 we have everywhere been received — told M. Mirman he did 
 not wish the General or his staff to go to any trouble on his 
 account; he said he would really prefer to slip into Rheims, 
 inspect the Cathedral so as to be able to report accurately 
 just what damage the Germans had done to that historic edi- 
 fice, then proceed to Paris. 
 
 "Your Excellency," said the Prefet, "the General has not 
 desired you to delay your visit for purposes of hospitality; 
 there is a more urgent reason." 
 
 Then M. Mirman explained that yesterday, Sunday, a suc- 
 cessful attack was made upon the German lines near Rheims; 
 prisoners were taken, "And," continued M. Mirman, "we know 
 from long experience that after such local successes the Ger- 
 mans vent their rage upon the great Cathedral." Seeing the 
 look of incredulity upon our faces, the Prefet added: "I 
 know it seems unbelievable, for it is so absurd as well as 
 wicked to vent one's rage upon a mass of inanimate stone, 
 upon stained glass and marble altars. But, alas! Excellency, 
 it is true, and so the General prefers that you do not go to 
 Rheims until to-morrow. If you go to-day, especially if you 
 visit the Cathedral, you will be going into a rain of shot and 
 shell." 
 
 Of course we did not go; Prefet Mirman telegraphed the 
 General that we will visit Rheims to-morrow, then he escorted 
 us on a walk through Nancy and showed us a number of 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 147 
 
 buildings that have been wrecked by German shells. Only 
 last week one of the city's large hotels was struck by a shell; 
 the upper floors were demolished and twenty persons were 
 badly wounded, but fortunately none was killed. After seeing 
 this ruin and congratulating ourselves that we had chosen as 
 our quarters the Grand Hotel on the Place St. Stanislas in- 
 stead of this hotel, we walked a short distance to another 
 shell-made wreck — that of a grammar school attended by 105 
 little boys and girls between the ages of seven and twelve. 
 
 "When I first arrived on the scene and found this mere 
 mass of debris," said M. Mirman, "my heart sank within 
 me; I dared not hope that any of the little tots had escaped. 
 But my men began working with feverish haste; ropes were 
 put around the larger blocks of stone and many strong arms 
 pulled with a mighty heave. Men with shovels dug away 
 the broken plaster; other men with axes hewed the wood- 
 work away; in our frightful suspense it seemed slow, but in 
 reality the work progressed rapidly and, in an incredibly short 
 time, through that tremendous mass of broken blocks of stone, 
 of splintered timbers and powdered plaster, an open path was 
 made to the stairs leading down into the caves. And then, 
 Messieurs, you can imagine what a load was lifted from our 
 hearts when there emerged from those dark caverns 105 little 
 boys and girls, not one of them hurt or even frightened!" 
 
 M. Mirman says that the gun which shells Nancy is twenty 
 miles away and more than a minute elapses between the 
 moment the gun is fired and the moment when the shell 
 falls in the city. A system of signals has been perfected, 
 so that the people of Nancy have warning at almost the 
 instant that the great gun is fired. The children of that 
 grammar school had been so well drilled that within the sixty 
 seconds allowed them they were all down in the deep cave 
 beneath the school. . . . Military men have told me no gun 
 gives a minute's warning; they say no matter how far 
 away the gun may be, its shell comes with such rapidity 
 
148 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 that one has no time to get out of the way. To me, a layman, 
 this seems more probable than M. Mirman's story; yet it is 
 difficult to believe that the Prefet would either romance about 
 such a matter, or tell it as a "pleasantry"; one doesn't in- 
 dulge in jokes about serious things, especially not with an 
 Ambassador and his Special Assistant, and so I am constrained 
 to believe the story M. Mirman told us. He pointed out the 
 placards posted ever5Awhere in Nancy, rebuking the people for 
 letting curiosity get the better of discretion, and mentioning 
 the case of an entire family that had been killed because, 
 when the siren gave the alarm, instead of going at once into 
 the cellar, they had rushed to their windows to look out on 
 the street! ... In Nancy's huge military barracks we saw 
 hundreds of refugees from Lille and other French cities now 
 in the hands of the Germans; they have been here since they 
 fled in August, 19 14, before the onrushing German waves and 
 seem comfortable, even happy, despite their great misfortune. 
 Those able to work earn small sums by cabinet-making, shoe- 
 mending and the like; the women sew, make dresses, do em- 
 broidery work, etc. But all, whether able to work or not, are 
 cared for by the French government. They are not made to 
 suffer alone merely because their homes happened to be in 
 the line of the Huns' devastating advance. The smaller rooms 
 of the barracks — probably officers' quarters before the war — 
 are now used as schools for the children of the refugees; £is 
 we entered one of these rooms it happened to be at the "com- 
 position" hour and all the children were busily engaged in 
 writing. "What is the subject of your composition?" I asked 
 one little lass of twelve. She made no spoken answer but 
 shyly handed me the paper on which she was writing; at the 
 top of the sheet was written: 
 
 "The Help American Children Are Giving the Children of 
 France, and How We Should Feel Toward Them!" 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 149 
 
 The teacher said for the current week this is the subject 
 upon which children must write compositions in all the schools 
 of the Republic; the incident is a gratifying proof of the inti- 
 mate friendship that now exists between France and the United 
 States. 
 
 We had luncheon at the home of the Marquise d'Eyragues, 
 No. 27 Place Carrieres, next door to a residence which was 
 smashed to pieces last week by that big German gun. When 
 I asked the Marquise, a charming, distinguished old lady who 
 looked as if she might have stepped out of a picture book of 
 the old regime, if she did not think it would be wise to close 
 her home and go beyond the range of that monster gun, she 
 smiled and said: "Why would it be wise, Monsieur? I am 
 an old woman and not afraid to die. If the Germans wish to 
 kill me they may do it; I shall stay here, for when I die I 
 wish my last moments to be spent in the home where I have 
 always lived and been so happy." 
 
 After luncheon we motored to Crevic where is the ruined 
 chateau of Gen. Liautey. When the Germans captured Crevic 
 the first thing they did was to ask where was the French 
 Minister of War's home, and the second thing they did 
 was to set it on fire; it is now a sad looking ruin among the 
 debris of which I noted mutilated marble busts and statues, 
 half-burned divans, broken gold-covered chairs, etc. — all silent 
 though eloquent witnesses of the taste and luxury which 
 reigned in the chateau before the vandals came. ... On the 
 way to Crevic we encountered Miss Polk in her Ford car. 
 M. Mirman said that when she first came to Lorraine, and 
 when the women of Vitremont wrote their men at the front 
 what an American woman was going to do for them, the 
 poilus sent back sarcastic answers. "You women believe all 
 you hear! Will you never learn sense? You write us that 
 some one who does not even know you is going to build you 
 a home. We tell you that you are a lot of foolish old women!" 
 So wrote the poilus from the front only five miles away; they 
 
ISO THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 stay twelve days in the trenches, then they come back behind 
 the lines and work twelve days, tilling their lands. On their 
 first visit to Vitremont they regarded Miss Polk with cold 
 suspicion; but each time the soldiers returned from the front 
 they found more and more evidences of her unselfish work, 
 until at last suspicion gave way to confidence and finally to 
 love! And so, to-day, this young American woman drives 
 about in her Ford with less let or hindrance than the French 
 officers themselves. Although we were in a military limousine, 
 accompanied by staff officers, sentinels seemed to spring out 
 of the earth at every turn and we were not allowed to proceed 
 until careful scrutiny of our papers convinced the guard that 
 we were O. K. But Miss Polk is recognized everywhere in 
 this section; when she approaches in her little Ford the senti- 
 nels smile and salute and she passes on without so much as 
 stopping. 
 
 Darkness overtook us on the return drive to Nancy, a fact 
 which enabled us to witness an interesting spectacle in the 
 skies — long, giant arms of light reaching first this way, then 
 that, searching the heavens for enemy aeroplanes; and ever 
 and anon through those long arms of light we saw the wings 
 of a plane, white, clear and distinct for an instant, then the 
 next instant lost in the blackness of the night. But they 
 were friendly planes; there were no Germans over Nancy to- 
 night, although they are likely to come at any moment. The 
 lines are so close, once an aviator succeeds in crossing them 
 he can be over Nancy in a quarter of an hour and drop bombs 
 until the French planes find him and put him to flight. 
 
 Paris, Thursday, 
 December 21. 
 Our visit to Rheims is described in the following letter to 
 my wife: 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 151 
 
 Paris, December 21, 191 6. 
 Dearest Beamer: — 
 
 When we left Nancy yesterday morning at seven o'clock, 
 although it was still dark, M. Mirman was at the Grand Hotel 
 with two automobiles to take us to the station and with him 
 was a bevy of civil as well as military officials — quite a con- 
 trast to the modest visit you and I made to Nancy on our 
 motor trip before the war. On leaving the train at Epernay 
 we were received by more dignitaries, though this time all 
 were military; they had several limousines waiting at the sta- 
 tion and presently we were whirling over the same road you 
 and I traversed on our way to Rheims in our roadster; then it 
 was summer and the world was at peace. Yesterday in the 
 dead of winter, the whole world rending itself to pieces, the ride 
 from Epernay was far different from the trip you and I took. 
 From the moment we got out of the train the Monster War 
 thrust his horrid face before us and grinned and gloated and 
 showed his frightful death's head! As we stepped into the 
 limousines the soldier chauffeurs handed each of us a mask and 
 said: "The Germans made a gas attack yesterday — they may 
 make another to-day ; the orders. Monsieur, are to keep masks 
 close at hand." I put the mask on; it made me look like 
 a grinning baboon! Then we came to a turn in the road — 
 at the place where you and I lunched that day on a knoll 
 looking toward Rheims — and the soldier who sat in front be- 
 side the chauffeur turned and said: 
 
 "We must hasten here. Monsieur." 
 
 And hasten we did; I think that big Renault motor must 
 have torn off the miles at the rate of sixty an hour, for we 
 were then within sight as well as range of the German guns. 
 The north and east side of the road is screened to a height 
 of twenty feet by a thin cotton cloth supported by poles. 
 Of course the Germans can't see through this cloth, thin as it 
 is, but they can shoot through it, and the soldier in front said 
 they frequently do shoot through it on the chance of hitting 
 
152 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 troops or officers in automobiles. It was for that reason that 
 the chauffeur speeded his motor up to sixty miles an hour, 
 with the result that soon the twenty-seven kilometers between 
 Epernay and Rheims were covered and we found ourselves at 
 the Hotel de Ville where the Mayor, the City Council and a 
 number of prominent citizens awaited us. The Mayor made 
 a speech saying how honored he was that the Ambassador 
 from the great American republic should visit his stricken city, 
 to which Mr. Sharp replied in a graceful address, saying how 
 honored he was by the cordial reception accorded to him and 
 his Special Assistant; then champagne was served and toasts 
 were drunk, after which our real visit began — and our sor- 
 rows, too. For, Beamer, I could not keep the tears back as 
 we walked through Rheims' desolate streets to the crowning 
 ruin of all, the Cathedral! You know how we loved that 
 great church, how we lingered in and around it! The morning 
 we started for Italy I remember we made a detour so as to 
 see once more its beautiful fagade; we stopped our automo- 
 bile in front of the Cathedral, near the statue of Joan of Arc, 
 and as we took our last look at the noble edifice we promised 
 ourselves that some day we would return to Rheims and revel 
 in its beauties again. Well, Beamer, yesterday I was glad you 
 were not with me, for it would be a great grief to you to gaze 
 upon the Cathedral now and see what the vandals have done 
 to it. The walls still stand, so too do the cover of the nave 
 and the transept. But there are big holes in the cover where 
 the vaulted stone ceiling has been shattered by shells, and 
 the roof is gone, together with the scores of statues which for- 
 merly adorned it; the marble statues of the fagade are bruised 
 and battered beyond recognition. Needless to say that those 
 marvelously beautiful stained glass windows we admired so 
 much have been shattered into a million pieces. After finish- 
 ing our study of the melancholy ruin we inspected the wreck 
 of the Cardinal's palace which adjoins the Cathedral. The 
 destruction wrought here is complete; not even the walls are 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 153 
 
 left standing; the palace is merely a mass of debris, and it is 
 a marvel that the aged Cardinal was not buried in its ruins. 
 But he escaped and now occupies a modest house across the 
 street, where we called to pay him our respects. Cardinal 
 Lugon, as unaffected, simple, delightful an old man as one 
 would care to meet, received us graciously and consented to 
 stand between Ambassador Sharp and me, with our military 
 escort on the step above and behind us, while the War De- 
 partment's cinema operators turned their machines and took 
 moving pictures of us. When I asked the Cardinal why he re- 
 mained so near the Cathedral, knowing as all do know, that 
 the Cathedral is the special target of the German guns, the 
 old man shrugged his shoulders and answered with charming 
 simplicity: 
 
 "Why, Monsieur, this is the place where my duty calls me; 
 therefore I have no time to think of German guns." 
 
 But His Grace hears them, and sees their effects; only the 
 day before we stood on his steps to have our pictures taken 
 shells destroyed the adjoining house, not twenty yards from 
 where Cardinal Lugon was standing. . . . After bidding fare- 
 well to His Grace we walked through the streets of Rheims 
 and it was like walking through Pompeii— ruins on either 
 side of the street, burned and blackened houses, stark stone 
 walls, no roofs, no people, no signs of life! What a tear- 
 compelling contrast to the bright, beautiful, happy city you 
 and I saw before the war! The store where we stopped the 
 morning we started for Italy, to buy bottles of Pommery 
 to put in our tire trunk, is now an utter ruin; I looked through 
 the doorway and saw a pile of twisted iron, charred wood and 
 dirty debris; then I closed my eyes and in memory went 
 back to that other day when I was there — a clean, prosperous 
 store, a courteous proprietor waiting on me, a happy wife at 
 the cashier's desk wishing me bon voyage as I paid her for 
 the champagne. God! What a contrast between the now 
 and the then! And this ruin, this desolation, this unutterable 
 
154 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 misery — why has it been inflicted upon mankind? To satisfy 
 the ambition of a paranoiac Kaiser and the selfish, narrow- 
 minded, arrogant Junkers who surround him. 
 
 Do you remember Pommery's, Beamer? Where we de- 
 scended a long flight of stairs to those wonderful caves con- 
 taining twelve million bottles of champagne? Well, the Pom- 
 mery champagne works are in the war zone. The French front 
 runs along the edge of the garden and a few hundred yards 
 beyond, across a grassy meadow, are the Germans. We went 
 down into the trenches and saw the murderous guns with 
 their mouths protruding through openings cunningly concealed 
 by leaves and tree branches. And then through periscopes 
 looking across No Man's Land we saw the parapets behind 
 which Germans were warily watching us as we were watching 
 them. In the dugouts where we stood soldiers had their ears 
 glued to telephones while their eyes were fixed on a blackboard 
 covered with figures. The figures record the work of the 
 guns — this shell is a little too far to the right, this one too 
 far to the left, another is too high, still another is too low. 
 The record of each shell is chalked on a blackboard so that 
 errors may be corrected and the next shot be made more 
 deadly still. ... To think that millions of men should live 
 thus in ditches year after year, their eyes glued on periscopes, 
 their brains wearied with making mathematical calculations 
 — for what? For the purpose of killing certain other men 
 across a meadow, men they never have seen, men whom they 
 might like instead of hate if only they could know them as 
 men and not as soldiers whose business it is to kill! 
 
 Returning from the trenches, the thunder of cannon roar- 
 ing in our ears, we repaired to the Pommery office where is 
 that mosaic floor you so much admired when we were there 
 together. Bales of brown paper cover the floor now, cover it 
 to a depth of two feet, and while a score of shells have come 
 through the ceiling of the office, making it look almost like 
 a sieve, the mosaic floor has not been hurt because of that 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 155 
 
 thick covering of brown paper. ... On a table in the center 
 of the office were a dozen bottles of champagne, and presently 
 the sullen boom of the cannon was punctuated by the popping 
 of corks and by speeches and toasts. To me the scene fur- 
 nished food for thought — within the sound of cannon, within 
 two minutes' walk of the trenches, within sight of the melan- 
 choly ruin of one of the world's noblest cathedrals — we stood 
 drinking and speech-making! As I raised the champagne to 
 my lips I looked out of a window upon a bench in the yard 
 where a few hours before a workman sat eating his lunch. 
 And while he lunched a shell exploded nearby and snuffed 
 out that workman's life as quickly, crushed him as utterly as 
 an ant is crushed when you step upon it. The remains of 
 the poor fellow were carried away, and then, as they say in 
 diplomacy, it was a closed incident! For life goes on no 
 matter how many die; and the living must keep on working. 
 In spite of its close proximity to the trenches two millions 
 of bottles of champagne were put up in Rheims the past 
 season — a mere nothing compared with the pre-war output, 
 but I was surprised to learn that work could be continued 
 at all, with the German guns raining shells on the city every 
 week in the year. . . . From Pommery's we were taken to 
 one of Rheims' handsomest homes for dinner; there were more 
 speeches and more toasts, not to the victory of the Allies — 
 we had to preserve our neutrality — but to the glory of France 
 and the health of our hosts; and the fervor with which we 
 responded to those toasts I think left no doubt in anybody's 
 mind where our sympathies lay. ... In talking with one of 
 the French officers I learned that the Germans bombarded 
 the Cathedral on schedule time, consequently that we were 
 fortunate in having postponed our visit for twenty-four hours. 
 ... It was 6.30 when the last toast was drunk, then a fast 
 drive to Epernay, and at 7.30 we were on the Paris train. 
 So mindful even of small details were our French friends, two 
 compartments in the car were reserved by them for our ex- 
 
iS6 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 elusive use; also a table in the dining car had been set aside 
 for us. After that five o'clock repast in Rheims neither 
 the Ambassador nor I had any appetite left, but George and 
 William Sharp went forward to the dining car and on their 
 return declared they had had a "bully good dinner" — such is 
 the power and appetite of youth! . . . Troop trains were 
 moving east on our road and so at almost every station our 
 train was shunted onto a sidetrack and made to wait half an 
 hour or more, with the result that instead of reaching Paris 
 at 9.50 we did not get into the Gare de I'Est until the wee 
 sma' hours of the morning. At such hours in the Paris of 
 these war days taxis are not to be had anywhere or at any 
 price, but luckily the War Office had telephoned the Ambassa- 
 dor's home we were coming, and so as we emerged from the 
 station there awaiting us was Mr. Sharp's limousine, by means 
 of which I was soon at my hotel, thus ending a strenuous and 
 instructive trip. 
 
 Paris, 
 Christmas Night, 19 16. 
 An attache of the Embassy recently returned from Germany 
 told me to-night that the examination of persons crossing the 
 German frontiers is extraordinarily severe; often persons are 
 required to strip stark naked and, suspecting that messages 
 may be written on the skin of their bodies in invisible ink, 
 the frontier inspectors sponge the naked bodies with an acid 
 that brings out such inks. The soles of the traveler's shoes 
 are pierced with long needles; his clothing is treated in the 
 same fashion, and all papers, even the most harmless in ap- 
 pearance, such as visiting cards, letters from one's family, etc., 
 are confiscated — to be returned, however (maybe), if you give 
 your address, if the papers are found to be harmless and if 
 the Germans bother to forward them, which more often than 
 not they do not do. Obviously this is no time to go to Ger- 
 many unless one is compelled to go. 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 157 
 
 Le Creusot, Thursday Night, 
 
 January 4, 19 17. 
 Major Wadhams and I left Paris yesterday at i.oo p. m. 
 and arrived at Nevers at 5.20 p. m. Our task in Nevers was 
 completed in ten minutes, but we had to remain all night and 
 until to-day at i.oo p. m. in order to get a train that would 
 take us even in the direction of Montceau les Mines; the mines 
 are far from the regular lines of travel. . . . Before leaving 
 Paris, on learning that we would have to go to Le Creusot, 
 I expressed a desire to see the great gun works in that city; 
 the Ambassador said he would let me know if he could ar- 
 range it, and just before leaving Nevers a telegram from Mr. 
 Sharp was handed me, reading simply: "Wire Schneider, Le 
 Creusot, when you will arrive." The English proprietor of 
 the Grand Hotel smiled when I asked him if a telegram would 
 reach plain Mr. Schneider — no first name, no street address. 
 And I smiled, too, when I understood that Schneider is Le 
 Creusot, just as Krupp is Essen. . . . Before stepping into 
 our train at Nevers I sent the following wire: 
 
 "Schneider, Creusot: 
 
 Arriverons ce soir six heures et demie. Esperons vous voir 
 demain a Hotel Moderne. 
 
 Lee Meriwether, 
 de I'Ambassade Americaine." 
 
 Our idea, of course, was to go to a hotel; we thought Am- 
 bassador Sharp told us to wire "Schneider" when we would 
 arrive so that he would know where to find us. But as we 
 stepped out of the railway station at Le Creusot a man ap- 
 proached and politely said, "Par ici. Monsieur." We thought 
 he was a hotel "runner" until we saw the luxurious private 
 limousine he was driving; then, thinking he had mistaken us 
 for somebody else, we told him we wished to go to the Hotel 
 Moderne. The man looked extremely surprised. 
 
158 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 "Certainly, Messieurs," he said. "I shall take you there if 
 you wish. But your rooms are ready in the chateau. I was 
 directed to take you there." I looked at the Major and the 
 Major looked at me. "Let's try the chateau," said I, to which 
 Major Wadhams readily agreed. He, no more than I, is ac- 
 customed to chateaux, hence was perfectly willing to sleep 
 in one rather than in a hotel, as long as it was thrust upon 
 us. "But what puzzles me," said the Major, "is how that 
 fellow picked us out of the crowd so quickly and so surely." 
 We learned afterward that without special permission stran- 
 gers are not allowed to enter the city of Le Creusot; "tab" is 
 kept on every one who comes to town and, considering the 
 system of surveillance in vogue, it was not difficult to "spot" 
 us as the two representatives of the American Embassy. 
 
 Our courteous stranger chauffeur drove through a maze of 
 narrow, dingy streets which, however, were brilliantly illumi- 
 nated by the glare of flames that blazed from a forest of huge 
 chimneys encircling the city. Presently the limousine turned 
 off the street, climbed the sidewalk and headed straight toward 
 a solid ten-foot high gate; had it hit that massive gate the 
 radiator and lamps would have been smashed to pieces, but 
 just as the front wheels climbed the curb the gate swung open 
 as if by magic and a minute later the automobile stopped 
 at the foot of a broad flight of marble stairs. A servitor who 
 conducted us to two beautifully furnished rooms announced 
 that dinner would be served in a private room in half an 
 hour, and it proved to be a rather stately affair. Behind each 
 of our chairs, ready to anticipate our every want, stood a 
 waiter, and the wines and viands excelled anything we have 
 thus far seen in France. When finally the feast ended the 
 servitor who had met us outside at the foot of the marble 
 stairs appeared and announced that breakfast would be served 
 in our rooms at eight in the morning, if that would be agree- 
 able to us; we said eight o'clock would be entirely agreeable 
 to us, then when again alone in our rooms we pinched our- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 159 
 
 selves to see if we were awake or dreaming! Neither Major 
 Wadhams nor I is accustomed to being wined and dined by 
 perfect strangers who do not even present themselves, but 
 leave servants to do the honors, consequently to both of us 
 our present situation smacks of romance and adventure; as 
 I write these notes upon some embossed stationery which I 
 found in a drawer of the beautifully carved desk in my room 
 I am wondering what the end of it will be to-morrow. 
 
 Montceau Les Mines, 
 Friday Night, Jan'y 5, 191 7. 
 
 This morning at eight o'clock petit dejeuner was served in 
 our rooms at the chateau in Le Creusot, then at 8.30 a servitor 
 announced that Captain Duval was awaiting our commands. 
 We went down to a large salon and there found a grave, 
 courteous man of forty-five, erect, military bearing, keen, 
 piercing eyes. "If you would like. Messieurs, to see the 
 works," said Captain Duval, "it will give me pleasure to con- 
 duct you through them." 
 
 Certainly, when the French do things of this sort they do 
 them well; here was this busy military man making us be- 
 lieve it was actually a pleasure for him to drop his affairs and 
 show us about a great establishment that he had seen a hun- 
 dred times and so, of course, could not possibly wish to see 
 again! The first Schneider was a humble blacksmith in 
 Alsace; when he came to Creusot it was a cross roads village 
 and Schneider's shop was a modest affair. But it grew 
 and grew and kept on growing, until now it employs 20,000 
 men and 2,000 women. Before the war it made locomotives, 
 steel rails and other things useful in peace, in addition to 
 guns and things useful in war. Now there is no time for 
 peaceful things. Night as well as day those thousands of 
 men and women are forging the frightful instruments of war, 
 huge cannon, gigantic shells, steel helmets — everything in iron 
 or steel that is needed to help kill human beings! 
 
i6o THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 The famous "75's" are wonderfully efficient instruments of 
 death and destruction; the rapidity of their fire, the absence 
 of jar or recoil as they fire, the accuracy of their aim — all 
 have given them a preeminence which no cannon of any other 
 country has been able to wrest from them; we were greatly 
 interested in watching their construction. But to us of even 
 greater interest was a monster piece of artillery eighteen meters 
 long — nearly sixty feet — which, just as we were passing, a 
 giant crane picked up in order to put it down into a hole 
 in the ground. This hole, or well, which is only a few feet 
 in diameter, is seventy feet deep; despite its enormous weight 
 the sixty-foot long cannon was lifted as lightly as a man lifts 
 his walking stick and within a few minutes it had disappeared 
 in the well clear do^\^l to the muzzle. Captain Duval did not 
 explain the purpose of putting the cannon down into a deep 
 hole in the ground, nor did we feel at liberty to ask questions 
 on the subject. . . . Passing on into another department we 
 saw sixty-ton caldrons of molten steel; the red hot hissing 
 mass was pouring out of the huge caldrons in molds, thus 
 marking the first step in the making of these death-dealing 
 monsters. The billets taken out of the molds are run be- 
 tween steel rollers which squeeze them smaller and smaller as 
 they run back and forth between them until they are reduced 
 to the proper length and size. 
 
 In still another building to which our guide conducted us 
 one of those monster cannon was being mounted on railroad 
 wagons constructed especially for the purpose of bearing a 
 prodigious shock and weight; each wagon has twenty-four 
 wheels, is made of steel and is supported and braced by steel 
 trusses such as are used in the construction of great bridges. 
 Workmen were busily engaged in daubing different colored 
 paints over the cannon and over the two wagons that carried 
 it. "A solid color, no matter whether a dull gray or not," said 
 Captain Duval, "can be seen by an aviator much more dis- 
 tinctly than he can see a confusion of colors. That is why 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT i6i 
 
 we daub half a dozen different kinds of paint all over the 
 cannon and its supporting wagons . . . not artistic to look at 
 from a short distance, but very practical for impairing, if not 
 destroying, visibility. Before sending these big fellows to 
 the front our airmen fly over them and they make the painters 
 do their work over again if at a comparatively low altitude 
 the cannon with its mottled assortment of colors does not 
 become lost and absorbed in the green and yellow of the 
 surrounding fields." 
 
 A shrapnel shell contains 300 balls; when the shell bursts 
 the balls scatter in 300 different directions inflicting the most 
 frightful wounds upon all living things within the radius of 
 their destructive force; the soldiers one sees in hospitals 
 with faces half blown away, with legs and arms torn from 
 their sockets, with eyes and nose torn to pieces — these sol- 
 diers, nine times out of ten, are the victims of shrapnel shells. 
 To-day at Creusot we saw two thousand women methodically, 
 laboriously filling those shells with their 300 balls each, so 
 that more men may be mangled and battered out of human 
 recognition. . . . Although intensely interesting to see these 
 things — which are seldom shown to visitors, not even to mili- 
 tary attaches of friendly powers — it was a relief, after lunch- 
 eon, not to inspect the remainder of the great works, but to 
 visit instead the chateau which, though of course much smaller 
 than the Versailles palace, presents the same general appear- 
 ance — a long two-story stone fagade with wings at each end 
 forming an open court; on the side of the chateau opposite 
 the court the gardens slope down to a forest, over and beyond 
 which is a charming vista of hills and valleys. To us it 
 seemed a beautiful, as well as a sweet and peaceful, place after 
 the forenoon spent in walking through miles of grimy build- 
 ings, watching the making of forbidding looking instruments of 
 death; but Captain Duval apologized for the state of the gar- 
 dens and grounds, saying that the gardeners have been mobi- 
 lized and that since the war there is no one to do their work 
 
1 62 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 except old men who are neither strong nor competent. In the 
 chateau's court is a statue of the humble Alsatian who founded 
 these great works; his grandson, the present head of the house, 
 has three sons at the front and a daughter engaged in hospital 
 work — trying to undo at least a little of the work done by 
 her father's shells and cannon ; for occasionally Mile. Schneider 
 has to nurse a German whose wounds were caused by Creusot 
 shells. 
 
 At four o'clock, after serving us tea (Captain Duval seemed 
 determined not to allow us to become hungry — the luncheon 
 at noon was a banquet), the chauffeur was directed to drive 
 us to Montceau Les Mines, twenty- four kilometers from 
 Creusot, where 8,000 men work in coal mines; helping these 
 French miners are a thousand German prisoners of war who 
 work in two shifts. Five hundred of them begin at 2 p. m. 
 and work until midnight in the mines; the other 500 begin 
 at 4 a. m. and work until 2 p. m. The Societe des Mines 
 Houille de Blanzy a Montceau Les Mines, the company which 
 operates the mines, pays its French miners six to eight francs 
 ($1.08 to $1.44) a day; the German prisoner miners receive 
 a flat rate of 20 centimes, and an additional 20 centimes if 
 they do good work; the manager says the company's directors 
 have decided to pay the Germans one franc (i8c) a day 
 beginning January i, 191 7, and will do so as soon as they 
 receive the consent of the Minister of War. That consent 
 being a mere form, it may be said that dating from the first 
 of this year the pay of the German miners is a franc a day. 
 As this is four times as much as they were paid as soldiers 
 in the German army, and as French mines are not nearly so 
 dangerous as German trenches, I was not surprised to find the 
 prisoners here cheerful and on the whole glad that their days 
 of fighting, in this war at least, are over. 
 
 The bathing arrangements are the best I have yet seen; 
 for instance, near the mouth of one of the mines is a brick 
 building with tile floors and fifty hot-water douches. A little 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 163 
 
 below the lofty ceiling of the large central chamber of the 
 building run several score wires used for supporting the pris- 
 oners' shirts, overalls, etc. The Germans, after washing their 
 clothing, hoist it up to those wires by an ingenious system of 
 pulleys where it is left until thoroughly dry. The prisoners' 
 dormitories, in barracks built of brick with tile roofs, are 
 attractive, permanent looking buildings. When I asked the 
 Commandant if the erection of such permanent structures 
 indicated that he expected to keep his German guests a long 
 time, he shrugged his shoulders as he replied: "Mais oui, 
 Monsieur. No one knows when this war will end. It is better 
 to erect houses that will last." Some of the mines are four- 
 teen kilometers distant from the town, but as the Commandant 
 has placed at our disposal a military automobile we shall have 
 no trouble in visiting them all. 
 
 Coal costs 400 francs a ton in Paris — and little or none is 
 to be had at that price; here the price is 45 francs a ton. 
 This proves that it is mainly a matter of transportation. For 
 the first time in a quarter of a century the Seine has been 
 frozen over for weeks at a time; Paris, which relies on barges 
 to bring coal up the Seine from Havre, has suddenly found 
 all the barges frozen tight in the river, and no available rail- 
 way trains to take their place. Result: Paris is suffering 
 intensely from cold. In the Embassy we work for a while in 
 overcoats, collars turned up; then when fingers become too 
 stiff to write we go out and run around the block in a vain 
 effort to get warm. Recently it became so unbearable Mr. 
 Dodge hired a taxi and declared that he would get fuel if it 
 took him the rest of the winter. Several hours later his 
 return was announced ; the attaches and clerks of the Embassy 
 ran to the windows and a great shout went up when they 
 looked down on the Rue de Chaillot and saw Mr. Dodge 
 emerging from a taxi that was filled with wood. In the ex- 
 citement and joy of the occasion nearly everybody except the 
 Ambassador forgot diplomatic dignity and flew downstairs to 
 
1 64 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 help bring up Mr. Dodge's precious find; piles of newspapers 
 were placed in the grates, sticks of the wood were put on top 
 of the papers, a match set them on fire, and then we all 
 stood around the fireplace eagerly awaiting the expected 
 warmth. Alas! It was soon a case of Exit Joy, Enter Horror! 
 The papers blazed up for a few moments, then there was a 
 sizzling sound and the flames died down and then went com- 
 pletely out. The wood was so green and so wet, its sap flowed 
 forth in streams preventing even the papers from burning. 
 And so at the Embassy, as everywhere else in Paris, cold 
 reigns supreme; it is unescapable. In your bedroom, in the 
 hotel dining-room, at the cafes, ever5rwhere it is the same. 
 And so the idea of Hell is changing from that of a place of 
 intense heat to one of intense cold. 
 
 Here in the midst of France's greatest coal mines Major 
 Wadhams and I expected at last to see a fire and to get warm ; 
 but our hotel in this town of coal mines hasn't even a stove 
 or fireplace in its rooms. In the cafe on the ground floor is a 
 stove, but in the stove is no fire, and when I suggested to the 
 proprietor that he have one made for the comfort of his guests 
 he seemed amazed at the temerity of the suggestion. "Vous 
 savez. Monsieur, nous sommes en guerre," he said. That ex- 
 plains everything in these days; the argument was unanswer- 
 able, consequently the Major and I have gone to bed in the 
 hope of finding a little warmth there. The Major is succeed- 
 ing (in a modest way), for he is tucked deep under a moun- 
 tain of covers; I am not so successful, for I am sitting up in 
 bed in order to write these notes. But it is becoming un- 
 bearable; my fingers are icicles, so I shall here and now put 
 a period to this entry in my Journal. 
 
 Paris, Monday, 
 January 8, 191 7. 
 At seven o'clock this evening, as I was on my way to keep 
 a dinner engagement with the Dodges at their home, No. 38 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 165 
 
 Rue Lubeck, near the Trocadero, of a sudden there was a 
 blare of trumpets and shrill cries by the Guards Civile: "Garde 
 vous!" — signal that Zeppelins were coming! Instantly the 
 few streets lamps that had been lighted were extinguished and 
 Paris was plunged into absolute darkness. Although I had 
 almost reached my destination, my plight was a difficult one; 
 the night was inky black and I had to grope a way along 
 the walls of the houses to avoid falling off the curbing into 
 the street. Even when at last I reached No. 38 Rue Lubeck, 
 it was no easy matter to find the doorbell-button and ring 
 for the Concierge to let me in. Finally arrived in the Dodge 
 drawing-room, I found my hosts sitting in absolute blackness 
 and considering themselves rather daring in that they had not 
 sought refuge in the cellar. After forty-five minutes of pitch 
 darkness another signal was sounded, this time that the enemy 
 had been driven away, and the lights were turned on and 
 Paris breathed easy again. 
 
 St. Vaast-La-Hougue, Saturday night, 
 January 13, 191 7. 
 Yesterday morning Edward May (of the Embassy) and I 
 left Paris for Cherbourg, arriving at 3 p. m. in a cold, driving 
 rain. We talked with the German prisoners on the docks, un- 
 loading steamers, then started back for the Hotel de I'Am- 
 iraute, pausing on the way to seek shelter from the bitter, 
 biting sleet by standing on the windward side of the eques- 
 trian statue of Napoleon which is in an open place facing 
 the sea. Napoleon's arm is extended out toward the water 
 and on the pedestal are engraved the words he spoke when 
 he came to Cherbourg — "I resolved to renew here the mar- 
 vels of Egypt" — referring to the great stone breakwater he 
 contemplated building so as to protect the harbor. It was not 
 built during the first Napoleon's life, but later it became a 
 reality and to-day it is the glory of Cherbourg. Before it 
 was completed in 1832 it was twice destroyed by storms and 
 
i66 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 the engineers almost despaired of success. Finally, however, 
 at a cost of fifteen million dollars, the great stone wall 4,000 
 yards long and, at its base, 220 yards wide, was so firmly 
 anchored that it is still, after nearly a century, deserving of 
 Napoleon's grandiloquent words — "J'avais resolu de renou- 
 veler a Cherbourg les merveilles de I'Egypte!" 
 
 This morning we crossed the Cherbourg peninsula on the 
 way to He Tatihou, a bleak, wind-swept island four miles off 
 the coast, reached at low tide on foot or in a wagon, but 
 which at high tide has water around it deep enough to float 
 a man-of-war. Much discretion must be exercised in setting 
 forth for Tatihou; if you drive over, and are caught by the 
 turn of the tide, you will be engulfed in a watery grave; for 
 the tide rises as rapidly as a horse can run. On the other 
 hand, if you start in a boat and the tide turns to go out, 
 presto! Your boat will be fast in the mud where you must 
 stay for hours until the tide comes in again. We went to the 
 island in the early afternoon in a boat; we returned to-night 
 in a wagon, the horse pulling us over a road that twelve hours 
 before had been twenty feet under water. . . . Before the 
 war Tatihou 's population consisted of a small garrison in an 
 ancient fort; to-day it contains several hundred civilian Ger- 
 mans and Austrians, some of whom are men of wealth and 
 large affairs who have lived in France for years. Among this 
 number is the prisoners' spokesman, Mr. Max Gutmann, a 
 native of Vienna, but for twenty-two years a prosperous busi- 
 ness man in Paris. Mr. Gutmann said if only heat were pro- 
 vided they would be content. I told Mr. Gutmann absence of 
 heat is the one thing that makes even the best hotels in Paris 
 places where content is unknown. It is preposterous for pris- 
 oners to complain of that which even the Ambassador of a 
 rich republic like the United States must patiently bear, con- 
 sequently I refused even to refer the lack of heat complaint 
 to the Commandant. . . . May and I climbed to the top of 
 the round stone tower at one end of the island and from the 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 167 
 
 summit of its massive fifteen feet thick walls we looked out 
 upon the bleak Atlantic; from that very spot a century and 
 a half ago James II. watched the naval battle of La Hougue, 
 the result of which put a final quietus to his hope of regaining 
 England's throne. When the last French ship was either 
 sunk or in flight, leaving the Dutch and English in command 
 of the sea, James sadly climbed down the winding stairs v/hich 
 May and I trod to-day, and returned to Paris to end his days 
 as a charity guest of the King of France. In the courtyard 
 of this inn are a number of relics of the naval battle — figures 
 from the prows of sunken ships, cannon balls fished up from 
 the bottom of the bay, mastheads, etc. The landlord of the 
 inn, a fisherman, says even now his nets sometimes get caught 
 by pieces of wrecks; in the course of 150 years they have 
 worked their way up out of their sandy graves under the sea, 
 and thus has his inn become a veritable museum of relics of 
 the great naval battle. . . . 
 
 Paris, 
 January 29, 191 7. 
 In the file rooms adjoining my office in the Embassy are sev- 
 eral scores of thousands of "Dossiers" — big, brown paper en- 
 velopes 15 inches long by 10 inches wide, full of letters, papers 
 and notes — not very thrilling or interesting to look at, yet each 
 of those Dossiers is a "Human Document," and many of them 
 are of absorbing interest. For instance, take the Dossier of 
 Madame X., a motherly old lady whose home is in Vienna; 
 she and her husband had the ill fortune to be en voyage in 
 July, 19 14. And, as if that were not enough bad luck for one 
 couple to endure, at the precise moment war was declared 
 Madame X. was alone in Paris, her husband having gone for 
 a few days to London. Result: Monsieur X. was interned 
 in England, while his wife was interned in France, in a camp 
 not far from Marseilles where later came a compatriot of 
 hers, a young Vienna woman who was suspected of being a 
 
1 68 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 spy, who subsequently was proved to be one and was tried, 
 convicted and sentenced to be shot. The night before her 
 execution the spy gave Madame X. a letter to be sent to its 
 destination as secretly and safely as possible. Madame ac- 
 cepted the trust, and thereby brought upon herself a great 
 misfortune. For the French found her in the act of conceal- 
 ing the letter; they tried to take it from her, but before the 
 guards got to her she tore it to pieces. This proved her undo- 
 ing; she, too, was court martialed; to her defense that she was 
 not an accomplice, that her act was that of a woman accepting 
 a mere domestic trust from another woman who was about to 
 die, the answer was: if the letter concerned merely domestic 
 affairs why did you destroy it? To this question Madame X. 
 made no satisfactory reply — at least none that satisfied her 
 judges and she also was sentenced to be shot. As our Embassy 
 is charged with the affairs of Austria we left undone no act that 
 could be done, calculated to aid the unfortunate woman. The 
 ablest lawyer in Marseilles was retained to defend her, and 
 when the verdict in Marseilles went against her, an appeal was 
 taken to a higher court in Lyons. There, I am glad to say, the 
 sentence was commuted to ten years' imprisonment, which 
 means a much shorter period, for, of course, she will be released 
 when peace is declared. During all the time that this case has 
 been going on. Monsieur X. from his place of internment in 
 England has written a steady stream of letters imploring us to 
 leave no stone unturned to save his wife. ... As the salient 
 facts of this case have been published in French newspapers 
 there is no impropriety in mentioning them in my Journal. 
 Another interesting Dossier is that of Mr. Max S., born in 
 Breslau, 48 years ago, honorably discharged from the Ger- 
 man army more than a quarter of a century ago and a resi- 
 dent in New York City since 1895. Mr. S. found America 
 a good enough country to make money in, but not good enough 
 to give to it the allegiance and duties of a citizen — at any 
 rate, he never became naturalized, which proved his undoing. 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 169 
 
 But let his brother-in-law, Mr. L., also of New York City, 
 tell the first paragraph of the story. Writing on Christmas 
 Day, 1914, Mr. L. says: 
 
 "On July 28 before there was any thought of war my brother- 
 in-law, my sister and I left for Europe on the S.S. Kronprinz- 
 essin Cecelie for Europe, but which returned to Bar Harbor, 
 Maine, after getting within two days of Plymouth, Eng. My 
 sister and her husband were on their usual annual vacation trip 
 to Germany and in spite of all persuasion, Mr. S. left for Europe 
 again, on August 25, alone, per S.S. New Amsterdam, from 
 which steamer he was taken by a French ship to Brest." 
 
 The remainder of the letter is an urgent appeal to induce 
 the French government to give Mr. S. his freedom. The ap- 
 peal is reenforced by another from his wife, who says her 
 husband is too old to fight and that if he is allowed to return 
 to New York he will never, never again cross the ocean! 
 There have come letters, too, from U. S. Senators and Cabi- 
 net ministers, all imploring leniency. The Mayor of Rome, 
 Italy, a friend of Mr. S., writes an urgent appeal. The French 
 government is most considerate, most polite — it is desolated 
 to be obliged to refuse all these requests; but Monsieur S. 
 has none of the vital physical defects, such as the loss of his 
 leg or arm or eyes, which would entitle him to release under 
 the reciprocity agreement with Germany. This refusal has 
 not disheartened the lonely wife in New York. Through all 
 the years of the war her letters have continued to come, pray- 
 ing us to try to free her husband; doubtless during the years 
 of war that may still afflict the world those letters will keep 
 on coming. But I fear they will accomplish no good. Mr. S., 
 because of his ill placed confidence in the security of a neutral 
 steamer (the S. S. New Amsterdam is one of a Dutch line), 
 will, no doubt, have many more months to spend in his dreary 
 
I70 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 prison camp on bleak little He Longue, off the coast of western 
 Brittany. 
 
 Cases of this kind throw a side light on war's lesser trag- 
 edies; they show how families in the most distant lands are 
 broken up, how hearts on the other side of the globe are 
 crushed because of autocracy's unholy ambition. 
 
 Paris, Sunday night, 
 February 4, 191 7. 
 Extras have just appeared on the street announcing that 
 President Wilson yesterday gave Count Bernstorff his pass- 
 ports and made an address to Congress that means the United 
 States will enter the war on the side of the Entente. Paris is 
 beflagged already, and any one recognized as an American is 
 likely to be stopped a dozen times on the streets and embraced 
 and even kissed as "Mon cher ami et allie!" We at the Em- 
 bassy had the news early this morning, through a dispatch 
 from the State Department which directed us to have nothing 
 more to do with, or for, the German prisoners of War in 
 France. This will be sad news to the prisoners, especially 
 to those to whom I have promised to send teeth. For some 
 time a constant stream of letters has been coming to me, 
 stating that the writer's teeth are in very bad condition, or 
 that his teeth have gone altogether, in consequence of which 
 his health has gone, too — for one can not well eat hard tack 
 and other prison food if one has no teeth: for the past month 
 I have been in correspondence with the Commandants of 
 prison camps all over France and Corsica, requesting them 
 to certify to me a list of their prisoners who are at once with- 
 out funds and without teeth. That list was made up ten days 
 ago and I was arranging with a number of dentists to visit the 
 prison camps and make sets of false teeth for prisoners who 
 need complete sets, and to do the necessary dental work for 
 the others. All that work now goes by the board. I may not 
 even answer the letters which soon will be pouring in upon me, 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 171 
 
 wanting to know why I have not kept my promise to send 
 them their teeth. I hear Germany's interests in France will 
 be turned over to Switzerland. M. Lardy, the Swiss min- 
 ister, who has been in Paris 30 years, is over seventy and has 
 not much of a staff in his Legation. It is to be feared he will 
 be swamped when we pile upon his old shoulders the enormous 
 work of looking after the individual interests of a hundred 
 thousand Germans. 
 
 I am not surprised at yesterday's development; rather am 
 I surprised that the President did not act sooner. The Ger- 
 man nation is suffering from megalomania; and, given a 
 lunatic of that kind plus great power, inevitably he will run 
 amuck and make it necessary for ALL the bystanders to take 
 a hand in bringing him to his senses. If this seems an over- 
 severe indictment of the Germans, witness what the Germans 
 themselves say. Here is an extract from "German Chauvin- 
 ism," written by Professor Otfried Nippold upon his return 
 to Germany after a long residence abroad: 
 
 "Chauvinism has grown enormously in Germany during the 
 last decade. This fact makes the strongest impression on those 
 who have returned to Germany after living a long time abroad. 
 I myself can say from experience how astonished I was, on re- 
 turning to Germany after a long absence, to see this psychologi- 
 cal transformation. . . . Hand in hand with outspoken hos- 
 tility to foreign countries there goes a one-sided war-enthu- 
 siasm and war-mania such as would have been thought impos- 
 sible a few years ago. . . . War is pictured not as a possi- 
 bility that may occur, but as a necessity that must come, and 
 the sooner the better. . . . The people are taught that 
 a European war is not merely an eventuality for which we must 
 be prepared, but a necessity at which, in the interest of the Ger- 
 man nation, we should rejoice." 
 
 Another German writer, Professor Fritz Bley, who has a 
 bad case of too much modesty, has this to say of his Vater- 
 land: 
 
172 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 "We are the most accomplished people in all the domains of 
 science and fine art; the best settlers, the best seamen, and 
 the best merchants. The modern world owes to us Germans 
 pretty well everything in the way of great achievements that it 
 has to show. Ours is the future, for we are young." 
 
 The only way to reason with people who have that ingrow- 
 ing opinion of themselves is to reason with a club; and so 
 for the welfare of the Germans themselves it is to be hoped 
 that their armies will be soundly beaten. Only by being 
 beaten can they awake from their delusions and shake them- 
 selves free from the Kaiser's clutches. 
 
 Paris, Thursday, 
 February 8, 191 7. 
 
 Although we have broken with Germany, Austria's affairs 
 are still in our charge, and among the tasks I have been look- 
 ing after during the past few days is to learn what has be- 
 come of 4,000 francs which were sent from Vienna to a cer- 
 tain Countess P. here in Paris; the money got as far as Berne, 
 Switzerland, then disappeared. The quest for this money has 
 brought the Countess a number of times to my office, and as 
 she is a cultivated woman who speaks half a dozen languages, 
 I have been interested in learning her point of view about the 
 war. "Mon Dieu! Que voulez vous?" she exclaimed the 
 other day. "Servia conspired against us Austrians (the 
 Countess is an Austrian Pole) ; she approved, even if she did 
 not instigate, the Serajevo murders. How could we possibly 
 submit to state-inspired assassination of our Archduke and 
 Duchess?" 
 
 "The Serajevo murders were abominable," said I. "But 
 even so, they can not have been the cause of the war. Has 
 not the Italian prime minister told the world that Austria 
 urged Italy in 19 13 to join with her in a war on Servia? That 
 was a year before the Archduke was murdered. How, then, 
 could the Serajevo affair be the real cause of the war?" 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 173 
 
 "Bah! Premier Giolitti is spiteful. He does not tell the 
 whole truth." 
 
 Such was the airy way with which, not an illiterate man 
 on the street, but a brilliant woman of the world disposed of 
 a tremendous historical fact. For nothing more surely fixes 
 the blood guilt of the Central Powers than Giolitti's exposure 
 of their wish to begin the war in 19 13 — a wish which they 
 abandoned only because Italy refused to join them, and they 
 did not feel fit to win the war then without the help of the 
 third member of the Triple Alliance. 
 
 In response to Austria's demand of August, 19 13, that Italy 
 join with her in an attack upon Servia, Prime Minister Giolitti 
 said: 
 
 "If you attack Servia it is evident that the casus fcederi 
 will cease to exist: the war will be solely for your benefit, for 
 it is not a question of defense! No one is thinking of attack- 
 ing Austria." 
 
 This response, and this alone, caused Austria to defer until 
 19 14 the wanton attack upon Servia which she first planned 
 to make in 19 13. The conclusion to be drawn from this now 
 known and undisputed fact is obvious, but finding that it 
 meant nothing even to so bright a mind as Countess P.'s, I 
 said: 
 
 "Well, you are right. I see now that the war was forced 
 upon you. Plainly, it was all a fiendish plot on the part of 
 the rest of the world to ruin Germany and Austria." 
 
 My conversion was too sudden; the Countess eyed me sus- 
 piciously. "Just what do you mean?" she queried. 
 
 "Why," said I, "is it not plain that the wicked world's 
 plot was for Servia to hurl herself upon Austria; and while 
 Servia was doing this, Belgium was to devastate Germany. As 
 for England, her perfidy is shown by the fact that she hurled 
 80,000 soldiers against only three million Germans — who were 
 
174 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 so taken by surprise, they staggered almost to the gates of 
 Paris before they recovered from their amazement and started 
 back toward Germany!" 
 
 "Ah, good sarcasm, but poor history," said the Countess. 
 Then, to prove her point, she spoke of the French bombs 
 dropped on the peaceful city of Nuremberg on August 2, 19 14, 
 before war was declared. 
 
 "Can you ask of a great nation to submit to so gross a 
 wrong?" she demanded. 
 
 This question throws not a little light on the tremendous 
 drama that is now convulsing the world; for it shows how 
 even the most intelligent Germans and Austrians have been 
 deceived by the Prussian autocracy. At 3.15 p.m. of August 
 2, 19 14, the Wolff Agency at Berlin sent out an official dis- 
 patch which was published by every newspaper in Germany. 
 The publication of Wolff dispatches marked "beamtlich" (of- 
 ficial) is compulsory; punishment is imposed upon the editor 
 who fails to print such dispatches just as they are sent. The 
 Wolff dispatch of August 2, 19 14, announced that on that day 
 at noon, in violation of the rights of nations, French aviators 
 had dropped bombs upon the peaceful city of Nuremberg. 
 This statement aroused German hatred of France, as was 
 intended, and caused the German people to approve the 
 Kaiser's next step, which was to instruct his ambassador. 
 Baron von Schoen, at Paris, to demand his passports on the 
 ground that France had produced a state of war by her action 
 at Nuremberg! Not until long after 1870 did the world 
 learn of the Ems telegram which Bismarck "doctored," if he 
 did not forge, for the purpose of inducing France to declare 
 war, when she was not ready, and when Germany was ready 
 to the last man and the last gun. In the present case we 
 have not had to wait so long before learning the truth. 
 
 A noted German writer. Professor Schwalbe, wishing to 
 write a history of the origin of the war, with characteristic 
 German thoroughness started at the beginning, i. e., at Nurem- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 175 
 
 berg. And Professor Schwalbe's chagrin was as great as his 
 surprise when he learned that no bombs were dropped on 
 Nuremberg on August 2, 19 14, or on any other date either 
 before or since the war! So embarrassing was Historian 
 Schwalbe's investigation, in order that his researches might 
 cease and the subject be dropped, he was told the truth. On 
 April 3, 1916, the municipal authorities of Nuremberg an- 
 nounced in writing that the Commandant of the Third Ba- 
 varian Army Corps (who was in charge at Nuremberg) stated 
 he knew of no French bombs dropping on that city and that 
 the reports and rumors to that effect were wholly untrue! Pro- 
 fessor Schwalbe published this in his journal, Die Deutsche 
 medizinische Wochenschrift of May 18, 19 16, then he washed 
 his hands of the affair. 
 
 What did the German people do when, on May 18, 19 16, 
 they thus learned that their Kaiser in August, 19 14, had in- 
 veigled them into war on false pretenses? Nothing. And 
 that answer throws more light on the psychology of the Ger- 
 man people. With all their great qualities of both head and 
 heart, the German people have this sin to answer for: 
 
 They let out their thinking as other people let out their 
 laundry — to be done by others! 
 
 For 200 years the German people have turned over to one 
 man the job of government and to that man, because he calls 
 himself a King or a Kaiser and claims partnership with God, 
 they give a blind, slavish obedience! Every avenue to their 
 minds is controlled by their military masters — the three P.s — 
 Press, Preachers and Professors. From the time a German 
 begins life in a kindergarten, through the schools, colleges and 
 churches until he ends it as an old man in a chimney corner. 
 Government controls his teachers, his editors, his preachers. 
 And so it is that in Germany people are made to believe almost 
 anything the Prussian autocracy wants them to believe: the 
 Junkers and the military caste say to the people: 
 
176 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 "Make us strong and we will make you rich!" 
 
 And until the present war it must be confessed that, in a ma- 
 terial way, the plan has succeeded; until August, 1914, to the 
 German people war meant merely a holiday parade to some 
 neighbor's capital, followed by the putting into German 
 pockets that neighbor's land and gold. The Germans thought 
 this war would be like the others, like their ten days' war with 
 Denmark in 1864, their six weeks' war with Austria in 1866, 
 their few months' war with France in 1870. Each of those 
 wars was a "walk-over" for Germany; each meant for her 
 great riches and great power. And so in August, 19 14, the 
 Kaiser placarded the walls of German cities with a poster in 
 which he said: 
 
 "Germans ! Your Emperor is giving you a short war ! 
 Within six weeks my armies will be in Paris and the French 
 people will pay not only the cost of the war but a huge in- 
 demnity besides." 
 
 And so long, so carefully did autocracy plan its attack upon 
 the liberties of the world, it would have succeeded but for 
 the sublime sacrifice of Belgium, a nation so small, so de- 
 fenseless that the pirates of Potsdam gave it hardly a thought. 
 But Belgium, small, weak, defenseless as she was, held back 
 the German hordes two weeks, two precious weeks that gave 
 France and England time to pull themselves together and 
 thus lay the foundation for the defeat of German dreams of 
 world dominion. On December 2, 191 5, Chancellor von Beth- 
 mann-Hollweg said to the Reichstag: 
 
 "We shall hold out until we have the assurance that no one 
 will disturb our peace and our right to develop the soul and 
 power of Germany." 
 
 Who ever disturbed Germany's peace? Who ever sought 
 to deny her right to develop her "soul and power"? The day 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 177 
 
 after the Chancellor made this speech the Kaiser said to his 
 troops: 
 
 "We are fighting for our liberty, for our right to existence 
 as a nation." 
 
 But like von Bethmann-Hollweg, the Kaiser preserved pro- 
 found silence when it came to telling his people who and when 
 any one had denied Germany her liberty, or challenged her 
 right to existence. Fine phrases have been used by German 
 apologists; they assert that England was "jealous" of Ger- 
 many's industrial progress, that she sought to "hem" Ger- 
 many in. But when a bill of particulars is demanded it is 
 never forthcoming. If by "Place in the Sun" is meant the 
 right to peaceable trade expansion, where and by whom was 
 Germany ever denied that right? Was it necessary to "shoot 
 up" Belgium, devastate France and declare treaties to be mere 
 scraps of paper in order to sell German goods to the nations 
 of the earth? Prior to August, 19 14, were not German banks, 
 German commercial houses, German factories, German goods 
 seen all over the world? Was there ever a suggestion by any 
 responsible statesman of any nation that Germany's "peaceful 
 penetration" of the world's marts should in the smallest de- 
 gree be limited or delayed? For several years before the war 
 portraits of the Prussian Crown Prince were exposed for sale 
 everywhere in Germany with this quotation from his speech: 
 
 "We can obtain the place in the Sun which is our right only 
 by the aid of a good sword, because no one will voluntarily 
 concede us our place." 
 
 The prince did not deign to explain what kind of a "place" 
 it is that Germany wants, nor who it is that is trying to keep 
 her out of that place. But in his book, Deutschland in Wafjen, 
 he does make it plain that his idea of supreme happiness is 
 that which war alone can bring. Witness this description he 
 wrote of the maneuvers at Doeberitz before the war: 
 
1 78 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 "A front of five squadrons of the guards advances. The 
 signal 'March !' is given. The horses are spurred to their maxi- 
 mum efforts. The cavaliers advance shouting 'Hurrah !' their 
 bodies leaning forward, their lances at rest. For one who has 
 participated in such charges there exists in all the world noth- 
 ing more beautiful. And yet to the true cavalier there is one 
 thing more beautiful." 
 
 What? The prince tells us. The one thing more beautiful 
 than the mock combats of the maneuvers is a "real combat to 
 the death!" 
 
 "How often" (he continues) "have I heard during these 
 charges of the maneuvers the ardent cry of a comrade : 'Sacre- 
 bleu ! H only it were in earnest!' All true soldiers will under- 
 stand and feel it." 
 
 And in taking leave of his troops at Dantzig the Crown 
 Prince declared that the "moment of supreme felicity" for 
 him would be when the Kaiser gave the signal "March!" and 
 he could place himself at the head of his army. As wrote the 
 prince, so wrote the professors and editors and military men of 
 the Empire. And so at last they got what they wanted — 
 War! Thus far it has not been exactly the kind of war they 
 expected; Germany's autocracy confidently expected to cap- 
 ture Paris within six weeks after its armies got in motion. 
 But despite this initial disappointment, should the war prove 
 a "stalemate" Prussian militarism would be victorious. For 
 Prussian domination of eastern Europe would be assured and 
 with nearly two hundred millions of population, instead of 
 only seventy millions, to organize and drill into a gigantic 
 military machine Prussia's next tiger leap upon her neighbors 
 would be irresistible; she would then, indeed, rule the world. 
 
 When I argued thus to the Countess P. for the first time we 
 found ourselves in accord. "Yes," she said, "if the Entente 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 179 
 
 Powers lose my poor country will be but a vassal to the Prus- 
 sian military party. It is that thought which reconciles us 
 Austrians to the possibility of defeat." 
 
 Other Austrians have expressed to me the same thought and 
 victory may yet perch on Democracy's banners because of 
 Austrian defection from her powerful ally. 
 
 The vast majority of mankind abhors war; yet to-day the 
 vast majority of mankind is engaged in war. What is the 
 explanation of this tragic paradox? Why are millions of men 
 who in their private relations are honorable and kindly now 
 devoting their every thought to the killing of other men? The 
 titanic upheaval through which the world is passing is too 
 stupendous for any mind fully to comprehend, but if viewed 
 from the right angle it may seem a little less amazing and 
 the puzzle may even be partially understood. All of us can 
 understand the common motives of selfishness, of greed, of 
 ambition; these motives affect alike the noblest and the mean- 
 est of men. Taught by the slow process of painful experience, 
 the average man has reached the conclusion that, considered 
 even from a purely selfish standpoint, it is better for him to 
 supply his wants by just rather than by unjust methods. But 
 this has not always been the case. In the first years of the 
 last century France was as regardless of the rights of other 
 peoples as is Germany to-day. All France looked on without 
 a word of protest while the great Corsican adventurer rode 
 rough shod over the liberties of Europe from Madrid to 
 Moscow. 
 
 Why did France, at heart so democratic, so true to the 
 rights of man, yield such blind obedience to Napoleon? 
 Partly, of course, because of his transcendant genius. But 
 the fundamental cause was this: Napoleon's despotism made 
 France great, rich, powerful! So long as despotism meant 
 that to France, Frenchmen tolerated Napoleon. It was not 
 until events showed that despotism meant, not greatness and 
 
i8o THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 glory, but tears and blood, not riches and power but poverty, 
 weakness and humiliation that Frenchmen turned to democ- 
 racy and ceased their vain effort to conquer the world. Had 
 Germany been defeated in 1870 Napoleon the Little would 
 have become almost great; his autocratic power would have 
 been heightened and extended. As it was, from the dust and 
 ashes of Sedan Frenchmen arose to their feet, free men! 
 While — another of history's cynical paradoxes — France's con- 
 querors returned to their homes across the Rhine minus their 
 liberties, precisely because their victory had been so over- 
 whelming. 
 
 Should Germany win the present war, more than ever will 
 Germans be shackled to the chariot wheels of militarism, more 
 than ever will they be the playthings of Kaisers, Kings, Crown 
 Princes and Military Staffs! On the other hand, should Ger- 
 many lose, should her armies be decisively beaten, then — and 
 only then — will the German people rise to their feet really free 
 men. It is hard that freedom in Germany can follow only 
 decisive defeat, but since that is the inexorable fact, resulting 
 from centuries of false teachings and false habits of thought, 
 it results that even Germany's friends should wish victory to 
 perch upon the Entente's banners. Those who know to what 
 lengths military arrogance went before 19 14, those who have 
 seen stripling officers of twenty elbow civilians, women as well 
 as men, off the sidewalks of Berlin, those who have seen Ger- 
 man officers cut down with their swords a civilian for not 
 crawling before them — as Lieutenant Foerstner cut down the 
 lame cobbler of Zabern — can only shudder at the thought of 
 what Prussian arrogance would be were Prussian armies to 
 return to Berlin victors in the world war. In the eyes of the 
 military the civilians not only of Germany but of the rest of 
 the world would seem as but worms in the dust. And they 
 would be treated like worms by the "Supermen" with swords 
 and brass buttons who had conquered the world. 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT i8i 
 
 Are these generalizations applicable to Germany? A rapid 
 glance at history will answer this question. 
 
 One hundred and seventy-eight years ago when Charles VI 
 of Austria died, leaving as heir to his throne, not a soldier 
 son, but an unsophisticated girl, Frederick, King of Prussia, 
 was among the first to give the new Empress-Queen promises 
 of friendship and support — just as his present-day descend- 
 ant, William II, was the first to pledge respect for the neu- 
 trality of Belgium, But even while sending his assurances of 
 support to Maria Theresa, Frederick planned to rob her of 
 one of her fairest provinces — an act of treachery exactly dupli- 
 cated by William II with respect to Belgium, In 191 1, and 
 again in 19 13, when asked to renew Germany's pledge to re- 
 spect her treaty regarding Belgium the Kaiser's ministers pro- 
 tested that such a request was uncalled for inasmuch as Ger- 
 many always respected her solemn obligations! And yet at 
 that very time, in 191 1 and 1913, Germany was completing 
 her stragetic railways along the Belgium frontier and prepar- 
 ing for the invasion which she carried out in 1914! 
 
 As illuminating of William II 's conduct with reference to 
 Belgium, as of his ancestor's conduct with reference to Aus- 
 tria, is this paragraph from Macaulay: 
 
 Without any declaration of war, in the very act of pouring 
 forth compliments and assurances of good will, Frederick com- 
 menced hostilities. Many thousands of his troops were actually 
 in Silesia before the Queen of Hungary knew that he had set 
 up any claim to any part of her territories. . . . 
 
 He sent her a message that if she would but let him have 
 Silesia he would stand against any Power which should try 
 to deprive her of her other dominions — as if he was not already 
 bound to stand by her, or as if his new promise could be of more 
 value than the old one !" 
 
 Has not recent history duplicated this treachery of Fred- 
 erick? In 1 9 14 William II sent Belgium a message that if 
 
i82 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 she would but let his armies violate her neutrality he would 
 stand by her against any other Power that tried to do the 
 same — "as if he was not already bound by solemn treaty to 
 stand by Belgium, or as if his new promise could be of more 
 value than the old one!" 
 
 Writing of Prussia's cold-blooded, wholly unprovoked tiger- 
 leap upon her neighbor in 1740, Macaulay says: 
 
 "On the head of Frederick is all the blood which was shed in 
 a war which raged during many years and in every quarter of 
 the globe — the blood of the column at Fontenoy, the blood of 
 the mountaineers who were slaughtered at CuUoden. The evils 
 produced by his wickedness were felt in lands where the name 
 of Prussia was unknown. And, in order that he might rob 
 a neighbor whom he had promised to defend, black men fought 
 on the coast of Coramandel and red men scalped each other 
 by the Great Lakes of North America !" 
 
 And so, too, the tiger-leap which Germany made upon un- 
 offending Belgium set in motion evils that are felt in lands 
 where the name of Germany is unknown. And, in order that 
 Prussian autocracy may dominate the world, black men to- 
 day are killing each other in the heart of Abyssinia while white 
 men are fighting each other in Europe, Asia and Africa ! There 
 the parallel ends; for while William II adds hypocrisy to the 
 crime of treachery, Frederick scorned any attempts at justi- 
 fying his course. He made no pretense that he was fighting in 
 self-defense, but boldly admitted that his leap upon the young 
 Empress' domains was prompted solely by selfishness and 
 ambition. In the second chapter of the second volume of his 
 Memoirs Frederick makes this cynically frank avowal: 
 
 "Ambition, interest, the desire of making people talk about 
 me, carried the day. And I decided for war." 
 
 I have already alluded to Germany's more recent history; 
 her war upon Denmark resulted in her taking from that little 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 183 
 
 kingdom her fairest province, Schleswig-Holstein. In 1866 
 her leap upon Austria brought her more spoils; in 1870 she 
 struck France to the ground, then returned across the Rhine 
 loaded with French gold and with two more provinces, beauti- 
 ful Alsace and Lorraine. Germany has reduced war to the 
 basis of a national industry, she made a business of interna- 
 tional burglary; and so in 19 14 the German people entered 
 upon the present war gaily, and even gladly — in the full ex- 
 pectation of getting more gold and more lands from their 
 neighbors without imposing upon themselves any but the 
 most trifling sacrifices. 
 
 As I read my history, as I conceive the elementary princi- 
 ples that prompt human action, neither liberty, democracy 
 nor civilization itself will be safe until the German people 
 have unlearned the lesson that for two hundred years has been 
 taught them by their kings and kaisers. They have been 
 taught to believe, and in the main their experience has given 
 them the right to believe that, whatever war may mean for 
 others, for them it means prestige, power and gold. And 
 so to-day Democracy's supreme duty is to teach the German 
 people that they have been misled; that war hereafter shall 
 mean for them, what it means to the rest of the world — tears 
 and blood and wretchedness, national poverty and national 
 humiliation! When the German people learn that lesson 
 they will be safer neighbors, and they themselves will be hap- 
 pier and freer men.* 
 
 * Inasmuch as modern Germany glorifies Frederick the Great 
 the views of that royal brigand possess more than an academic 
 interest. Dr. McElroy, of Princeton, has collected an assort- 
 ment of "gems" from the writings of Frederick; their general 
 tenor may be judged from the following samples: — 
 
 "If there is anything to be gained by it, we will be honest; 
 if deception is necessary let us be cheats." 
 
 "One takes when one can ; one is wrong only when one is 
 obliged to give back." 
 
1 84 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 Paris, Sunday, 
 February ii, 1917. 
 At 2.50 p. m. the other day Ambassador Sharp came into 
 my office in the Embassy and asked me to accompany him 
 to the Grand Palais on the Champs Elysees; ten minutes later 
 his automobile let us out onto the broad sidewalk in front 
 of the Grand Palais just in time to make room for the Presi- 
 
 "No ministers at home, but clerks; no ministers abroad, but 
 spies." 
 
 "Form alliances only in order to sow animosities." 
 
 "Kindle and prolong war between my neighbors." 
 
 "Always promise help, but never send it." 
 
 "There is only one person in my kingdom — ^that is myself !" 
 
 "If possible the Powers of Europe should be made envious 
 against one another in order to give occasion for a coup when 
 the opportunity arises." 
 
 "If a ruler is obliged to sacrifice his own person for the 
 welfare of his subjects he is all the more obliged to sacrifice 
 treaty engagements the continuance of which would be harm- 
 ful to his country. Is it better that a nation should perish, 
 or that a sovereign should break his treaty?" 
 
 "Do not be ashamed to make interested alliances in which 
 you yourself can derive the whole advantage. Do not make 
 the foolish mistake of not breaking them when you believe 
 your interests require it." 
 
 "When he is about to conclude a treaty with some foreign 
 Power, if a sovereign remembers he is a Christian he is lost !" 
 
 Dr. McElroy, speaking of these, and of other of Frederick's 
 maxims, says : 
 
 "These statements are characteristic of the philosophy which 
 Frederick the Great gave as an inspiration first to Prussia and 
 then to Prussianized Germany; the methods of his life were 
 true to his philosophy. Vice and fraud and dissipation were 
 the inspiration of his career, and the ideas which he implanted 
 in the minds of the German people bear fruit to-day in the 
 shape of a war conducted as he felt wars must be conducted to 
 be efficient." 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 185 
 
 dent of France; as M. and Mme. Poincare stepped out of 
 their limousine they greeted the Ambassador and me, then 
 all four of us walked across the broad pavement and climbed 
 the imposing stone stairs of the Grand Palais while an im- 
 mense throng gathered and "movie" operators turned their 
 cranks and made pictures of the scene for the French theaters. 
 . . . Arrived in the Palais we saw — not the choice paintings 
 of other days — but hundreds of wounded soldiers who are be- 
 ing instructed in useful trades and arts. In one room a score 
 of soldiers were busily engaged in cutting the hair, or shaving 
 the faces, of their comrades. These embryo barbers are *'shy" 
 a leg each, but a barber doesn't really need two legs, conse- 
 quently these new members of the tonsorial trade are getting 
 on nicely and seem lively and cheerful. In other rooms other 
 trades were being taught — shoemaking, basket-making, book- 
 binding and the like. In each room President Poincare 
 paused long enough to say a few encouraging words and to 
 bestow a gift upon each disabled soldier. Following us was 
 an orderly, pushing a big basket on wheels filled with parcels 
 which he handed to the President as fast as he distributed 
 them, so that in spite of the speech accompanying each gift 
 we moved along at an astonishing rate and finished the job 
 within an hour. M. Poincare, who is under medium size, is 
 neither impressive nor imposing in appearance, but he has 
 ability and possesses the confidence of his people in a marked 
 degree. His wife, a charming woman, speaks English, which 
 the President does not — at any rate, I have never heard him 
 speak in any language except French. 
 
 Paris, Wednesday, 
 
 February 28, 191 7. 
 
 When Ambassador Gerard came to Paris recently some of 
 
 his staff told weird tales about their experiences in Germany; 
 
 the Ambassador, however, kept silent in more languages than 
 
 anybody I have ever met. Every one knows he is to sail for 
 
1 86 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 Havana on the Spanish steamer Infanta Isabella; in fact, we 
 here at the Embassy have done a lot of telegraphing to Barce- 
 lona to arrange for his steamship accommodations. Yet, finding 
 myself next to Mr. Gerard at the dinner given him by Am- 
 bassador Sharp, and remarking that he would arrive in Cuba 
 at a delightful season — as I knew, having been there last 
 February — Mr. Gerard looked at me as if to imply that he 
 had never even heard of Cuba, and turned the talk to other 
 topics. Members of his staff were not so silent. Some to 
 whom I gave a luncheon smiled and thought I was joking 
 when I said I was sorry they had not arrived one day earlier, 
 that had they done so they might have ordered anything on 
 the menu they liked. "As it is," I said, "only this morning 
 a regulation went in force which limits you to one kind of 
 meat in addition to an omelette or other egg order. Of course 
 you may have vegetables, but it is positively forbidden to 
 serve more than one plate of meat." . . . "Merely to have 
 an omelette would be regarded as a feast in Berlin," said Dr. 
 W. Then he explained how in Germany fifty per cent of one's 
 order must be an "Ersatz" — a substitute. "For instance," he 
 said, "half of your steak will be meat, the other half will be 
 perhaps peanut paste. I think all of the beer must be Ersatz. 
 Three weeks ago I couldn't drink the stuff they served me as 
 beer — and Munich beer used to be the best in the world!" 
 
 Another member of the party said in Germany you are 
 allowed to buy one egg a week — if you can find an egg to buy! 
 "And that," he added, "you don't often do. I have paid 
 twenty marks for my luncheon and still was obliged to leave 
 the table hungry." 
 
 Paris, Friday night, 
 March i6, 1917. 
 At two o'clock this afternoon when I emerged from the 
 Metro at the station of the Opera an enormous number of 
 men and women were surging around a one-legged man who 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 187 
 
 was shouting something at the top of his voice; everybody in 
 the crowd was grabbing at the one-legged man, making des- 
 perate efforts to get at him. I thought he was a thief, or 
 perhaps even a German spy whom they were trying to mob, 
 but it developed that he was a newsman selling extras an- 
 nouncing the abdication of Czar Nicholas. By the time I 
 elbowed a v»?ay through the mob to the one-legged man all his 
 papers were gone, but a little later at the Cafe de la Paix a 
 Frenchman at the table next to mine let me look at his copy; 
 the demand for the extras far exceeded their supply, so every 
 man lucky enough to get one was instantly surrounded by by- 
 standers who read over his shoulders the startling news, then 
 indulged in excited discussion accompanied by wild gestures 
 and lifting of shoulders. The news, if true, is big with possi- 
 bilities that no one can estimate either now or for some time 
 to come. A nation can't change its government as a man 
 changes his clothes; if the Czar has really been deposed it 
 means a cataclysm in Russia that will have far-reaching ef- 
 fects. . . . 
 
 We have not yet broken with Austria, but as a break is 
 inevitable I am leaving to-morrow to make a final inspection 
 of a camp of Austrian prisoners near Marseilles. 
 
 Marseilles, Sunday night, 
 
 March 18. 
 An hour's motor ride over a superb road that for miles fol- 
 lows the Mediterranean's shores, then turns north and climbs 
 to the top of a chain of high hills, whence one commands a 
 superb view of both land and sea, brought me into the midst 
 of a mass of rocky crags like unto those one sees in the wilder 
 parts of Colorado. And there amid those crags is the camp 
 of Carpiagne which at one time contained as many as 8,000 
 prisoners of war, but which now houses only one hundred Ger- 
 mans and ninety-six Austrians. The former held themselves 
 aloof, eying me from a little distance with a curious look of 
 
1 88 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 hesitation and regret, mixed with irritation; on previous visits 
 by members of the Paris Embassy the prisoners had sought, 
 and nearly always obtained, comfort and help and good cheer. 
 Now we were enemies and so could not speak to each other. 
 The Germans seemed to resent the changed status and to feel 
 that we had no right to become their enemies; owing to their 
 curious mentahty they permit their government to perpetrate 
 the grossest outrages upon the rights of other people; and then 
 they are genuinely surprised when the people thus outraged 
 show resentment. 
 
 Although we are still guardians of Austria's interests, all 
 realize that it is only a matter of time, and of a very short 
 time, when we shall drop Austria too, consequently even with 
 the Austrians to-day my attitude was coldly correct rather 
 than cordial. I noted such few complaints as they had to 
 make, adjusted them with the Commandant and took my 
 departure, glad to have finished my task of protecting the 
 rights of men whose government is murdering Americans on 
 the high seas and whose Ambassador, Dr. Dumba, was caught 
 red-handed bribing anarchists to foment strikes in American 
 shops and to plant bombs under American factories. ... I 
 say finished, for in all probability the camp I saw to-day 
 will be the last which I, or any other member of our Em- 
 bassy, shall visit. It is impossible that the present anomalous 
 condition of affairs can long continue; rupture with Austria 
 may come any day. . . . 
 
 Returning to Marseilles I sat from five to seven at a table 
 on the sidewalk of the Canniebiere, the street which these 
 Frenchmen of the South say makes Marseilles superior to 
 Paris, and although I was fresh from a camp of Austrian- 
 German prisoners the Monster War was forgotten during those 
 two hours. The street, as well as sidewalks, was thronged 
 with people, gaily-dressed women, dandies twirling canes, 
 Algerians in sandals, flowing white gowns and turbans on their 
 heads, smart looking poilus openly and unashamedly making 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 189 
 
 love to the girls who hung on their arms. All seemed care- 
 free and happy — partly because of their southern tempera- 
 ment, partly because of the glorious weather (to me it seemed 
 divine after the months of bitter cold and dull, leaden skies 
 of Paris), and partly because of good news from the front — 
 Bapaume was captured last Sunday (March 11), both the 
 French and the British troops are advancing, and day before 
 yesterday a Zeppelin which attempted to kill women and 
 babies in Paris was intercepted before it reached the capital 
 and was shot down in Compiegne — the huge monster fell heav- 
 ily astride a high stone garden wall and was broken squarely in 
 two. These things made the light-hearted Marseillaise gayer 
 than ever; and their beautiful city, being free from fear of 
 air raids, is not darkened as are Paris and the other cities 
 near the front; as day gave way to night the Canniebiere 
 blazed forth with rows of electric lights, thus helping main- 
 tain the illusion that we were back in the happy days before 
 the world began tearing itself to pieces. A hundred yards 
 down the street from where I sat watching the passing crowd 
 a broad flight of stone steps leads down to the harbor in 
 which this afternoon a score or more of big steamers were 
 riding at anchor. Ages ago when I was barely out of my 
 teens the Italian tramp steamer Independente, in which I had 
 taken steerage passage in order to make my ''Tramp Trip 
 Through Europe on 50 Cents a Day," cast anchor in that 
 same harbor; and the first time my feet ever rested on French 
 soil was when I climbed up those stone steps and went to the 
 same cafe on the Canniebiere where I went to-day. Even 
 the great war does not seem to have changed Marseilles; to 
 this ancient city, founded by the Phenicians 600 years before 
 Christ, thirty years is as but one ticking of the clock; but to 
 me — ah, it means the difference between youth, glorious youth, 
 and the beginning of old age! In the man who sat this after- 
 noon on the sidewalk of the Canniebiere I could not recognize 
 the youth coming up those stone steps from the sea, before 
 
iQO THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 him an unexplored world full of hopes and ambitions and full 
 at least in the youth's eyes, of unlimited possibilities! 
 
 Genoa, Wednesday night, 
 
 March 21, 1917. 
 
 On the train leaving Marseilles fellow travelers in my com- 
 partment were three English officers who entered Bapaume 
 Sunday a week ago; I expected them to be cheerful over the 
 withdrawal of the Germans, but they were the reverse. ''We 
 were ready to smash them in their works before Bapaume," 
 said Captain J., "but now, before we can strike a blow, we 
 must build roads to the front and make for ourselves a com- 
 pletely new system of entrenchments. Meanwhile, Fritz has 
 retired behind lines even stronger than those he has just aban- 
 doned." Captain J. and his two comrades have been in the 
 war from the beginning. "Yes," he said in answer to a ques- 
 tion I asked him, "we are heartily sick of it. Who wouldn't 
 be sick of living year after year in a dirty ditch? But we've 
 got to do it. It wouldn't do, you know, to let Fritz get 
 away with his system of international highway robbery," 
 
 With us in the same compartment was a vivacious French 
 girl of twenty-two whose father owns a vineyard sixty kilo- 
 meters from Algiers to which he goes and comes in his auto- 
 mobile. "You see, Monsieur," said the vivacious French girl, 
 "it is too dreary, living so far from the world, so our home 
 is in Algiers overlooking the sea." And then she explained 
 that, being near the sea, she had met the Captain of an 
 English transport steamer to whom she had become engaged 
 and to whom she was now about to make a visit in Nice. "He 
 is on leave for two weeks," she added, "and wants me to see 
 the beautiful places of the Riviera with him." ... In the 
 United States a girl who would go on a two weeks' jaunt with 
 her fiance, before marriage, would be either a simpleton or a 
 courtesan; in France, however, this is not necessarily the case. 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 191 
 
 Girls of the middle class not infrequently indulge in an in- 
 formal sort of partnership with the man of their choice, and 
 this partnership by no means indicates the same degree of 
 moral obtuseness that it would be thought to mean in Amer- 
 ica. I know the daughter of a French Colonel and niece of 
 a distinguished English General who lived with her fiance three 
 years before she married him; their marriage occurred some 
 years ago and, as far as observers can judge, it has been an 
 unusually happy one. . . , 
 
 When at the Hotel Cecil in Nice last October delicious cres- 
 cent rolls and butter were served ad lib.; when at the same 
 hotel two days ago there were no crescents and no butter — 
 only tough bread; and only three small lumps of sugar in the 
 morning for one's coffee. The privations caused by the war 
 will increase from day to day. 
 
 At 10.20 yesterday morning the train made a long stop at 
 Mentone to give the French guards time to inspect the luggage 
 of passengers and to take notes of their personal history; I, 
 having a diplomatic passport, was exempt from these formali- 
 ties, but I observed their operation upon my fellow passengers, 
 who had to tell their ages, the maiden names of their mothers, 
 their father's first name and a lot of other details that con- 
 sumed so much time our train missed connection with the 
 Italian train at Ventimiglia and obliged us to remain in that 
 frontier town six hours. One dashing young woman in the 
 compartment next to mine, who was ordered to go into the 
 ladies' boudoir and take off her clothing, protested violently, 
 but the guards were inexorable. She was consigned to the 
 hands of a matron, and half an hour later when she had put 
 on her clothes again and emerged from the dressing-room the 
 matron turned over to the guards several hundred francs in 
 gold which she had found concealed in the handsome woman's 
 garments. For taking, or attempting to take, gold out of 
 France there is imposed a penalty of imprisonment from two 
 
192 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 months to two years, or a fine up to 5,000 francs. The young 
 woman was weeping bitterly when last I saw her being led off 
 to prison. . . . 
 
 Florence, 
 March 23, 1917. 
 After finishing my mission in Florence I went this after- 
 noon to the Uffizzi gallery for the purpose of revisiting cer- 
 tain paintings and statues that I always like to see when in 
 this city, but alas! they are precisely the treasures which have 
 been packed up and put in the cellar to protect them from 
 aeroplane bombs. The gallery of the Uffizzi palace is on the 
 top floor where, of course, bombs dropped from the sky would 
 do the most damage. What with the disappointment of not 
 finding my favorite paintings, and the desolation and empti- 
 ness of the vast gallery, the visit was not a cheerful one. In 
 olden times the Uffizzi was always crowded with tourists and 
 with artists perched on high stools copying works of the old 
 masters; to-day, with the exception of two Italian officers, I 
 was the only visitor in the gallery. In the Tribune, where 
 Titian's "Venus" used to hang, is now a blank space on the 
 wall, but opposite that space Cranach's *'Eve" still simpers 
 with a smirk on her lips and a red apple in her hand ; like most 
 of Cranach's nude women, his Eve is lanky and ugly and only 
 less pleasing to me than the gross, beefy women of Rubens. 
 These also have not been thought worthy of being put in the 
 cellar — at any rate, they are in the same salon where I have 
 seen them off and on during the last thirty years, and I was 
 again impressed with their coarseness of conception and gross- 
 ness of execution. For instance, in Rubens' "Bacchus" the 
 woman who is pouririg wine into Bacchus' glass has a bosom 
 like unto a cow's; and in the huge painting on the opposite 
 wall, "Henri IV Entering Paris After the Battle of Ivry," while 
 Henri is represented as spare in figure and thoughtful in face, 
 around him are soaring a bunch of angels who manifestly are 
 entirely too fat to fly. Of course, Rubens is an Old Master 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 193 
 
 and I don't know a thing about art; I am merely expressing 
 my opinion regarding the kind of women the painter usually 
 chose to express his idea of feminine beauty. If compelled to 
 make a choice, I would prefer one of Cranach's lanky Eves 
 to one of Rubens' overdeveloped, far too full-bosomed florid 
 fraus. ... In the Hall of Busts I renewed acquaintance with 
 the Roman Emperors and noted again how amiable Nero ap- 
 pears in marble; the bust of him as a boy presents a chubby, 
 amiable face, and even the portrait of him made after he be- 
 came Emperor does not depict any evil qualities. Wherefore, 
 query: are the busts of him really portraits, or are they ideal- 
 ized out of all resemblance to the supposed original? And 
 are any of the busts in the celebrated hall anything more 
 than fancy pictures of the men and women they purport to 
 resemble? True, the bust of Vitellius, gross and beefy, with 
 a neck meant for a number twenty collar, is in keeping with 
 the picture Tacitus drew of him; so, too, is one of Csesar's 
 busts — the one depicting him with a grave, thoughtful face, 
 deep lines of care chiseled on his brow. But, as a rule, the 
 busts in the Uffizzi give me the impression of being what the 
 sculptor thought his subject wanted to look like, rather than 
 what he really did resemble. 
 
 The tomb of Dante is buried deep under a mountain of 
 sacks filled with earth; other specially valuable monuments 
 and works of art in the churches are similarly protected from 
 possible air raids. Apart from these ugly piles of bags which 
 you see in the churches, at the old market and in the great 
 Plaza, Florence does not seem changed by the war; its streets 
 are as crowded, its people seem as light-hearted as on any of 
 my previous visits to the city. 
 
 Venice, Sunday night, 
 March 25, 191 7. 
 Leaving Florence yesterday morning at nine, no incident 
 worth recording occurred until after the train left Bologna, 
 
194 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 then two picturesque soldiers with three-cornered hats, a la 
 Napoleon's, came through the cars, examined everybody's pa- 
 pers and asked innumerable questions. Even my diplomatic 
 passport and letters from the Prefetto of Genoa, the Italian 
 Ambassador and the Italian Minister of Foreign Affairs, did 
 not secure me immunity. Most of their personal questions, 
 such as what was my father's first name, what was my 
 mother's maiden name, how old was I, etc., I answered with- 
 out objection; but when they inquired the details of my mis- 
 sion to the Italian front I declined to answer. "That, Mes- 
 sieurs," said I, "you have no right to question, for my mis- 
 sion pertains to my government, and I think you should be 
 satisfied that it meets the approval of your Ambassador and 
 your Minister at Rome." Although evidently not oversatis- 
 fied with this reply, the two picturesque cocked hat soldiers 
 finally decided to let me remain on the train. But on arriving 
 at Venice the authorities there put me through another cross- 
 examination. Besides myself there were no other passengers 
 excepting officers, soldiers and a few civilians who live in 
 Venice: these were soon passed through the railway station 
 gate, but I was asked to go to the Bureau of the Military 
 Commander and that officer, assisted by several lieutenants, 
 plied me with questions for nearly an hour. Why had I come 
 to Venice? How long did I propose remaining? At what 
 hotel did I mean to stop? Whither was I going after leaving 
 Venice? During the asking of these questions the officers 
 were very stern and very severe; but, finally convinced that 
 I was not a spy they discarded official dignity as one discards 
 a coat, and in a moment were affable and even cordial. "You 
 will pardon us, Signor," said the Commandant. "You know, 
 of course, that Venice, being so close to Trieste, is very ex- 
 posed, consequently it is necessary that we exercise great care. 
 If you wish, we shall telephone the Grand Hotel Danielli that 
 you are coming and to have your room ready for you by the 
 time you arrive." 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 195 
 
 I said I would be glad to have a message sent to the hotel, 
 then, with the Commandant holding me by one arm and a 
 lieutenant holding me by the other, I groped my way out of 
 the dark railway station, climbed down the great pair of broad 
 stone stairs and got into a gondola; the night was so inky 
 black I could not see my hand before my face; I thought my- 
 self lucky not to tumble into the water, and not to have my 
 unseen gondolier rob me and then conceal his crime by dump- 
 ing me into the canal. He could easily have done it, but he 
 didn't, and so after listening for half an hour to the splash 
 in the water of his single oar we bumped up in the dark against 
 some stone steps. All was blackness; I could not tell whether 
 we were fronting a house or an elephant. But a shrill cry 
 on the part of my gondolier caused a door to be opened, just 
 above the water's edge, and a porter appeared. 
 
 "Be quick. Monsieur," he exclaimed. "The door must be 
 kept open only a moment on account of the light." 
 
 The "light" within the door, to which that porter alluded, 
 was one small bulb, and that bulb was covered entirely by a 
 piece of blue paper. It did not seem possible that so meager 
 a light could afford a target for an enemy who was as much 
 as a dozen yards away, still I scrambled quickly out of the 
 gondola and soon was in slumberland, buried under a moun- 
 tain of covers to keep out the cold that made my room in the 
 Grand Hotel Danielli seem like a tomb. 
 
 This morning in Venice's market-place, crowded with women 
 buying things for their Sunday dinner, half a dozen aeroplanes 
 swirling a few hundred feet over our heads, keeping a look- 
 out for enemy planes that so often fly from Trieste in thirty 
 minutes, I noted the following food prices: 
 
 (N. B. a lira=a fraction less than 13c.; a kilo =2^ lbs.) 
 
 Lemons, each Lire 0.05 centessimi. 
 
 Oranges, " .10 
 
 Bread, per kilo .50 
 
196 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 Cheese (similar to Swiss) per kilo, Lire 3.80 centessimi. 
 
 Chickens, each 5.00 
 
 Lamb, bones included, per kilo 4.00 
 
 Eggs, each .13 
 
 Potatoes, per kilo, from 60 & 70 cmi. to 1.20 
 
 String beans, per kilo 1.40 
 
 Radishes, per dozen .15 
 
 Salami (dried sausage) per kilo, 8.00 
 
 (Before the war the same Salami cost only 
 
 lire 5.00) 
 
 Apples, first grade, per kilo 2.50 
 
 " second " " " 1.50 
 
 Cauliflower, per head .20 and .25 
 
 Fish, flat like a flounder, per kilo, 4.50 
 
 " round, about 10 inches long, kilo, 2.50 
 
 " large, about two feet long, per kilo, 6.50 
 
 Eels, per kilo 2.50 
 
 Sardines, fresh, per kilo 2.40 
 
 I hard boiled egg, ready to eat .20 
 
 According to a recent letter from Beamer, eggs in St. Louis 
 now cost 50 cents a dozen — 4 1-6^ apiece; the price in 
 Venice is 13 centessimi, 1.69 cents. Query: Why should 
 eggs cost more than twice as much in America, 5,000 miles 
 from the war, as they cost in Venice, only thirty minutes by 
 aeroplane from the Austrian guns? . . . My taking notes 
 while walking through the different aisles of the market-place 
 was at first viewed with suspicion; a crowd gathered; I ex- 
 plained that I was an American and that America was about 
 to become their ally, whereupon suspicion gave place to en- 
 thusiasm. Those worthy people did not stop to think that 
 even if I had been an enemy and a spy it would have been 
 just as easy for me to tell them I was a friend and an ally. 
 But then, no doubt, they know of the difficulty attending the 
 entrance into Venice of unfriendly visitors and rely upon their 
 military men to keep all such out. 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 197 
 
 The Doge's Palace, St. Mark's and the Campanile are so 
 buried in sandbags as almost to be unrecognizable; but in 
 other respects the big Plaza has not changed. The pigeons 
 still congregate there, and on Sunday afternoons a military 
 band still plays and is listened to by thousands of Venetians 
 clad in their gayest clothes and all laughing and chatting and 
 apparently as carefree as in the happy days before the war. 
 This afternoon for more than an hour I sat at a table in St. 
 Mark's Square, sipping a lemonade, listening to the excellent 
 band and watching the great crowd as it promenaded under 
 the long gallery that runs around three sides of the Square. 
 In spite of Venice's proximity to the war zone, in spite of the 
 fact that Austrian aviators come over on bombing trips every 
 few days, the Venetians appear to be as free of fear, in fact, to 
 be as joyous and gay as ever they were in the past. Death, 
 when too frequent a visitor, loses much of his terror and the 
 statement is probably true that even during an air raid, while 
 bombs are hurtling down from the skies, the feeling of the 
 average Venetian is that of curiosity and interest rather than 
 that of fear! 
 
 Udine, Wednesday, 
 March 28, 1917. 
 This quaint and ancient city, with its houses reaching out 
 over the streets and supported by massive stone arches — like 
 those in Bologna — is the headquarters of the Italian Supreme 
 Command. General Cadorna is not here, but I saw his chief 
 of staff, General Porro, who received me most courteously and 
 assigned as my escort during my stay here one of his aides 
 who speaks excellent English, Lieutenant Vittorio Bacolla. 
 Early yesterday morning the Lieutenant called for me at my 
 hotel, the "Croce di Malta," and we set forth in a high-pow- 
 ered Fiat machine for the front — that line of mystery and 
 horror and death! On the road we overtook an army of sol- 
 diers marching to the front, and another army coming back 
 
1 98 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 from the front. Whether going or coming, the soldiers were 
 all singing or laughing, with an utter absence of that stern 
 discipline which characterizes a German army. There seemed 
 to be literally miles of carts and mules laboriously toiling up 
 the mountains, carrying munitions and supplies to the front 
 line trenches. No matter what the final outcome may be, 
 nothing can rob the Italians of the glory that is rightly theirs 
 for the stupendous deeds they have done in this, the most 
 difficult, terrain in the world. They have fought their way 
 up tremendous precipices in the face of an entrenched and 
 experienced foe; they have captured snow-shrouded peaks, 
 such as Monte Rosa, which seemed to me almost too steep to 
 climb when assisted by a stalwart guide, much less to fight a 
 way up it in the face of a storm of shot and shell; they have 
 blasted miles of trenches in the solid rock of the Carso; they 
 have constructed superb military roads to the long chain of 
 mountain tops that they have conquered, so as to keep the 
 army entrenched on those mountains constantly supplied with 
 food, clothing and ammunition. No matter what the future 
 may hold, those things cannot be undone and they will for- 
 ever reflect glory upon General Cadorna and his hard-fighting, 
 hard-working army. 
 
 Yesterday afternoon Lieutenant BacoUa took me in the big 
 Fiat up Mount Podgora as far as the new military road has 
 been finished ; an army of soldiers is working on the last quar- 
 ter of a mile, but it is not yet passable for an automobile, 
 consequently we climbed that last stretch on foot and the 
 experience was instructive: I found it a hard climb, even with 
 a stout staff and ample time at my disposal. When the Ital- 
 ians first climbed Podgora the Austrians were entrenched on 
 top and a hundred yards below the top ran a barbed-wire 
 entanglement. General Cadoma's men had to rush up a rough 
 mountain-side that slopes at an angle of forty degrees; they 
 had to hew a way through those barbed wires and they had 
 to shoot and bayonet the Austrians in their trenches before 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 199 
 
 they became masters of Podgora's peak! From the top of 
 the mountain you get a view that is literally entrancing: a 
 thousand feet below on the eastern side runs the swift Isonzo, 
 on the opposite bank of which stands the beautiful city of 
 Goritzia; just beyond the ancient stone houses and churches 
 and the massive castle of Goritzia is another chain of steep 
 mountains on which the Austrians are now entrenched. Novice 
 that I am in warlike affairs, I did not realize the danger and 
 so stood for some minutes on top of the parapets looking down 
 upon this marvelous panorama; probably I should have con- 
 tinued so to stand had not Lieutenant Bacolla, who was near 
 by regarding me with a smile, presently said: 
 
 "I think perhaps we had better go below. One can't be 
 quite sure just when the Austrians will let go one of their 
 420's." 
 
 We scrambled down the west side of the parapet and de- 
 scended into a deep dugout where a soldier was sitting, his 
 ears glued to a telephone receiver, his eyes fixed upon a black- 
 board before him. The board was covered with chalked num- 
 bers — records of the shots that were being fired across the 
 Isonzo and over Goritzia at the Austrians in their mountain 
 trenches across the narrow valley. We did not take cover too 
 soon, for presently there was a tremendous explosion, the whole 
 mountain trembled and the noise was so deafening I thought 
 my ear-drums would burst. ''That must be a 420," remarked 
 Lieutenant Bacolla calmly. I felt relieved, for I had thought 
 it an earthquake. "Would you like to see the damage it did?" 
 continued the Lieutenant. "I think it struck quite close." I 
 could well believe that; to me it seemed as if it must have 
 struck only a few yards away; but would it be safe to climb 
 on top of the parapet again? Lieutenant Bacolla smiled. 
 "Nothing in war is safe," said he. "But they seldom fire big 
 shells in quick succession at the same target. If we move 
 quickly there will be no special risk." In a trice we clambered 
 out of the dugout, traversed the top of the parapet and ran 
 
200 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 a score of yards to the edge of the crater that had been made 
 by that great shell. It was fifteen feet in diameter and deep 
 enough to afford a grave for a company of men! But, apart 
 from making that big hole in the side of the mountain, it had 
 done no harm. 
 
 That one shell cost the Austrians about $2,000! I thought 
 of the heavy taxes, of the suffering and privation borne by 
 many men and women, of children who must go hungry and 
 unschooled, in order that that shell might make that useless 
 liole in the ground. And the reflection did not increase my 
 respect for the sanity and sense of mankind! 
 
 As I have said, Goritzia lies in a narrow valley between two 
 mountains, on one of which are entrenched the Austrians 
 whose guns can destroy the city in a few hours if they choose 
 to do so; thus far they have not so chosen, perhaps because 
 they expect, or at least hope, to recapture the city. But 
 there is no certainty what moment the enemy may decide to 
 pour a stream of shells into Goritzia, so Lieutenant BacoUa 
 declined to let me enter the town. After descending the west- 
 ern slope of Podgora, however, we did motor across the Isonzo, 
 on a fine military bridge which the Italians threw over the 
 river in two days, following the destruction by the Austrians 
 of the ancient and solid stone bridge which had spanned the 
 stream for a century or more; and during the next hour we 
 traversed the desolate slopes of the Carso, visiting the ad- 
 vanced trenches and gazing fascinated — at least I was — by the 
 sight of shells bursting in the air and flames leaping from the 
 mouths of the enemy's cannon. 
 
 "If they raise their sights a couple of inches," remarked 
 Lieutenant Bacolla in a casual way, "the shells would just 
 about strike us. I don't think they will do it; they are too 
 busy trying to smash our position over there. Still, they might 
 raise their guns an inch or so, hence I think it would be well 
 to turn back." 
 
 As I turned to go one of the infantry men, who had worked 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 201 
 
 in a contractor's camp in the United States and spoke broken 
 English, asked if I would accept as a souvenir a bayonet with 
 which he had killed a number of the foe on the last charge a 
 short time before; and without awaiting a reply he handed me 
 a wicked looking steel instrument, covered with red stains, 
 which I shall preserve as a reminder of the grimness and fright- 
 fulness of war. . . . Motoring along the Isonzo through the 
 village of Gradisca to Aquileja, in the latter town we climbed 
 a lofty stone tower from the summit of which we looked down 
 upon the Adriatic shimmering in the distance, and with our 
 field-glasses we could even see trolley cars and people moving 
 along the streets of Trieste, only a few miles away, yet how 
 long, how difficult is that way likely to be before the Italians 
 will be able to traverse it! The church below the tower on 
 which we stood was built in the fourth century, but seven 
 years ago workmen, while engaged in repairs, discovered that 
 three feet below the marble floor of the church is another 
 and an older floor — a beautiful mosaic made by the Romans. 
 The "modern" floor was, of course, removed, so that now when 
 we entered the church we descended three feet lower than the 
 level of the former floor and gazed upon a mosaic work of an 
 early Roman period. . . . 
 
 Although it was late last night before we returned to Udine, 
 early this morning Lieutenant Bacolla was again at the Croce 
 di Malta with his swift Fiat car, and this time we motored 
 through Cividale, the birth town of Ristori, the celebrated 
 actress, whose marble statue adorns a pretty square in front 
 of the Municipal Building; and then, making a sharp turn to 
 the north, we began climbing a lofty mountain. As on yes- 
 terday, so to-day we overtook long lines of men toiling up the 
 steep road bearing munitions and supplies; some were driving 
 "strings" of mules, tandem style, one mule behind the other, 
 and tied on their backs were as many long boards as they 
 could carry. Lieutenant Bacolla said the boards are to use in 
 
2 02 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 the trenches, to support their roofs and as foot-planks in the 
 bottom of the trenches for the soldiers to stand on. 
 
 As we motored higher and higher the air became colder and 
 colder; then snow began to fall, and finally the big Fiat, with 
 all its sixty horse-power, was unable to advance another foot: 
 it stuck fast in the deep snow! After that it was a hard hour's 
 climb through knee-deep snow before we arrived at the 
 trenches, and, as on yesterday, we again climbed up on top 
 of a parapet and gazed down upon the valley at our feet and 
 upon the opposite range of mountains. There, 3,000 feet below 
 us, was the city of Tolmino looking as peaceful and pretty and 
 serene as if the Monster War were a million miles away, in- 
 stead of just above her in the clouds! And yet at any moment 
 the Italians choose they can blow Tolmino off the map! To 
 destroy the city all they need do is to lower the muzzles of 
 the cannon I saw to-day and blaze away. In fact, ocular proof 
 of this was given me. Pointing to a large, square, white build- 
 ing in the outskirts of Tolmino, Lieutenant Bacolla said: 
 
 "There are the Austrian barracks. No soldiers are in it 
 now, nor do we mean that any shall come there. As a warning 
 that we haven't lost control of the situation we shall in a few 
 minutes knock down the end of those barracks. The enemy 
 may answer our fire, so let us go below." 
 
 We lost no time getting down into the deepest part of the 
 dugout on top of which we were standing and, after stuffing 
 cotton into our ears. Lieutenant Bacolla ordered the gunners 
 to fire. The next instant there was a deafening, crashing 
 sound that reverberated back and forth between those lofty 
 crags like the mighty rumbling of thunder. When quiet reigned 
 again (the Austrians did not reply) we climbed once more 
 upon the parapet's top and, looking down upon peaceful Tol- 
 mino, I saw a great hole torn through one end of the barracks. 
 I was convinced that the Italians do have ''control of the sit- 
 uation," but they do not "wipe Tolmino off the map" for the 
 same reason that the Austrians spare Goritzia — they hope to 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 203 
 
 capture it and keep it for Italy, and of course do not wish to 
 destroy what some day will be their own. 
 
 For nearly two years have the Italians fought here on the 
 roof of the world. They have stood waist deep in the snow, 
 their bodies tortured by cold, their eyes blinded by the daz- 
 zling, eternal whiteness of the world around them — and all for 
 what? That autocracy may be balked in its wicked attempt 
 to rule mankind! That is what Italy, in common with the 
 other Allies, is fighting for. But, oh, the pity of it all! That 
 such tremendous toil, such frightful suffering, such wasted 
 years should be necessary in order to obtain that which might 
 be so easily gotten if men would only be just and humane! 
 Germany had her "place in the sun." Without fixing a single 
 bayonet or unsheathing a single sword she had expanded her 
 commerce to the uttermost ends of the earth. Regarded merely 
 from a sordid, selfish point of view, she had no need to start 
 this war; even if she wins in the end (which no one now be- 
 lieves she will do) , even if her victory is as complete as in her 
 wildest dreams she ever hoped it might be — still will Germany 
 lose. For no imaginable victory will compensate the German 
 people now, or for the next hundred years, for the blood and 
 treasure they have already lost, not to speak of the added 
 losses they will suffer for each additional day the war endures. 
 So, quite apart from the immorality of a nation's leaping upon 
 an unoffending neighbor, this war should teach Prussian autoc- 
 racy that if it would make Germany prosperous and happy it 
 must first make her honest and just. . . . 
 
 On returning from the trip to the front yesterday, and again 
 to-night after tramping for hours through deep snow, I felt 
 the cold keenly and, fearing its results, I asked the landlord 
 of the Croce di Malta to let me have a fire in my room. He 
 said he deeply deplored it, but he had barely enough fuel to 
 supply the kitchen stove. "And, you know, Monsieur," he 
 concluded, "it is first of all necessary to keep fire in the 
 kitchen; unless we do that the cook will let us go hungry." 
 
2 04 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 This logic being unanswerable, I got into bed — the only 
 place where there is a chance to keep even half warm — and 
 ordered my dinner served to me there; and, as I am leaving 
 for Milan in the morning, I also ordered my bill. It came a 
 few minutes ago and the item "chauffage, one lira" appears 
 for each of the days I have been here. Summoning Mine Host 
 and pointing to that item, I asked him what it meant? 
 
 "Chauffage?" said he. "Why, Monsieur, chauffage means 
 heat." 
 
 "Oh," said I. "I know quite well that the word means 
 heat. But I have had no heat in your hotel. I am in bed 
 this moment because there is no fire in your dining-room or 
 reading-room, and you refused to make one in my bedroom." 
 
 "I am grieved, Monsieur, that what you say should be true. 
 But how can I help it? As I have had the honor to explain 
 to Monsieur, we have neither coal nor wood, except a very 
 little bit for the kitchen stove." 
 
 "Precisely," said I. "You did explain that to me. Hence 
 my question: Why do you charge one lira a day for chauf- 
 fage?" 
 
 The worthy landlord looked at me as if really pained at so 
 absurd a question. "Monsieur," he said gravely, "that is very 
 simple. I have placed that item in the bill because it is the 
 custom." 
 
 Noblesse oblige! Also it is worth a few lire — 30 or 40 cents 
 — to get a bit of unconscious humor like that; consequently 
 I shall pay my bill, "chauffage" included, in the morning. In 
 the meantime, having finished these notes, I shall turn out the 
 light and go to sleep. 
 
 Paris, Tuesday night, 
 
 April 3, 1917. 
 Yesterday President Wilson made an address before Con- 
 gress saying that by her acts Germany had caused a state of 
 war to exist between her and the United States, and when the 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 205 
 
 news reached Paris to-day, as if by magic the stars and stripes 
 appeared from tens of thousands of windows; and whenever 
 they saw an American on the streets Parisians stopped to 
 shake his hand, and sometimes to embrace him. Wherever he 
 goes Ambassador Sharp is greeted by a hurricane of applause. 
 Technically we are still at peace with Austria, but quietly I 
 have been officially informed that the break is expected any 
 hour, consequently I am preparing to leave soon for Washing- 
 ton to make my report to the Secretary of State. 
 
 Aboard S. S. Antonio Lopez, 
 In the Harbor of Cadiz, 
 Monday, April 16, 191 7. 
 The past two weeks have been for me, as Roosevelt would 
 say, rather "strenuous." In the last fourteen days I have 
 made all my farewells in Paris, have traveled all over Spain, 
 have been fired on by a German submarine, and now don't 
 know whether I shall wind up in Paris or Washington. 
 Eighteen hours out from Barcelona a U-boat suddenly arose 
 out of the sea half a mile on our starboard side and fired 
 three shells across our bow. The third shot missed the Lopez 
 not more than twenty feet and our Captain made frantic sig- 
 nals to the effect that he was quite at the German's commands. 
 The first command was that our Captain should go to the U- 
 boat with his papers, accordingly a lifeboat was launched and 
 presently the Captain was rowed by six sailors to the sub- 
 marine, where we could see the Germans waiting for him. The 
 parley did not last long; after a quarter of an hour the U-boat 
 headed toward the Lopez, towing the lifeboat behind her. It 
 was puzzling and considerable uneasiness existed among the 
 passengers, but when the submarine was within fifty yards 
 of us she stopped, our Captain slipped the cable by which he 
 had been towed, and in a few minutes was alongside the 
 Lopez climbing up the rope ladder; this was followed by the 
 hoisting of the lifeboat to its usual place. Then, as we steamed 
 
2o6 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 away, the Germans from the deck of their U-boat waved their 
 caps and cried bon voyage! It was like a scene in a play; 
 and then when the submarine vanished beneath the surface of 
 the sea as mysteriously and suddenly as a short hour before 
 it had emerged, leaving not a trace behind, it seemed like a 
 dream. But it was not a dream; and despite the seeming 
 friendliness shown by the Germans, our Captain thinks they 
 may yet do him harm, so he has put into port here at Cadiz 
 and says the voyage will be abandoned unless a positive prom- 
 ise of safe conduct is given by the German Ambassador at 
 Madrid. We have been waiting two days for that safe con- 
 duct, but it has not yet arrived; the Captain says he will wait 
 two more days, then if not guaranteed immunity from sub- 
 marine attack we will have our passage money refunded and 
 the Antonio Lopez will remain anchored in the Cadiz har- 
 bor. . . . 
 
 Owing to Germany's recent declaration of "ruthless" U-boat 
 war. Ambassador Sharp advised me to take passage on a neu- 
 tral steamer and I chose a Spanish ship bound for Cuba be- 
 cause of the long rest it will give me, and, above all, because 
 it will take me to southern seas where at last I may thaw out 
 and enjoy the almost forgotten rapture of being warm. This 
 has been a terrible winter for all Europe. A combination of 
 no fuel and an earlier, longer and more severe winter than 
 Europe has experienced in thirty-two years — that is what we 
 have had to bear, and I looked forward with joy to the warmth 
 I fancied I would find in Spain. Alas! Although spring is 
 here, and Spain is supposed to be in the Sunny South, it was 
 quite as cold in Madrid as in Paris; even in Seville — which I 
 hurriedly revisited after an absence of twenty-seven years — 
 my heavy overcoat was not out of place. And the same is 
 true here in Cadiz. I am beginning to wonder if it ever will 
 be warm again! . . . 
 
 At Hendaye, the last station in France, all the passengers 
 got out of the train and filed before a committee of officials 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 207 
 
 which subjected them to the same sort of cross-examination 
 as I noted at Mentone on my way to Italy; and in Hendaye, as 
 in Mentone, my passport "diplomatique" proved an open 
 sesame for me. Leaving Hendaye the train ran a couple of 
 miles across the frontier lines, then stopped at Irun, the first 
 Spanish town. And there the minute examination of passen- 
 gers began again, only this time by Spaniards instead of 
 Frenchmen. The Spaniards take an interest in the war, but 
 it is as one takes an interest in any event of tragic moment: 
 they do not live it, breathe it, think it night and day as they 
 do in France and Italy and doubtless in all the countries which 
 are belligerents. . . . Leaving Irun the train runs through a 
 constantly ascending and narrowing valley, steep mountains on 
 either hand, beside the railroad track a foaming mountain 
 stream which in its rapid rush down to the sea turns the big 
 wheels of a lot of paper mills. This, the only picturesque part 
 of the journey, is soon ended, then begins the monotonous ride 
 over desolate, wind-swept plains to Madrid. No aeroplanes were 
 flying over Madrid, nor were its citizens constantly looking up 
 at the sky to see if, perchance, the Germans were coming. Also 
 at night lights were permitted — all of which delights and im- 
 presses one M^ho for a long time has been in a city of dark- 
 ness. . . . One thing I noticed in Madrid might be adopted to 
 advantage in American cities: the street cars carry letter boxes 
 which are emptied by postoffice clerks at the end of each round 
 trip. I saw persons dropping letters in these boxes when the 
 car on which I was riding stopped at street comers; it saved 
 them trouble, and it saves the postoffice the trouble of making 
 collections over a long distance. All of Madrid's street cars 
 start from, and return to, the Puerta del Sol, which is near the 
 central postoffice, consequently it is an easy matter to collect 
 the mail from the cars when they return to the Puerta del Sol, 
 only a stone's throw from the big building where it is to be 
 sorted and sent to its destination. ... In the "Kursaal" of 
 Seville I saw a crowd of Germans — the only free Germans I 
 
2o8 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 have seen in Europe. They were a sad looking lot; there are 
 80,000 of them in Spain, only a few of whom are residents 
 of the country; the rest were stranded here in 19 14 with no 
 way of returning to Germany, or were brought here from Ger- 
 man Africa. England, it seems, gave them a safe conduct to 
 go as far as Spain, but no further; had they attempted to sail 
 on to Bremen or Hamburg they would have been captured 
 and interned for the duration of the war. Most of those I 
 saw in Madrid, and especially in Seville, looked as if they 
 thought Spain quite as bad as any allied internment camp. 
 ... On one of Seville's principal streets I saw a street car 
 blockaded by a procession of six asses, one ambling along be- 
 hind the other. On the back of the last ass sat a rough but 
 picturesque looking chap who attempted to relieve the block- 
 ade by emitting from his mouth a loud, sybillant, hissing 
 sound. The asses paid absolutely no attention either to him 
 and his hissing, or to the insistent clanging of the motorman's 
 bell; they continued to amble slowly along in front of the 
 trolley car at the rate of about two miles a week. I followed 
 them for a block or two, wondering how long a car full of 
 people was going to allow itself to be held up by half a dozen 
 asses. At length the motorman stopped his car and appealed 
 to a policeman; the latter went up to the man seated on the 
 back of the last ass and berated him; the man answered back; 
 the policeman grabbed him by the leg and pulled him down 
 to the ground. Was the man scared? Not a bit; he stood 
 his ground, cursing the policeman and making not the least 
 attempt to get his asses off the track so the car might proceed. 
 Think what sights like these must mean to the Germans in 
 Spain! Knowing what would happen to a man mad enough 
 to hold up a street car in a German city, the Germans in 
 Spain who are compelled to witness such scenes year after 
 year must have a profound contempt for the nation that is 
 entertaining them, and a profound disgust with the Fate that 
 has forced them to remain in a land where such things are 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 209 
 
 endured. . . . The Germans in the cafes of Cadiz seemed even 
 more listless and sad than those in Seville and Madrid; on 
 the walls are signs "Pilsen" and "Munich" beer, but it has 
 been many a day since those good German beers have been 
 seen in Spain, or for that matter in Germany itself; the stuff 
 they serve in Cadiz is vile and I shall spend the rest of the de- 
 lay here on board the steamer, rather than in Cadiz or in mak- 
 ing more trips to nearby cities. 
 
 Las P almas, Canary Islands, 
 Thursday, April 19, 191 7. 
 On the evening of the fourth day in Cadiz harbor, just as 
 we had given up hope of the voyage being continued — the 
 Captain had given notice that we must be ready to leave the 
 steamer the next morning — a tug put out from shore and when 
 it came alongside the Antonio Lopez a long, official looking 
 envelope was passed up to our Captain; he glanced at it, then 
 rapidly gave some orders and within a quarter of an hour our 
 anchor was hoisted and we were at last headed for Cuba. 
 What is in the message handed the Captain I do not know; 
 the conjecture is that it is a safe conduct from Berlin, trans- 
 mitted through the German Ambassador at Madrid, conse- 
 quently there is a feeling of relief on the score of U-boats for 
 the balance of this voyage. . . . My Memo, book has this 
 entry for yesterday: 
 
 "Awoke this morning feeling warm; first time haven't been 
 cold since last August; inexpressibly relieved to find that there 
 is some place in the world where it isn't cold." 
 
 We have sailed 600 miles due south from Spain and have 
 several thousand miles more to sail before we reach Havana, 
 so probably by time the voyage ends I shall be complaining 
 of the heat as much as heretofore I have complained of the 
 cold — such is the perversity of the human mind! ... If the 
 Monster War can be forgotten anywhere, one would think it 
 
210 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 might be forgotten in an out-of-the-way island; but no spot 
 in the world is so far away that War's blighting grip cannot 
 seize it and make desolation and poverty and despair where 
 before was content and comfort and hope! The simple peas- 
 ants in the vine-clad country back of Las Palmas may never 
 even have heard of Prussia, but they feel the withering blight 
 of Prussian megalomania in only less degree than peoples who 
 have met it face to face; for the ships that used to carry the 
 fruit and other products of the Canary Islands to England, 
 France and other foreign lands either fear submarines too 
 much to continue their voyages, or they have been withdrawn 
 for military cargoes — and so, their commerce being destroyed, 
 the peasants of Las Palmas are half starving as a result of 
 Germany's tiger-spring upon Belgium. Some of the embroid- 
 ered linens brought aboard and offered for sale to passengers 
 have sold at pathetically small prices; for instance, a remark- 
 ably beautiful tablecloth, the work on which must have re- 
 quired several months, was sold for only 20 pesetas, barely 
 $4.00. A traveler who boarded the Lopez at Las Palmas told 
 me a peasant carried his heavy suit-case 40 kilometers over 
 the mountains and charged only two pesetas for his service I 
 Twenty-five miles of mountain climbing with a valise on your 
 back, and twenty-five miles tramping back to your home, for 
 forty cents! That, too, is part of the score that the Kaiser 
 will have to settle before he can read his title clear to the re- 
 spect of mankind. ... I drove through this Canary Island 
 town this afternoon and saw a few Germans drinking a poor 
 local beer at small tables on the sidewalk in front of the 
 "Casino." They are marooned in Las Palmas because their 
 ship happened to be here when war with England was de- 
 clared; what a lesson in sea power one gets at every turn one 
 takes in these days of war! In peace times you don't see it, 
 but the moment war is declared, no matter to what part of 
 the globe you go you will be made to realize what a heavy 
 hand England has. The sad-faced Germans I saw on this 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 211 
 
 island to-day, the 80,000 Germans now in Spain, the Germans 
 in America, in other lands all over the world would — many, if 
 not most of them — love to get back to Germany ; had England 
 kept out of the war they would long since have been in the 
 Fatherland. As it is, England's "Sea Power" holds them 
 prisoners in all the lands and islands of the earth. 
 
 Santa Cruz del Palmas, 
 
 Saturday, April 21. 
 
 Ever since I was a school boy and saw the picture of the 
 peak of Teneriffe in my geography I have wanted to see if that 
 mountain really is a perfect cone that rises sharply out of the 
 sea and keeps on rising until its peak is shrouded in eternal 
 snow. Well, I have seen it at last, and it really is a magnifi- 
 cent sight. For fifty miles before the Lopez sailed close by 
 its base we could see the snow-covered peak projecting out of 
 the sea, growing ever higher and higher as we approached, 
 until at last the whole prodigious mountain towered directly 
 above us. Then, as we passed on beyond it, for many hours 
 the scene was reversed, the base first disappearing below the 
 horizon, then the higher parts and finally the peak faded from 
 sight hidden by the gathering shades of night even before the 
 horizon hid it from our view. The approach and the de- 
 parture occupied some fifteen hours; that is, during nearly 
 ten hours the summit of the peak was visible either in pros- 
 pect or retrospect, and almost every moment of those hours 
 I spent on deck gazing upon the superb spectacle. . . . 
 
 As the Lopez remains at anchor here all day, I went ashore 
 this afternoon for a stroll through the streets of the town, and 
 the shop keepers came running to their doors to stare at the 
 unusual sight of a traveler in their midst; since the war be- 
 gan these islanders seldom see people from other parts of the 
 world. A tablet on an ancient stone house in the principal 
 street of the town records the fact that "The immortal author 
 
212 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 of Don Quixote" once occupied that house, and that the 
 tablet was inserted in the wall on the 300th anniversary of 
 the publication of that great work. 
 
 Porto Rico, 
 Tuesday, May i, 191 7. 
 Yesterday at noon the peaks of Porto Rico's mountains 
 appeared above the horizon on the sea; they gradually reached 
 higher and higher and after a while we saw groves of cocoanut 
 trees at their base, and then at last the old Spanish fort came 
 in view, and presently we were at anchor in the port of St. 
 Juan, again under the protection of Old Glory, of the most 
 beautiful flag on earth, of the Stars and Stripes! The very 
 atmosphere seems different here. The boat that came to take 
 us ashore was a motor launch, not an uncertain, slow-going 
 sail boat. And the charge was fixed — 25^ — not a matter 
 of bargain in which the pirate of a boatman always manages 
 to rob you, . . . Ashore we got the New York papers of April 
 21, the first papers of any kind we have seen since leaving 
 Spain; Joffre and Balfour are in Washington, Congress is 
 about to enact a conscription law, and the government at 
 Madrid has been overthrown because of the "atrocious" action 
 of a German U-boat in sinking the Spanish steamer Tom (odd 
 name that, for a Spaniard!) — such, in brief, are a few of the 
 startling things that have happened while we on the Antonio 
 Lopez have been drifting over thousands of miles of summer 
 seas. . . . Despite its tropical latitude (Porto Rico is only 18 
 degrees north of the equator) the people of San Juan have 
 already felt the effects of the American occupation. They are 
 quick and alert; on every corner is a policeman who would 
 do credit to the Broadway squad. And "jitneys" carry you 
 anywhere for a ridiculously small fee. For 20 cents I was 
 taken for miles over a smooth asphalt road, the breakers of 
 the sea on one side, a row of bungalows surrounded by beauti- 
 ful gardens or cocoanut groves on the other. English is taught 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 213 
 
 in the schools and all the children speak the language of their 
 new country; indeed, a great many of the older generation 
 have acquired a fair command of our language and it is safe 
 to predict that within a comparatively short period the pre- 
 vailing tongue spoken in Porto Rico will be, not Spanish, but 
 English. ... At dinner in a San Juan cafe the first thing the 
 waiter did was to place a glass of ice water before me — in- 
 fallible sign that I was again in America. It was the first ice 
 water I have had for a year. And in a nearby drug store I 
 saw a soda fountain — another American sign manual. Ice 
 cream soda is as unknown to the populations of Europe as 
 are the mysteries of the Eleusian rites. 
 
 Jacksonville, Florida, 
 Thursday, May 10, 19 17. 
 After gliding for several days along the coasts of San 
 Domingo, Hayti and Cuba, the Antonio Lopez docked at Ha- 
 vana last Saturday, and Monday I caught a steamer for Key 
 West, the southern terminus of Mr. Flagler's "Over Sea" Rail- 
 road — it is literally over the sea, for the tracks are supported 
 on massive concrete arches whose piers rest upon coral reefs 
 beneath the surface of the Gulf; one feels an odd sensation 
 while sitting on the rear platform of a Pullman sleeper out of 
 sight of land, looking out upon the sea from which frequently 
 emerge schools of flying fish and other members of the finny 
 tribe usually to be seen from the deck of a steamer and not 
 of a railroad train. ... At all of the bridges, and at many of 
 the stations on the seventy miles of "Over Sea" road, soldiers 
 in khaki stood guard, loaded rifles over their shoulders — the 
 only change I noted since my last journey over this road in 
 February, 19 16. It would be quite easy for an evilly inclined 
 person to go out in a sailboat to some point along the seventy 
 miles of arches and blow up enough of them to put the road 
 out of commission — hence the presence of our boys in khaki 
 with loaded rifles. I hear they have orders to shoot on sight 
 
214 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 any one seen approaching any of the hundreds of concrete 
 piers which rise up out of the gulf between Key West and 
 the mainland. 
 
 My train leaves at three o'clock and, barring accidents, 
 within forty-eight hours I shall have arrived at Washington 
 and filed my report with the Department of State. 
 
PART III 
 

Washington, D. C, 
 January 31, 1918. 
 The Secretary of State has commissioned me to undertake 
 another mission abroad. Beyond saying that my work, if 
 successful, will tend to safeguard American interests in France 
 it is not permissible to mention details regarding it. How- 
 ever, it will be worth while to note the changes wrought by 
 another year of war in France, consequently I shall resume 
 my ''Journal" within a few weeks. 
 
 On S. S. Espagne, 
 24 hours out from New York, 
 
 Bound for Bordeaux, 
 Monday, February 18, 1918. 
 In going to Bordeaux two years ago war seemed to me to 
 have made sad changes in the matter of ocean travel, but 
 compared with the rules of to-day those of 191 6 were lax and 
 easy. A high barbed-wire fence now runs seventy-five feet 
 in front of the entrance to New York's steamship piers, and 
 armed soldiers patrol every foot of that fence. When my 
 taxi started to enter the gate leading to pier 57 a sentinel cried 
 "Halt!" And we were not allowed to move until I had shown 
 not only my ticket to Bordeaux and my passport, but also a 
 military permit to go upon the pier. 
 
 And before boarding the boat no less than six different 
 officials took turns in cross-examining me: whither was I 
 going? Why was I going? When would I be returning? And 
 did I have more than $5,000 in my pocket? I was obliged to 
 sign a written statement that I did not have more than $5,000 
 
 217 
 
2i8 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 loose change in my pockets — which I readily and truthfully 
 did. Theaters, hotels, cafes and the like had thoughtfully 
 taken care of me in New York and had made it possible for 
 me to avoid violating the law which forbids the taking of 
 more than $5,000 in cash out of the country. 
 
 In the olden days friends of departing passengers stood on 
 the piers to wave handkerchiefs and blow kisses at them; 
 to-day good-bys must be said out on Water Street through a 
 barbed-wire fence — hardly a satisfactory way of saying them, 
 consequently your friends don't come down to the steamer. 
 The people you now see on the pier are there strictly for busi- 
 ness; there are more of them than one used to see even in the 
 "rush" summer season of pre-war days, but they are a differ- 
 ent sort of people. No mere tourists are these throngs on the 
 Espagne's decks; every berth on the ship is taken by men and 
 women in khaki uniforms, with here and there a sprinkling 
 of French gray-blue — and other colors, too, for we have on 
 board the officers of the recent Servian Commission to America, 
 several French officers, Italians, etc. The khaki people are of 
 the Red Cross, the Y. M. C. A. and the Ambulance Corps — 
 most of the last are young women, and right smart do they 
 look in their puttees, short khaki skirts, leather coats and caps. 
 One, a red-cheeked girl of twenty-four, told me she "just 
 loved" to drive an automobile. 
 
 "I've been driving my own car eight years just for fun," 
 she said. "So why not drive one of the government's cars 
 for our wounded soldiers?" 
 
 Why not? There is danger, yes; but death will come some 
 day in any event. At worst this adventure can but bring 
 death sooner rather than later. And think of the good that 
 will be done by taking the chance! This is the substance of 
 the red-cheeked girl's reply to my suggestion that she was 
 taking a serious, perhaps a dangerous step. The Monster War 
 does myriads of dreadful things, but it also does a few good 
 ones, not the least of which is the spirit of sacrifice, of service, 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 219 
 
 of patriotism, which it is awakening in souls that formerly 
 thought only of self. A short time ago the sight of a pretty, 
 but self-indulgent, society Miss driving her automobile reck- 
 lessly down the road, just to have a good time, hardly sug- 
 gested bursting bombs and wounded soldiers tenderly carried 
 away from a battle-field. To-day such things may well be 
 suggested, for the pretty girl you see dashing down the boule- 
 vard in her motor car to-day, to-morrow may be dashing over 
 the roads of France to succor a stricken soldier! 
 
 A less pleasing change wrought by war was made manifest 
 this morning at breakfast — only two thin slices of bread and 
 one lump of sugar. Of jam, marmalade, eggs, butter, etc., 
 there was aplenty, but when one likes one's coffee fairly sweet 
 jam does not make up for lack of sugar. Besides, of what 
 good is jam if there is no bread to spread it on? . . .A note 
 on the menu card tells passengers how grieved the company 
 is not to be able any more to serve wine free, but "owing to 
 the war," etc. If there is one thing in France the price of 
 which has not been increased it is wine; tonnage being re- 
 quired for more essential things, the export of wine has de- 
 creased enormously, so that its price has not advanced in 
 France. Ergo, I consider that note on the menu card as cam- 
 ouflage. 
 
 We left pier 57 yesterday at 3.16 p. m. and, despite the 
 bitter cold wind that was blowing, everybody stood out on 
 deck for several hours, so as to see New York's wonderful 
 skyline as long as possible. "It may be for the last time!" 
 That was the thought spoken by some, felt by all. The Sea 
 Lords and Prime Ministers say the submarine menace has been 
 checked — I devoutly hope they know what they are talking 
 about. But whether "checked" or not, enough steamers are 
 sunk to make ocean travel a serious matter. Nobody aboard 
 seems specially nervous, but everybody realizes that there is 
 danger. And consequently a ship's passengers do not consti- 
 tute the care-free, merry crowd that they used to do. 
 
2 20 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 Well before dark last night stewards went about closing all 
 windows and portholes with a metal hood, so that from the 
 outside not a ray of light could be seen. This precaution was 
 to be expected as we entered the war zone off the coast of 
 France, but why begin it five hours out of New York? Are 
 German raiders and U-boats operating off America's shores? 
 
 There came to my hotel in New York a few days ago a 
 letter from an "Unsinkable Suit" concern; the writer said, as 
 I was about to cross the Atlantic, no doubt I would thank 
 him for calling to my attention a device which not only makes 
 ocean travel safe, but makes it a positive pleasure! For it 
 removes all cause for uneasiness in that, in the event of your 
 ship sinking, it causes the disaster to be an adventure rather 
 than a tragedy! Inclosed with the letter were pictures which 
 bore out the writer's optimistic statement; men and women 
 incased in a strange and bulky dress were represented float- 
 ing about among icebergs, their faces wreathed in smiles as if 
 they were in a Broadway theater watching a comedy show. 
 
 These suits, the letter said, not only keep you afloat, they 
 also keep you warm^ — unless you get a puncture. In that case 
 you will still float, but water may get into your suit. "How- 
 ever," added the writer, "it is believed that the heat of your 
 body will warm the water that seeps inside your suit and thus 
 continue to keep you j airly warm." 
 
 It was an alluring letter which, though it did not catch me, 
 did get my secretary, young Southgate; he forthwith bought 
 one of them and so, if the Espagne is torpedoed, I may have 
 a chance to see if it is really possible for a human being to 
 look as happy adrift among icebergs as look the people in 
 the picture sent me by the "Unsinkable Suit" concern. One 
 thing is sure: if Southgate does look that happy while I am 
 taking my last swim in the icy Atlantic, if I can kill him by 
 a look I shall do it. 
 
 The purser has handed each passenger a printed paper con- 
 taining minute directions what to do when the order "Abandon 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 221 
 
 Ship!" is given. Such directions may be necessary; so, too, 
 may it be well to write intending travelers about unsinkable 
 suits, accompanied by harrowing descriptions of ship wrecks. 
 But such things are distinctly not cheerful reading while cross- 
 ing the ocean. 
 
 At Sea, Saturday night, 
 
 February 23, 1918. 
 We have just had an auction for the benefit of French 
 wounded soldiers and sailers. A bottle of champagne brought 
 $100; a copy of Ella Wheeler Wilcox's latest book of poems, 
 auctioned off by Elsie Janis, fetched $75. The author of the 
 poems, looking interesting as well as handsome in a black 
 velvet gown, affording a vivid contrast to her silvery gray 
 hair, sat in view of all; and Elsie Janis is a very magnetic 
 and convincing, as well as pretty, young woman — all of which 
 had no little to do with the getting of $75 for a book the price 
 of which is only a dollar. . . . Whether he has become less 
 fearful of German frightfulness, or his heart is beating with 
 sympathy for the brave French soldiers, I do not know, but 
 Southgate donated his sixty-dollar "Unsinkable Suit" and the 
 bids ran up to $75; there they stopped until a passenger 
 shouted: "I'll give a hundred dollars if you will put the suit 
 on." Instantly the charming, chic little Parisienne, who at 
 the moment happened to be wielding the auctioneer's hammer, 
 began climbing into that awful suit. The assistance of two 
 men was required and then at last she, who in her proper per- 
 son was dainty and small, was so enormous, officers of the 
 Espagne declared she would not be allowed in a lifeboat, in 
 case of the ship being abandoned; she would, they said, take 
 up the room of three persons which, of course, was more space 
 than one person could have. Hearing this, Southgate feels 
 satisfied as well as philanthropic, for no matter how unsink- 
 able a suit may be, it isn't as desirable as a lifeboat that has 
 at least a chance of being rowed, or wafted by the wind to 
 shore. 
 
222 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 At Sea, Tuesday, 
 February 26. 
 
 As a result of entering the war zone many passengers have 
 acquired a case of nerves. Last night some slept on deck with 
 life-belts by their sides. And at midnight Mr. S., who shares 
 my stateroom, awoke me from a sound slumber and said four 
 aeroplanes were circling around and above the ship. 
 
 "I thought you wouldn't wish to sleep through a sight like 
 that," he said. I admitted I would wish to see such a sight, 
 but was he sure he hadn't been dreaming? "I haven't been 
 asleep," replied Mr. S. "Moreover, there are twenty or thirty 
 other passengers who have seen the aeroplanes. They are up 
 on deck watching them now." 
 
 Five minutes later, having hastily jumped into shoes, trous- 
 ers and overcoat, I, too, was on deck. And there, in truth, 
 were some thirty or more people leaning over the ship's rail 
 gazing up into the heavens. But they were not looking at 
 aeroplanes. Shining through fleecy white clouds were several 
 stars; and it was the light of those stars which those nervous, 
 overwrought passengers were mistaking for lights on aero- 
 planes! I told Mr. S. not to awaken me again unless he saw 
 a fleet of U-boats as well as aeroplanes. 
 
 Bordeaux, Wednesday, 
 February 27, 1918. 
 The Espagne warped alongside her dock this morning and 1 
 find Bordeaux greatly changed since my last visit two years 
 ago. Then it was a typical French town, ancient and, withal, 
 somewhat "sleepy." Now it is almost an American city and 
 fairly humming. On every corner stands a wideawake Ameri- 
 can soldier with M. P. (Military Police) on his sleeve. 
 American ambulances, motor trucks and service cars are seen 
 rushing through the streets, and every little while a company of 
 "Sammies" comes swinging along. I saw one company of 
 black Sammies and they grinned broadly at me as I watched 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 223 
 
 them go by. One of the "M. P.'s" with whom I chatted on a 
 street corner said his job is a soft one. 
 
 "Of course," he added, "when one of our boys gets gay it 
 is we M. P.'s who have to take him in; the French leave all 
 the Sammies to us. But, on the whole, our boys are well- 
 behaved, so about all I have to do is to walk about town — 
 which isn't half bad, seeing as the French are so friendly 
 to us." 
 
 On a big building facing one of Bordeaux' open squares is 
 a sign bearing the letters "Y. M. C. A.," and on entering the 
 door beneath that sign I felt as if I had suddenly stepped 
 back into the good old United States. On a long table in the 
 reading-room was a lot of American newspapers and maga- 
 zines; in the refreshment room soldiers were drinking tea or 
 eating ice cream — real ice cream served in generous American 
 portions, not the pallid stuff made of condensed milk and 
 water and served on a plate the size of a silver dollar, as is 
 the fashion in France. Fresh, wholesome faced American girls 
 were in charge of the canteen, selling chocolates, cigarettes 
 and the like at lower prices than are charged in New York. 
 The object is to make the place attractive so that our soldier 
 boys will love to go there rather than to places less elevating 
 and refined. . . . The hotel dining-room at luncheon to-day 
 was crowded with American officers, one of whom told me our 
 war progress in France is really splendid. "We have hardly 
 begun, in comparison with that which we mean to do," he said, 
 "but even what we have accomplished would make the Kaiser's 
 nights sleepless, if he fully realized it." . . . This cheerful- 
 ness in spite of the bad news from Russia which greeted us 
 on landing this forenoon surprised me, but when I mentioned 
 Russia the American officer said: "Napoleon took Moscow 
 in 181 2, but that did not prevent the Allies from taking Na- 
 poleon in 1 8 14. What if the Kaiser does take Petrograd? 
 Inevitably he will have to get out of Russia. The world 
 simply can't stand such international bullying." 
 
2 24 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 All of this sounds encouraging, also strange, considering it 
 was spoken in the dining-room of a hotel which until recently 
 saw almost as little of Americans as it saw of men from the 
 moon. "Somewhere in France," now that I am there myself, 
 doesn't seem as if it were away from home, thanks to the 
 fact that America is now in this fight against autocracy. . . . 
 
 Among the Espagne's passengers was a "Major" X, of a 
 middle western state who, being owner of a country news- 
 paper, and having some political "pull" with the Governor 
 of his state, was appointed a "Major" so that he might go to 
 France for a couple of months, observe the state of the war 
 and make the same known to the people back home! Mr. X. 
 wears a khaki uniform, puttees, cap and all, and looks very 
 martial indeed; but this is his first trip outside of his native 
 land and the "Innocent Abroad" brand is stamped all over 
 him. This morning immediately on coming from the steamer 
 to the Hotel de France X. went into the dining-room to get 
 his breakfast and no sooner had he taken a seat than a stern 
 voice from across the room demanded: 
 
 "Major, have you reported at headquarters?" 
 
 X., startled at the unexpected question, stammered: "Why, 
 no; I haven't been there yet." 
 
 "Well, sir," said the officer sternly, "the regulations require 
 you to report the first thing on arriving. Didn't you know 
 that?" 
 
 "No, I didn't," replied X., "and to speak frankly, sir, I did 
 not know the headquarters were here." 
 
 The officer scrutinized "Major" X. closely a moment, then 
 asked him to explain; and X., crossing over to the other side 
 of the dining-room to the table where his interlocutor sat, told 
 him how his Governor had "appointed" him a "Major" in 
 order that he might see something of the war! Whether the 
 officer, who proved to be General Scott, was having a little 
 quiet fun with this "Major" by gubernatorial appointment, or 
 whether he was really deceived by X.'s camouflage I do not 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 225 
 
 know; the latter is not improbable, for X.'s uniform is an 
 exact duplicate of a real army Major's uniform, with the ex- 
 ception that the letters "U. S. A." are not sewed upon his 
 collar. At a distance of thirty feet even an old army officer 
 might well be misled. At any rate, General Scott affected to be 
 greatly surprised on finding that X. was not a real Major; 
 in a few moments, however, his sense of humor seemed to 
 overcome his surprise and with a twinkle in his eye he said: 
 
 "Well, Major (with great stress on the title), I suppose the 
 people in your state will be eagerly waiting for your report, 
 eh?" 
 
 X. rose to the occasion. "They will indeed, sir," he said 
 with enthusiasm. "Confidentially I may tell you that by the 
 articles I shall publish in my paper I mean to arouse the war 
 sentiment of my people, arouse it, sir, to a patriotic pitch!" 
 
 "Ah, just so, just so," murmured the General musingly. 
 "And that being the case it might help you if my chauffeur 
 were to drive you about Bordeaux a bit. My automobile is in 
 front of the hotel and is at your service for a few hours if you 
 care to have it." 
 
 If he cared to have it! X. returned to his table as if walk- 
 ing on air, disposed of his breakfast in short order, then got 
 into the General's car and I did not see him again until our 
 train for Paris was pulling out of the Bordeaux station. By 
 fast running X. managed to jump on the steps of the last coach 
 of the moving train; a soldier (American) who was carrying 
 his suit case hurled the case after him. And then the "Major" 
 proudly told everybody in the car how "as a guest of General 
 Scott" he had obtained very valuable information to send to 
 his people "back home." It was an amusing episode, but one 
 not without a serious aspect; if a pompous, but sincere, harm- 
 less, fellow can camouflage himself in the uniform of an offi- 
 cer of the American army, so can a man who is neither sincere 
 nor harmless. It is questionable whether Governors should 
 make such appointments, and Congress, I think, should pro- 
 
226 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 hibit the wearing of our army's uniform by any one not a 
 genuine soldier or officer. 
 
 Another of the Espagne's passengers, a Mr. C. of St. Louis, 
 resigned a salaried position paying him $300 a month to 
 come to France and enlist in the Foreign Legion where his pay 
 will be $1.20 a month! C, who is 45 years old, tried to enlist 
 in our army but was rejected on account of his age. "I am 
 hard as nails," he said to me one day while we were tramping 
 the Espagne's deck. "And I feel as if I oughtn't to be a 
 slacker just because according to the calendar I am beyond 
 the military age. So why shouldn't I go to the trenches?" 
 
 The Foreign Legion has some men who are past fifty and 
 it may be that Mr. C. will make good, but to say the least of 
 it, his experiment is a dubious one. It requires not only hard 
 muscles but good arteries, good heart action and capacity for 
 great endurance, to carry a soldier's kit (weight at least fifty 
 pounds) on long marches, to dig trenches, to stand in them 
 day after day and night after night, to charge across No Man's 
 Land and at the other side of it to bayonet Germans or kill 
 them with bombs. That sort of terrible work can seldom be 
 endured by a man of forty-five; I shall be interested in hear- 
 ing whether Mr. C.'s judgment proves as sound as his pa- 
 triotism. . . . 
 
 On our last day at sea we were escorted by two destroyers 
 and two hydroplanes; the latter kept constantly swirling 
 around the steamer, keeping a sharp lookout for submarines 
 below the surface of the sea ; had they seen one a signal would 
 have been flashed to the destroyers, they would have rushed 
 to the spot indicated by the aviator, a depth bomb would 
 have been dropped and friend Fritz, in all probability, would 
 never have seen daylight again. I am disposed to believe that 
 the immunity thus far enjoyed by the French Line going to 
 Bordeaux is due to the admirable precautions taken by the 
 French government, although some say the U-Boats spare the 
 French liners because they carry both German mail and Ger- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 227 
 
 man spies. It is true that about the only way Germany has 
 of communicating with the United States is through Switzer- 
 land and France and the Bordeaux boats to New York, but 
 whether that fact affects German U-Boat policy I do not know. 
 It is a fact, however, that thus far the French Line to Bor- 
 deaux has not had a single one of its steamers sunk. 
 
 Paris, Thursday night, 
 
 February 28. 
 
 Coming up from Bordeaux to-day dejeuner in the dining car 
 cost five francs, instead of four; and dinner cost six instead 
 of four and a half. And there was no sugar for the coffee — 
 only saccharine, a colorless fluid in a bottle. These are about 
 all the changes in the matter of "eats" that seem to have 
 taken place since I traveled over this same road last April on 
 my way to Spain. The dejeuner comprised: 
 
 Hors d'oeuvres, omelette, veal, potatoes, peas, cheese, figs, 
 apples and oranges — cost five francs (87^). 
 
 A lunch as well cooked and as ample in quantity as the 
 above would be hard to get on an American dining car at 
 twice 87 cents. ... In the Bordeaux station this morning 
 we witnessed an affecting sight — a soldier telling his wife 
 and his mother good-by. It was evident that the thought 
 uppermost in the minds of all three was: "It may be our 
 last good-by; he may never return." The soldier kissed first 
 the elder woman, then the younger; then before he had taken 
 six steps he turned and rushed back and kissed them again. 
 Several times did this occur, each time that he was about to 
 board the train he would turn back and passionately press 
 the two women to his arms again. Both the mother and the 
 wife were in deep mourning, from which I judged they have 
 already lost some beloved one in this mad war and on that 
 account are doubly grieved to see another of their family go 
 forth to be sacrificed. . . . From the window of my taxi on 
 the way to the railway station in Bordeaux I saw boxes piled 
 
2 28 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 up to a height of fifteen feet and extending the length of sev- 
 eral city blocks; these thousand or more big boxes were labeled 
 "Ford Motors," or "Ford Parts," etc. Query: if there are 
 this many Fords recently landed in Bordeaux, how many 
 altogether have been sent to France for our army? 
 
 Paris, Monday night, 
 
 March 4, 191 8. 
 At eight o'clock every morning a maid brings to my room 
 a cup of chocolate, 100 grams (1/5 lb.) of bread, a butter 
 plate full of jam and a cup in the bottom of which are two 
 tiny tablets the size of a very small shirt button. I thought 
 they were some sort of after breakfast peppermints, but to- 
 day Marie Louise told me the tiny tablets are saccharine, to 
 be used in case I wish to sweeten my chocolate. Luckily the 
 chocolate is made by the manufacturer sweet enough to suit 
 my taste, hence thus far I have not used saccharine pills. In 
 cafes I observe fashionable ladies pulling out of their bags 
 beautiful little gold boxes from which they take a lump of 
 sugar to drop in their after-dinner coffee, for restaurant and 
 hotel keepers are forbidden to serve sugar to their guests. 
 People who keep house for themselves receive cards permitting 
 them to buy monthly 750 grams (i^^ lbs.) for each member 
 of their family (i. e., if they can find any sugar to buy). Peo- 
 ple who live in hotels are given no cards; they are supposed 
 to get their share of sugar in food served to them in their 
 hotel. As I have seen no food at my hotel that had any 
 sugar in it (excepting my chocolate in the morning, and the 
 sugar in that was put there by the chocolate manufacturer) 
 I should have to go without sugar for after-dinner coffee had I 
 not brought a little with me from New York. I have used for 
 many years as a collar button box a silver snuff box used 
 by my ancestor Nicholas Meriwether more than a century and 
 a half ago; on the side of the box is engraved "N. M. — 1760." 
 Well, the collar buttons are now relegated to a dresser drawer 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 229 
 
 and Nicholas Meriwether's snuff box, which was old when 
 Robespierre was cutting off heads on the Place de la Con- 
 corde, is now serving me in Paris as a sugar box. . . . Here 
 are a few food rules that went into effect last week: 
 
 I. — Hours for meals: 
 
 Solid food may be served from the opening of a restaurant 
 in the morning until 2.30 p. m., and again from 6.30 to 9. 
 
 Between 2.30 and 6.30 p. m. a heavy penalty is imposed on any 
 one who serves a cake, a sandwich or any solid food whatso- 
 ever. 
 2. — As to cheese: 
 
 If your meal costs six francs or more you will not be allowed 
 to have any cheese. 
 
 If your meal costs less than six francs you may order a por- 
 tion of dry cheese. "Les fromages mous," such as Brie, Camem- 
 bert, etc., are prohibited unless they contain less than 36 parts 
 of fat for each 100 parts of dry substance. 
 3. — As to amount of food you may order : 
 
 One portion of soup; either hors d'oeuvres or oysters (but 
 not both) ; two plates "aux choix" (i. e., a choice of any two 
 kinds of dishes on the menu — two kinds of meat, or one meat 
 and one vegetable, or no meat but two kinds of vegetables) ; 
 the serving of butter at any time or any place is prohibited. It 
 may be used only in cooking. 
 4. — As to Desserts : 
 
 Marmalades, fruit, jams, etc., may be served; desserts con- 
 taining flour, eggs or milk (either fresh or condensed) are 
 forbidden. Chocolate and water ices are permitted. 
 5. — As to Bread: 
 
 Restaurants and Hotels may serve each guest at each meal 
 100 grams (1/5 lb.) of bread without a ticket; on presenta- 
 tion of a ticket an additional 100 grams may be served. 
 
 (But note that bread tickets are distributed only to persons 
 keeping house for themselves, and not to residents in hotels.) 
 
 Sandwiches of all kinds — ham, cheese, etc. — are strictly for- 
 bidden. 
 
2 30 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 6. — As to Sugar : 
 
 If you keep house you may get from the Mairie of your 
 district a card permitting you to purchase 750 grams (i^ lbs.) 
 of sugar a month (providing you can find any to buy). And 
 you may serve sugar to yourself at a hotel or restaurant table. 
 
 Although these rules sound formidable, in truth they do 
 not appear to prevent people from having enough to eat. Most 
 of the prohibited items are not really essential. Already after 
 only a short sojourn in France I find that the lack of sugar, 
 butter and milk has ceased to inconvenience me. 
 
 When I left France in April, 191 7, there had not been a 
 successful air raid over Paris since January, 19 16, consequently 
 Parisians thought little of German aviators. Now they are 
 giving the subject more thought because of a raid that oc- 
 curred a few weeks ago, killing 62 persons and wounding more 
 than 200. From the window of my room in the Hotel Roose- 
 velt I looked down to-day on the great Arc de I'Etoile, only 
 a hundred yards away, and saw workmen erecting a scaffolding 
 fifty feet high against the bas reliefs and statuary on the sides 
 of the arch tooking toward the Champs Elysees. They are 
 going to stack a mountain of bags filled with earth up against 
 those statues to protect them as far as possible from bursting 
 bombs. Similar protection is being provided for the Column 
 Vendome, the Statues of the Grand Opera House, the Louvre, 
 etc.; and Napoleon's tomb has already been buried under a 
 mountain of sandbags. Three blocks from my hotel, on the 
 Avenue de la Grande Armee, is a six-story house, the front 
 part of which from top to bottom was cut off by a bomb as 
 cleanly as if it had been sliced off by a gigantic knife. . . . 
 
 At my hotel are a Russian gentleman and lady whom it is 
 sad to see. A year ago they were wealthy but following the 
 Russian revolution their estates were seized, their houses were 
 burned, their income was confiscated. From the Ritz, Paris' 
 most expensive hotel where they formerly lived, they found 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 231 
 
 themselves obliged to come to this modest place; and now they 
 must go to an even less expensive home. Added to the pang 
 of sudden poverty this couple bears the burden of national 
 disgrace; they seem bowed down by the thought that the 
 whole world now pities and despises their country — a short 
 time ago thought to be one of the great nations of the earth, 
 now the sport and plaything of madmen like the Bolsheviki 
 or brigands like the Germans, Seldom have I seen faces 
 so profoundly melancholy, so hopeless, so dejected as those of 
 the distinguished Russian and his wife at the table near me. I 
 begin to comprehend as never before what the French Emigres 
 suffered during the upheaval of the great Revolution! 
 
 Sidelights are thrown on the war by the London Times 
 "Personal" column; for instance this from Monday's issue: 
 
 "Information. — Any prisoner of war returned from Ger- 
 many who may have seen or heard of 2d Lt. C. Warnington, the 
 Buffs, reported missing May 31, 1917, is earnestly begged to 
 communicate with Mrs. Warnington," etc. 
 
 Missing nearly a year! The chances are that this gallant 
 son of Britain has long since joined the myriads of unnum- 
 bered dead, but it is not certain, consequently the wife (or 
 widow) lives in an agony of hope and fear. . . . The "Buffs" 
 lost their Major as well as 2d Lieutenant, as I noted from a 
 "Personal" just below the one given above: 
 
 "The Buffs: Major Cyrill Cattley, missing Nov. 30, 1917. 
 Will relatives of prisoners of war kindly ask news of him?" 
 
 Of another sort, but equally informing, is this one: 
 
 "Will some kind person lend invalided Captain's wife, with 
 two little boys, £50? Will repay." 
 
 But for a madman's ambition to shine in history as another 
 Caesar this Captain's wife and her little boys doubtless would 
 
232 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 be enjoying life in comfortable circumstances; as it is, she is 
 forced to pocket pride and publicly solicit alms. Just below 
 the adv. of the invalided Captain's wife appears this: 
 
 "Will some one help a nurse in need of a holiday?" 
 
 Amid so many more pressing demands it may be doubted 
 if the nurse gets her holiday; for instance, before giving a 
 nurse money for a holiday the average person would probably 
 prefer to respond to this appeal: 
 
 "Will lady with nurse adopt disabled officer's baby girl (6 
 months), for several months, pending wife's recovery from 
 illness." 
 
 Usually corporations advertise in order to increase their 
 business; war has changed that; witness this item from the 
 Times: 
 
 "The public are appealed to by the Petroleum Executive not 
 to hire Taxis when they can walk. No able bodied man or 
 woman should use a Taxi except in case of absolute necessity; 
 the demands of the army for petrol are daily becoming greater 
 and the use of Taxis for selfish amusement is the cause of great 
 ill feeling as well as waste." 
 
 Another notice in the Times rebukes certain landlords and 
 tenants. The numerous air raids over London have prompted 
 many rich people to seek abodes in the suburbs where the Ger- 
 mans are not so apt to drop bombs. These rich people offer 
 big rents, which has caused landlords to give notice to their 
 old tenants to vacate and these latter indignantly ask why 
 they must move into the danger zone (where alone rents are 
 not exorbitant)? An officer's wife writes the Times: 
 
 "I have been given a month's notice to hand over my house 
 to people who are offering double my rent so that they may 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 233 
 
 get out of the air raid zone. Is not this a form of profiteer- 
 ing? And shall my invalid husband, who lost his health fight- 
 ing the foe in Flanders, now bare his breast again to the enemy 
 because we have not money enough to live outside the danger 
 zone ?" 
 
 The authorities promptly decided that the landlords were 
 engaged in profiteering and stringent regulations were enacted 
 forbidding it. No doubt the situation has been bettered, but 
 complaint is now made that a number of rich men have 
 bought small houses in the non-danger zone, and have given 
 notice to the tenants to vacate. It seems difficult to prevent 
 a man from occupying his own house, rather than renting it, 
 but if the practice spreads a remedy will be found. In these 
 abnormal times property rights will be made to give way to 
 the general weal. 
 
 All France is ringing with the revelations made by Minister 
 of Foreign Affairs Pinchon at the Alsace-Lorraine "Reunion" 
 in the Sorbonne the other day. How France found the key 
 to the German code Pinchon does not say, but he got it a 
 short time ago and thereby learned that on August 3, 1914, 
 Baron von Schoen, German Ambassador to France, was in- 
 structed by his government to demand that France hand Ver- 
 dun and Toul over to Germany for the duration of the war 
 between Germany and Russia — in case France decided to re- 
 main neutral! As it happened, Vivian! answered von Schoen 
 in such a way that he had no opportunity or need to make the 
 insulting demand he had been instructed to make. The French 
 Prime Minister, asked if France would join Russia, or remain 
 neutral, answered neither with a Yes or No; what he said was: 
 France will consult her interests. This reply disconcerted von 
 Schoen and he withdrew without transmitting the demand for 
 Verdun and Toul, which was to be made only if France said 
 she would remain neutral. If anywhere in the world there 
 is a sane human being who has doubted that Germany deli- 
 
234 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 berately determined to force France into war (of course so 
 that Germany might rob her of more provinces), surely that 
 being can doubt no longer. Germany knew France could not 
 possibly consent to the abasement of handing over in a time 
 of peace her two most powerful fortresses, therefore — fearing 
 that possibly France might wish to remain neutral — Germany 
 kept this astounding insulting demand up her sleeve so as to 
 make it impossible for France to refuse to go to war! The 
 German newspapers themselves admit this: witness this from 
 the Berlin Welt am Montag: 
 
 "Let one imagine the emotion which would have aroused the 
 entire German people had France, in the midst of profound 
 peace, demanded of us that we should abandon for a certain 
 time Metz and Strasburg ! What will the Reichstag say of 
 this affair?" 
 
 The Berlin Vorwaerts says: 
 
 "The instructions given by the German government to Herr 
 von Schoen form an historic document; they signify that our 
 ambassador had been ordered to demand of France an engage- 
 ment that she could not accept, and that it was not wished that 
 she should accept. The instructions had for their object the 
 simple purpose of hastening the catastrophe." 
 
 All that the Gazette, of Frankfort, has to say on the sub- 
 ject is: 
 
 "It was certainly a maladroit piece of diplomacy to give 
 such instructions to Baron von Schoen, but it was nothing 
 more. It would have sufficed to demand of France that she 
 should not mobilize." 
 
 Paris, Wednesday, 
 March 6, 191 8. 
 M. Lafferre, Minister of Public Instruction and Beaux- 
 Art, announced yesterday a decree imposing a 500 franc fine 
 upon any one who sells, or offers to sell, a theater ticket at a 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 235 
 
 price greater than the box office price; in case of a second 
 offense within three years the fine may be 2,000 francs. It is 
 interesting to note that Paris, within eighty miles of the battle 
 lines, has time to put a period to a nuisance of which New 
 York has not yet been able to rid itself. . . . Yesterday the 
 price of butter in Paris was fixed at Frs. 9.20 the kilo (2 1/5 
 lbs.) for the best grade, and Frs. 8.60 for the second grade — 
 i. e., the best butter will cost 73 cents a pound and second 
 grade 69 cents. The serving of butter by hotels and cafes 
 will continue to be prohibited, but persons who choose may 
 take their own butter to the table of a hotel or cafe. . . . The 
 price of potatoes has also been fixed; to consumers in Paris 
 it will henceforth be 85 centimes per 4 2/5 lbs. for best grade, 
 75 centimes for second grade and 65 centimes for the third 
 grade, or, respectively, 3.38, 2.98 and 2.58 cents per pound. 
 
 Paris, Midnight, 
 Friday, March 8, 191 8. 
 
 At 8.30 p.m., three hours ago, just as I finished writing 
 some letters and was putting my "Corona" away, there came 
 rising to my ears from the Avenue dTena that long, wailing, 
 dreadful sound of the siren — signal that the Boches are com- 
 ing! 
 
 Instantly turning off my lights and opening my window I 
 looked out upon Paris. One of the many motor fire engines 
 which rush through the Capital to sound the alarm was just 
 turning into the Champs Elysees at the great Arc de I'Etoile 
 a hundred yards away, and overhead shells were bursting in 
 the air. French planes distinguishable by their lights rose in 
 swarms to meet the foe; I saw one starting from near the big 
 arch and followed it with my eye as it flew over the wide 
 avenue of the Champs Elysees in the direction of the Louvre. 
 As it flew, from time to time it flashed first a white, then a 
 red light — a weird, fascinating sight. These signals are 
 
236 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 changed daily, so that the Germans may not use them on their 
 aeroplanes. 
 
 After listening to the roar of the guns and watching the 
 bursting of the shells for a quarter of an hour — a terrible, but 
 fascinating sight — I closed the iron shutters on my window, 
 donned my overcoat and went down to the ground floor of the 
 Roosevelt where most of the hotel's guests were huddled to- 
 gether in the salon. Passing through the salon out onto the 
 Avenue d'lena I walked down to the huge arch of the Etoile. 
 A great crowd of men and women was there, laughing and 
 singing and gazing up in the skies at the aeroplane lights and 
 bursting shells. A hundred yards beyond the Arch is a Metro 
 (subway) station; there, too, was a big crowd which had 
 sought refuge beneath the level of the street. The moment a 
 raid is announced all subway trains stop wherever they may 
 happen to be, the electric current is turned off and passen- 
 gers may, if they wish, get out and walk to the nearest sta- 
 tion. Most of those I saw just now had walked through the 
 dark tunnel of the Metro to gain the Etoile station, although 
 some had left their homes to go there, thinking it safer down 
 in the Metro than in the cellars of their houses. 
 
 Returning to the Roosevelt I chatted a while with the peo- 
 ple still congregated in the salon, then I returned to my room 
 where I am writing these notes at midnight, the roar of cannon 
 and the shrieking of bursting shells still deafening my ears. 
 The night's experience has afforded me an interesting study, 
 not only in the psychology of other people, but also of my 
 own. 
 
 Am I foolhardy? Brave? Ignorant? "No" may certainly 
 be answered to the last two questions. Ignorant of the danger 
 I am not; I am quite aware that comparative safety is to be 
 had only by spending the night in a cellar. But it is dark and 
 cold in a cellar. Also I figure the chances of being hit as 
 only one in 50,000; also it is exceedingly instructive to study 
 a crowd that is under the spell of a great tragedy. And last, 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 237 
 
 but not least, as Rousseau said: "J'ai vecu" (I have lived)! 
 Why dread leaving the world while yet a man in body as well 
 as mind? Is Old Age so desirable? ... A mixture of all 
 these things is responsible for my going out onto the streets 
 instead of remaining under shelter as we are told to do. 
 
 Paris, Sunday, 
 
 March 10. 
 To-day, 36 hours after Friday night's air raid, here is all the 
 information Paris newspapers have been permitted to print: 
 
 "The German aerial attack was conducted by considerable 
 forces. Ten or a dozen squadrons of aviators, following in 
 their march toward Paris the valleys of the Gise and the 
 Marne, and also the tracks of the railroads, succeeded in flying 
 over the Capital. 
 
 "The alarm was given at 8.54 p. m. and continued until 12.15 
 a. m. Our defensive aeroplanes to the number of 61 arose in 
 the air at 9 p. m. and incessantly crossed and recrossed the 
 entire area over Paris until the end of the raid, and repelled a 
 number of enemy planes before they reached Paris. 
 
 "The raid's victims numbered 9 dead and 39 wounded." 
 
 Not a word as to where the bombs fell, or as to what houses 
 or places were struck. This policy of secretiveness is said 
 to be First, that the Germans may not know just what meas- 
 ure of success attends their attacks; and Second, that the 
 Parisians may not become "panicky." As to the first reason, 
 apparently the Germans don't give a hang whether their bombs 
 hit a palace or a hovel, so long as they hit something and 
 keep the people in a state of nervous tension; their aim is 
 less to destroy material things (public buildings, munition 
 plants and the like) than it is to destroy that intangible thing 
 called morale. Of course, they would like to blow up muni- 
 tion plants, but from a great height and in the pitch dark 
 an aviator doesn't aim at anything in particular; he just lets 
 
238 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 go, trusting that the bomb will strike somewhere and some- 
 thing that will most injure his enemy, whether by destroying 
 his physical or his moral force he doesn't care, or at any rate 
 can not predetermine. 
 
 A consideration of these two reasons prompts the follow- 
 ing queries: Won't the Germans keep on bombing, regard- 
 less of whether they learn from the French Press where their 
 bombs struck and what amount of damage they caused? . . . 
 And won't the imagination of the Parisians outstrip any pos- 
 sible actual calamity which the Germans may contrive to in- 
 flict upon their city? As I entered the Embassy this morn- 
 ing the Concierge shook her head and looked very solemn as 
 she asked if I had heard that two hundred people had been 
 killed in the Montmarte section alone? "No, I have heai'd 
 nothing of that," I said. "The official communique says only 
 nine were killed in all Paris." The Concierge confined her 
 reply to a look, but that was eloquent; it said as plainly as 
 words that she thought Ananias a man of truth compared with 
 a communique. Now, maybe, somebody was killed in Mont- 
 mar tre; if so, and if the papers were allowed to say who he 
 was and just where he lived, that would be the worst the peo- 
 ple could learn; but being told nothing, save a "glittering 
 generality," to-day rumor multiplies that one by two hundred, 
 and to-morrow it may be multiplied by two thousand! 
 
 One of the Germans was shot down Friday night in a for- 
 est near Paris; the plane, nose pointed down, passed between 
 two trees and had only its wings smashed. Fifteen paces 
 from where it was found wedged in between the two trees 
 lay the body of its commander, both legs broken, his face 
 buried in the ground, crushed out of all human recognition. 
 Near-by lay another aviator on his back, his face unscathed 
 but distorted by an expression of anguish and horror. The 
 eyes, which were wide open, seemed to be staring straight up 
 at the sun. The order found upon the dead German read as 
 follows: 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 239 
 
 "In spite of our repeated protests the enemy has bombarded 
 open German cities (Mannheim, Lahr, Freibourg) ; therefore, 
 by order of the High Command, our aviators will attack the 
 fortress of Paris. They will choose as their targets railway 
 stations and public buildings devoted to military usage; they 
 will spare hospitals, churches and places possessing artistic 
 value." 
 
 Is it necessary for the German General Staff to add hypoc- 
 risy to its many other evil deeds? Or does it really expect 
 German aviators to be able to distinguish, in the dark and 
 from a great altitude, a public building from an art museum? 
 Of the eleven killed Friday night only three were men; the 
 other eight were women and babies — killed by the humane 
 German High Command, I suppose, because they were in the 
 "fortress" of Paris! 
 
 As a matter of fact, the French have not bombed open 
 German cities; the English have done, and are doing, that — 
 in reprisal for German bombing of London. By bombing 
 Paris the Germans hope to prompt the French to induce their 
 English ally to forego his reprisals. The Germans have pro- 
 posed an agreement to restrict air raids to points within thirty 
 kilometers of the battle lines. As the terrain for much more 
 than thirty kilometers back of the German lines is either 
 French or Belgian, the effect of such an agreement would leave 
 the Germans free to bomb French territory, while the French 
 would be prohibited from bombing German territory; they 
 would be free to bomb only their own, or their ally Belgium's, 
 terrain back of the German lines! Of course so obviously one- 
 sided an arrangement is inacceptable to the French, conse- 
 quently the horrible war on women and children in Paris, as 
 well as the war on men at the front, will go on to the bitter 
 end. . . . 
 
 This morning, instead of being up and dressed when Marie 
 Louise brought chocolate to my room I was still asleep. When 
 
240 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 I awoke and saw by my watch that it was only seven o'clock 
 I asked the maid why she came so early? "Mais, Monsieur, 
 c'est la heure habituelle." Then she explained that the "hour" 
 of summer had arrived. At eleven o'clock last night sixty 
 minutes were dropped from the calendar and presto! Eleven 
 o'clock instantly became midnight. To-day when lunch is 
 served at noon (by the new time) I shall feel as if it were 
 only eleven; and to-night dinner will seem to be served at six 
 instead of seven. But in a few days we shall have adjusted 
 ourselves to the new time and shall not realize that we go to 
 bed at nine o'clock, for the reason that our watches will lie to us 
 and say it is ten! It is estimated that by thus duping the 
 people into going to bed an hour earlier, and getting up in 
 the morning an hour earlier, enough electric lights will be 
 saved to equal half a million tons of coal. When M. Honnorat 
 first proposed this scheme the newspapers poked fun at him 
 and called him a modern Joshua who fancied he could stop 
 the sun. In strict logic M. Honnorat's plan is absurd; it 
 would be more logical for men to say: During the summer 
 months we shall get up at six instead of seven. But since 
 men are not logical, and will insist on staying abed until 
 seven, M. Honnorat said: "Very well; your habits shall not 
 be changed; you may continue to arise at seven." Then he 
 pushed the hands of all the clocks and watches in France sixty 
 minutes ahead. And forthwith forty million people get out 
 of their beds at six o'clock without a murmur, simply be- 
 cause their timepieces tell them it is seven! M. Honnorat 
 understood psychology better than his critics and to-day he 
 is regarded as having done a great thing for his country. 
 
 ^ Paris, Tuesday, 
 
 March 12. 
 At 9.20 last night the siren sounded and on going down to 
 the hotel salon and finding no one there my first conclusion 
 was that the Roosevelt's guests are becoming bolder and so 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 241 
 
 remained in their rooms. Presently, however, just the reverse 
 proved to be the case — they were all down in the cellar! The 
 Germans were apparently over our part of Paris, at any rate 
 the crashing of their bombs and the roar of the French bar- 
 rage fire were deafening. No wonder some of the women be- 
 trayed nervousness. For a while I chatted gaily with them, 
 making light of our position in the cellar which I declared 
 (although I did not believe) was perfectly safe — were a bomb 
 to strike the Roosevelt it would inevitably bring the whole 
 house down over our heads as the arches of the cellar are 
 flimsy affairs, not designed to support a great weight; then I 
 induced the concierge to unbolt and open the heavy, solid 
 front door so that I might walk down to the Arc de I'Etoile. 
 In addition to the night's being both moonless and starless a 
 heavy smoke-fog hung low over the streets so that in a few 
 minutes I became hopelessly lost. I found the big arch all 
 right, the trouble began when I tried to grope my way back 
 to the Roosevelt. About a dozen avenues radiate out from 
 the arch, as the spokes of a wheel radiate out from the hub; 
 I think I must have blindly stumbled for a block or two on 
 eleven of those avenues before I finally chanced upon the 
 right one. Several times I bumped squarely into pedestrians 
 who, like myself, were lost and groping blindly through the 
 fog and blackness of the night. It would have been easily 
 over with me had one of those pedestrians happened to be 
 feloniously inclined; quite apart from the danger of bombs 
 and bursting shrapnel, there is a very real danger of being 
 held up and robbed in the dark, hence after this I shall stay 
 in my hotel during friend Fritz' visits to Paris. 
 
 Owing to the extraordinary darkness the French planes and 
 anti-aircraft guns were powerless; they could see nothing to 
 attack, and so the Germans performed their work with unusual 
 precision. One aviator flew around and around at a low alti- 
 tude, turning his searchlight directly down below his plane 
 until he located the great buildings housing the Ministry of 
 
242 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 War, then he let go three bombs which started a fire that is 
 still burning. Secretary of War Baker, who arrived in Paris 
 last night just in time to experience the thrills of an air raid, 
 drove direct from the railway station to the Hotel Crillon on 
 the Place de la Concorde; the Secretary wanted to remain 
 in his room but when a bomb dropped not far from the Crillon 
 he was induced to put prudence before comfort and so went 
 down into the cellar along with the other guests of the hotel. 
 Young Scanlon and McNamara, clerks whom I brought 
 with me from the State Department, started for a theater last 
 night and were just emerging from the Metro station at the 
 Opera when a great crowd of people came rushing down the 
 stairs and forced them back into the subway again. There 
 they remained three hours amid a mass of people, unable to 
 stir a foot or even to sit down. And finally, when the raid 
 ended after midnight, they could find no conveyance of any 
 kind, hence were obliged to walk to their lodgings on the Ave- 
 nue Kleber, a matter of three or four miles. Naturally, when 
 they appeared at the Embassy this morning they looked fa- 
 tigued, and declared they will "cut out" theaters hereafter. 
 Their resolution is a wise one; for panics in crowded places 
 may easily occur when bombs are bursting near-by and more 
 lives may be lost in a stampede of several hundred people than 
 in a bombardment of many hours. The truth of this state- 
 ment was tragically demonstrated last night when a panic 
 seized a mass of men and women at the "Combat" station of 
 the Metro. The iron doors of the subway stations open out- 
 ward, consequently the first to rush down the stairs had to pull 
 the doors toward them. But before they could do this the on- 
 rushing crowd behind jammed them up against the iron doors 
 and in the panic which followed 66 persons, mostly women 
 and children, were killed! Thirty-four persons were killed 
 by bombs, so that in all one hundred lives were snuffed out 
 last night as a result of the air raid. Seventy-nine others were 
 wounded. One of the German objects, to cause a number of 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 243 
 
 French aeroplanes and guns to be diverted from the front to 
 Paris, is, of course, obtained; it is doubtful if they attain 
 their other object, to destroy the morale of the people and 
 prompt them to force their government to make peace. In 
 1870-71 Paris endured months of constant bombardment with- 
 out losing its morale; true, it finally surrendered, but that was 
 because they were starving, not because they were afraid of 
 German shells. Remembering that chapter in French history, 
 the question may well be asked if these murderous raids which 
 in the very nature of things can not discriminate between ob- 
 jects of military and civilian importance, between the enemy's 
 fighting forces and his women and babies, so far from impair- 
 ing his morale will not rather nerve him to a deathless de- 
 termination to war to the very last for the destruction of the 
 military beast responsible for such devilish deeds? 
 
 Four of the raiders were shot down last night; the Com- 
 mander of one "Gotha" machine, although wounded, was con- 
 scious when captured and he frankly disavowed the h5TD0criti- 
 cal orders of the German High Command concerning the "For- 
 tress" of Paris, the sparing of hospitals, etc. "We do not 
 know," said this German aviator, "and we do not seek to 
 know where your Staff Headquarters are, or where your mili- 
 tary depots are. It is Paris we wish to destroy, so as to break 
 the spirit of your people and compel in their hearts a general 
 longing for peace. Therefore, when we bomb Paris we do not 
 look for military objectives; these are secondary with us, so 
 it is useless for you to lament if among the victims are women 
 and children." 
 
 Asked if his conscience did not hurt him to kill such inno- 
 cent victims, the answer was that he was but doing his duty 
 "to Kaiser and Fatherland." (Germans always put the Kaiser 
 first.) And he added that they would be justified in killing ten 
 times as many babies as they do kill if thereby the war is short- 
 ened a single day. . . . // it be shortened! There's the rub. 
 Although Germany won't believe it, those who understand hu- 
 
244 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 man psychology better than they are convinced that German 
 "Schrecklichkeit" (f rightfulness, the policy of massacring 
 civilians in Belgium, ruthlessly burning and devastating whole 
 provinces of France and Belgium, etc.) has lengthened, not 
 shortened, the war. 
 
 The haughty, unrepentant Commander of the Gotha died of 
 his wounds this morning and will be buried to-morrow, along 
 with the bodies of the aviators of the other three Gothas, in 
 the little cemetery of Chateau-Thierry — where, in 1814, Napo- 
 leon fought a great battle in a last desperate effort to keep the 
 Allies out of Paris. The Commander, who was only thirty 
 years of age, said he was Captain Count Scheibler, of Mun- 
 chen-Gladbach, Westphalia. In the same Gotha with him 
 was his "Feldwebel" (under officer) named Wulf, and his 
 lieutenant. Baron von Meinsingen, aged 29. All three will 
 sleep side by side at Chateau-Thierry, in foreign soil, dupes 
 and victims of an autocracy and a Kaiser whose chief asset is 
 his impudent claim to partnership with God! 
 
 Paris, Friday night. 
 March 15, 1918. 
 One of the first-class restaurants that the war has not 
 succeeded in closing is Vatel's, occupying a building on the 
 corner of the Rue St. Florintine and the Rue St. Honore, 
 where Danton lived during the Reign of Terror. Robespierre 
 occupied a room in the house, still standing, on the opposite 
 corner of the Rue Richepanse. To-day just as I was finishing 
 lunch at Vatel's the drums of my ears of a sudden seemed 
 subjected to a heavy pressure and the next instant the glass 
 of the big window behind me came tumbling over my head 
 and shoulders, shattered into a thousand pieces! It was 
 startling, but fortunately I was not cut, nor was I specially 
 frightened by the muffled roar of an explosion that accom- 
 panied the caving in of the window, being in truth too busy 
 extricating myself from the debris to take time to make sur- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 245 
 
 mises as to what had happened. A man at a table not far 
 away got up and walked to the broken window, looked out, 
 then returned to his place and ordered a demitasse as he 
 calmly remarked to his companion that "les sales Boches" — 
 the dirty Germans — were bombing Paris again. The rest of 
 the diners at Vatel's displayed similar coolness — which is 
 worth noting as showing the frame of mind induced by long 
 familiarity with war. I fancy such an incident, at Sherry's, 
 for instance, would send everybody in the place running out 
 on Fifth Avenue to find out what had happened. But here 
 in Paris one waits until the regular edition of the newspapers 
 prints the little they think necessary to print about common- 
 place occurrences. In the present case, as I learn from to- 
 night's Temps, Vatel's windows, and the windows of many 
 thousand Paris houses, were blown in because of a terrific 
 explosion which, occurred in a large munition plant just 
 outside of Paris. Many people were killed and even as 
 I write these notes loud detonations of thousands of shells 
 are reminding old Parisians of the fusilade of German cannon 
 when Paris was besieged in 1870. So large is the plant, so 
 combustible are its products, it is feared the fire and the ex- 
 plosions may continue for days. The whole country surround- 
 ing the plant is roped off and guarded by soldiers to minimize 
 the danger of persons being shot by shells that are exploded 
 by the advancing flames. . . . 
 
 From Vatel's I went on a "shopping" expedition — buying 
 furniture, rugs and carpets for the branch offices of the Em- 
 bassy which I shall lease — when I find a landlord willing to 
 rent to Uncle Sam, which few seem willing to do, first be- 
 cause they don't like to rent "for the duration of the war and 
 six months thereafter"; and second, because they fear I shall 
 have too many and too varied an assortment of people visit- 
 ing me. I find that our army has "boosted" prices of office 
 furniture from 300 to 400 per cent. A plain flat desk that 
 would be dear in America at $25.00 costs here 900 francs — 
 
246 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 $162.00! I paid to-day 1,200 francs ($216) for six typewriter 
 tables that in America would not cost above $9 apiece ($36 
 for the six). At a second-hand store I bought an Empire set 
 (table, chair, sofa, two armchairs and two chairs) for 1,730 
 francs ($311); two Louis XV chairs cost 175 francs each (a 
 new cover will cost an extra 75 francs each). These are the 
 only "bargains" I have been able to find in all Paris; the rest 
 of the office furniture will cost the government three times 
 what it would cost in America, and the rugs and carpets will 
 cost about the same as in New York — for instance, a rug of 
 good quality 3^x4^ meters costs $85.00. Wood is scarce in 
 France, so are wood workers; and our army. Red Cross and 
 Y. M. C, A. people have been buying a great deal of office fix- 
 tures. It is this combination which has made my shopping 
 both difficult and expensive. . . . 
 
 The last quotations in Vienna for "old horses for slaugh- 
 ter" are from 1,400 to 1,850 crowns, — about $290 to $385 per 
 horse. I should think one would need to be very hungry be- 
 fore eating a poor old nag that had died in the harness! 
 
 Paris, Sunday night, 
 March 17, 1918. 
 
 Parisians have thronged the great court of the Invalides 
 to-day, looking at the aeroplanes shot down in last Monday 
 night's raid. Some of the Gothas are in good shape, the mo- 
 tors being almost intact and showing at a glance what enor- 
 mous power they had. In one machine I noted in the gasoline 
 tank the holes made by French shrapnel. As it passed slowly 
 by, gazing at these evidences of German "Schrechklichkeit," 
 the crowd was orderly and even good-natured. "Qu'est-ce 
 qu'ils ont pris, les sales boches!" That is as severe a comment 
 as I heard. 
 
 My cousin Suzanne, a Kentucky girl, who married the Mar- 
 quis de Charette, is doing war work at the Soldiers and Sailors 
 Club, No. II Rue Royale, whither I went to see her to-day; 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 247 
 
 and as soon as I entered the door a Captain of our army 
 greeted me politely, but he firmly informed me that I would 
 not be allowed to make any purchases in the club. "My 
 dear Captain," said I, ''I have not come here to buy." The 
 Captain's look said as plainly as words: "Well, why have 
 you, a civilian, come here to a soldiers and sailors club?" 
 So I hastened to explain that I had come to see my cousin. 
 
 "Oh," exclaimed the Captain, "I thought you wanted to 
 buy cigarettes. So many do, not only because we sell them 
 below cost but also because in Paris just now it is hard to 
 get cigarettes at any price. Step this way. The Marquise 
 is doing fine work for our boys. You will find her in the 
 canteen." 
 
 A moment later I understood why persons would like to buy 
 things at this club: there behind a counter loaded with boxes 
 of cigarettes, cakes of chocolate, tins of tea, etc., stood my 
 cousin, a dainty, sweet-faced young woman with wonder- 
 fully pretty eyes, selling the soldiers and sailors things at ridic- 
 ulously low prices. For instance Fatima cigarettes which cost 
 fifteen cents a package in St. Louis, where they are made, are 
 sold to the boys here at 50 centimes (less than 10 cents) a 
 package; a service of good hot tea with a sandwich costs 50 
 centimes — everywhere else in Paris you must pay for a pot of 
 hot tea two or two and a half francs. Sweet cakes of chocolate 
 that sell elsewhere at a franc and a half cost here only 75 cen- 
 times. "I see," said I to my pretty cousin, "that in acquiring 
 a title you acquired the contempt of business methods in which 
 the nobility are supposed to indulge." 
 
 Suzanne smiled. "The one thing that won't be forgiven 
 here," she said, "is to show a profit on the canteen. Our 
 soldiers need all the comforts we can possibly give them and 
 we want to make the club so attractive that they will feel at 
 home here." 
 
 "You mean American soldiers," I said. "Your soldiers are 
 
248 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 French. You know, since you deserted Kentucky in the way 
 you did, you have become a French woman." 
 
 Suzanne smiled again and her eyes looked more wonderful 
 than ever as she declared emphatically that she didn't care 
 for technicalities. "Maybe the law says I am French, but / 
 say I am American and always shall be. My husband is fight- 
 ing in the Tanks, or rather was fighting — he was wounded and 
 is convalescing now; so, of course, I love the French poilus, 
 too. But when I say 'Our boys,' that means for me the Sam- 
 mies in their khaki suits." 
 
 To enter the Soldiers and Sailors Club is to step out of 
 Paris into New York or some other American city: on the 
 walls hang portraits of Wilson, Lincoln, Grant and other of our 
 statesmen. In the reading room is a large collection of Ameri- 
 can newspapers and magazines; the people you see in the bil- 
 liard and smoking and other rooms are Americans. And lastly, 
 there in an onyx soda fountain is the national beverage of our 
 country — ice cream soda! Years ago when the Germans made 
 a "peaceful penetration" of France they brought beer with 
 them; the Germans themselves have now been banished, but 
 the beer habit they created remains behind them; in French 
 cafes you see more beer drinkers than wine drinkers. Will 
 the Americans win a similar victory? Is ice cream soda, as 
 yet unknown in France, destined to remain in vogue with 
 the French people long after we ourselves shall have departed 
 from French shores? 
 
 Coming over on the Espagne our Minister to Switzerland, 
 Mr. Pleasant A. Stoveall, a gentleman as affable and charm- 
 ing as his first name indicates, related this incident: 
 
 In the first weeks of the war, back in August, 19 14, there 
 walked into the American Legation in Berne a good looking, 
 well bred appearing man with a decided Southern accent who 
 said he was a Virginian named Robert Lee, that he had been 
 in Belgium when the Germans unexpectedly arrived, and when 
 the hotel where he was stopping was burned about his ears 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 249 
 
 it was all he could do to save his life; his clothing and papers 
 were destroyed in the fire, and he wanted the Minister to give 
 him a new passport. Although his English was so perfect, 
 and although his name and his Southern drawl left no doubt 
 in Mr. Stoveall's mind that the story was true, still he 
 declined to issue a passport, whereupon the ''Virginian" said 
 Mr. X. (naming one of the American Consuls in Switzerland) 
 knew him and would vouch for him. Mr. Stoveall got into 
 communication with X., who was a native of Germany, and 
 was told by him that the man's story was true. Mr. Stoveall 
 still refused to issue a passport, but he did give to the stranger 
 a writing on the Legation's official paper, stating that he "was 
 informed" that Mr. Robert Lee was an American citizen, that 
 his papers had been burned in Belgium, etc. This paper en- 
 abled Mr. "Lee" (good. Southern name, Lee! ) to enter France; 
 what he learned there, or how much information he secured for 
 Germany, is not known, but Mr. Stoveall says that six weeks 
 after he called at the Berne Legation he was arrested, tried 
 and convicted as a spy. And shortly before being shot he 
 asked that a member of the American Embassy be sent to 
 him that he might make a "full breast" of it before he 
 died. . . . 
 
 In Bordeaux our Consul, Mr. Bucklin, told me of another 
 spy incident. A few months ago a man in the uniform of 
 an American soldier was arrested on the streets of Bordeaux 
 for failing to report at headquarters, whereupon it developed 
 that the man was not a soldier. Asked why he was in a sol- 
 dier's uniform, he said he had been rescued by a British de- 
 stroyer from a torpedoed steamer off the Brittany coast and 
 taken to England, where he bought the soldier's suit because it 
 was cheap, and also because the wearer of a uniform can travel 
 on half fares and generally is shown favors. "But how did 
 you get to Bordeaux? And what are you doing here?" was 
 asked. The man said he had come to Bordeaux for the pur- 
 pose of enlisting in our army. This story was so "fishy" the 
 
2 50 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 man was arrested and his story investigated, with the result 
 that he was found to be a spy ; he was court martialed a short 
 time ago. 
 
 Paris, Monday, 
 March 25, 1918. 
 Night before last, at nine o'clock, the siren sounded and 
 there followed the usual scenes — bursting shrapnel, exploding 
 shells, roaring cannon, and the people rushing to ''Abris," 
 When I went out onto the Avenue d'lena I saw a terrifying 
 sight: at first I thought it was a comet, then I took it to be a 
 rocket signal dropped by an aviator. But it proved to be a 
 burning aeroplane and even as I gazed upon it up in the sky 
 above me the wings were consumed by the flames and the 
 heavy motor came crashing to earth, killing the unfortunate 
 men who were driving it. The swarm of French planes beat 
 back the Germans; not a single one of their Gothas succeeded 
 in reaching Paris. . . . Earlier in the day on Saturday (March 
 23) there were two tremendous detonations, as of bombs, be- 
 fore Paris was given any notice that Germans were coming; 
 in fact, even after the two explosions no siren was sounded, 
 and all day Saturday Parisians grumbled mightily at the way 
 the authorities had gone to sleep. Why have a siren if no 
 alarm is to be given before the enemy planes arrive? Or was 
 it possible that the Gothas could fly all the way to Paris in 
 broad daylight without any Frenchman seeing them? Yes- 
 terday morning grumbling gave way to astonishment when 
 Paris read the official communique; it contained only three 
 lines, but those lines are destined to be historic, for they re- 
 corded the fact that Paris was being bombarded by the Ger- 
 mans from a distance of more than one hundred kilometers 
 (75 miies)\ One of the shells, "240" in size, struck near the 
 Gare de I'Est, in the center of the city, killing a number of 
 people. Another shell fell in the Tuilleries gardens near the 
 Louvre. The shells fell at regular intervals of fifteen minutes 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 251 
 
 and, as showing the spirit of the "man on the street," I may 
 quote a remark made by a man who left his Abri the moment 
 the shell near-by had exploded. To a friend who expostulated 
 with him for exposing himself to danger he replied: "Qa y 
 est! lis tirent un obus par quart d'heure. Alors, j'ai quinze 
 bonnes minutes devant moi!" (That is it! They fire a shell 
 every quarter of an hour; I have therefore a good fifteen min- 
 utes before me!) And off he went, down a street that was in 
 the direct line of the monster gun's fire. He was taking grave 
 chances, for the interval between shells was reduced later in 
 the day to only seven minutes. ... At seven o'clock this 
 morning the bombardment began again and a few minutes 
 later I heard the sound of a drum beating beneath my win- 
 dow; jumping out of bed and looking down on the street I 
 saw a French soldier walking leisurely along the Avenue 
 d'lena beating a small drum that was suspended by a strap 
 from his shoulder; it looked as if he were merely having a lit- 
 tle early morning amusement, but when Marie Louise brought 
 my chocolate and the Matin I learned that beginning to-day 
 bombardments by the monster gun will be announced by 
 drum-beating, the siren being reserved for air raids. It is 
 also announced that traffic will not be stopped because of gun 
 fire; therefore people are cautioned not to seek refuge in the 
 Metro unless the siren sounds; the subway trains will not 
 stop for a little thing like shells thrown from a gun seventy- 
 five miles away, consequently people must not use the Metro 
 tunnels as Abri. The day's conclusion of the bombardment 
 is to be announced by the ringing of church bells. The Prefet 
 of Police makes this special recommendation: 
 
 "The direction of the projectile is from the northeast to the 
 southwest; therefore, persons who at the moment of the bom- 
 bardment find themselves in streets running in that direction 
 are advised to hug the front of houses facing toward the south 
 or southwest." 
 
2 52 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 Yesterday the sun shone brilliantly, not a cloud in the sky, 
 and I was one of many thousands who strolled along the Bois 
 from I'Etoile to the Bois de Bologne. Nurses were seated 
 on benches watching their children rolling hoops or playing 
 games. Equestrians galloped down the paths reserved for 
 horses. A few smart limousines and open touring cars sped 
 along the smooth boulevard. It was not quite, but it was 
 almost, such a scene as is usually to be observed on the Bois 
 in the forenoon of a beautiful spring day. And all the while 
 that this throng of people were walking and galloping on 
 horses and riding in motors in the west end of Paris, in the 
 east end shells were falling with clock-like regularity — thus 
 far, it is true, not killing a great many persons, but neverthe- 
 less killing some and with potentialities of killing a great 
 many more. . . . This morning a little after midnight I was 
 awakened by the wailing of the siren beneath my window; I 
 got out of bed and looked out of my window to see if I could 
 see any Gothas or duels in the air, but seeing none, and the 
 night being chilly, I went back to bed and to sleep again. 
 I hear the majority of the Roosevelt's guests did the same — 
 the old story, familiarity breeds contempt. It is astonishing 
 how, after only forty-eight hours, Parisians seem to have set- 
 tled down to the fact that Paris is now "At the Front," within 
 range of German guns. Air raids mean a battle; French guns 
 fire innumerable shells and French aviators swarm in the air 
 to give battle to the invaders. There is a sense of being able 
 at least to try to ward off the danger. But this monster gun 
 is a hundred kilometers away, hidden no one as yet knows 
 where, — Paris can't fight that; it can only endure. And 
 already it is enduring with magnificent sang jroid. Of course, 
 many people are nervous; and a good many thousands have 
 sought homes in safer places, but speaking broadly it is ac- 
 curate to say that were a stranger to arrive suddenly from a 
 region to which news of the war had never reached he would 
 hardly discern from the appearance of Paris' crowded streets 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 253 
 
 that the city within the last two days has been called upon 
 to undergo a thing heretofore unknown in history — a bom- 
 bardment at the long range of more than seventy-five miles! 
 Historians usually dwell on the big things that men do — thus 
 interesting the reader, but often also misleading him. When 
 studying books on the French Revolution we are apt to forget 
 that the people of that epoch were not wholly engrossed in 
 the doings of Robespierre, Danton and the rest; of course, 
 the fact is that even while the guillotine was working over- 
 time on the spot in the Place de la Concorde where the Egyp- 
 tian obelisk now stands, nine-tenths of the population were 
 engaged in their usual vocations, many of them probably quite 
 ignorant of what was occurring. And so to-day; I jot down in 
 my Journal only such incidents as seem to me will throw light 
 on the titanic upheaval through which the world is now pass- 
 ing; but because I refer mainly to big things it must not be 
 supposed that Paris is not doing little things, too. Quite the 
 contrary; bombs may come and go, but the small duties of 
 life go on forever. And so it is that, frequent as air raids and 
 bombing have become, the hours Paris is subjected to them, 
 and thinks of them, are few in comparison with the other 
 hours during which maidens are wooed and wed, cooks pre- 
 pare lunches and dinners, messenger boys run on errands, 
 lawyers and courts wrangle over the punishment that shall be 
 meted out to criminals, etc. 
 
 Here is an extract from a letter I received from Havre to- 
 day — it may be of interest as showing what the coming of 
 Americans has done to a French town. 
 
 "Havre is packed, crammed — soldiers as thick as berries never 
 are on the right bush. The Normandie hotel is reeking with 
 people. The food is good but dearer than in Paris, as also are 
 the rooms. Mine, with bath, looks on a small court, but costs 
 Frs. 14 a day — a better room in a better hotel in Paris can be 
 had for ten francs. . . . The Americans are buoyant with 
 hope — convinced they'll get the Kaiser before they go back 
 
2 54 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 home. Gen. Pershing doesn't talk but he looks, and if I am 
 anything of a judge of looks he, too, is not overawed by Ger- 
 man bluff and believes the English and French will hold out 
 until we arrive in Force — then a long, hard pull all together 
 and we'll give freedom to Germany as well as to the rest of 
 the world !" 
 
 Paris, Tuesday, 
 March 26, 1918. 
 A YEAR ago this month, shortly before I left France, the 
 British made their great advance, capturing Bapaume and the 
 country thereabout; this week, a short time after my return 
 to France, the Germans have recaptured Bapaume and the 
 country there about — a whole year of bloody battles and 
 neither side much further than it was before. But the Ger- 
 mans are now making the most stupendous attack known in all 
 history; the forces with which they for five days past have 
 been hammering the British front are said to number three 
 million men; their supply of great cannon seems unlimited, 
 ditto machine guns and munitions, and the British line is 
 bending. Under such circumstances, and considering, too, the 
 constant air raids and the bombardment by the monster gun 
 seventy-five miles away which began last Saturday, it is mar- 
 velous how normal Paris seems. If there is a particularly loud 
 explosion the clerk or the lawyer at his desk may pause a 
 moment, to see if he may determine where the shell or the 
 bomb struck, but the interruption is only for a moment; air 
 raids and bombardments to the contrary, daily duties must be 
 performed. Yesterday I was at the Embassy's lawyers going 
 over with them the lease of the apartment I have at last se- 
 cured for the new department of the Embassy; there were two 
 alarms — "Alertes" as they are called here — but with us time 
 pressed and we went on with our examination of the lease. 
 A Paris lease is apt to contain a lot of "jokers," hence the 
 necessity of ignoring bombs and the methodical falling of the 
 big gun's shells, so as not to have any "come back," once the 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 255 
 
 lease is signed and the government is committed to renting 
 the apartment for the duration of the war. After finishing 
 with the lease I spent the rest of the afternoon buying office 
 fixtures — all this as a matter of routine, although the Ger- 
 mans are again within sixty miles of the Capital and are loudly 
 proclaiming that they will be here within thirty days! Per- 
 haps they may come, perhaps they won't, but in the mean- 
 time our work must go on, consequently there is no time to 
 bother now about what may happen thirty days hence. . . . 
 
 Yesterday there arrived in Paris a number of refugees from 
 Noyon and Ham; for more than two years they were under 
 the German yoke. Then last March with tears in their eyes 
 and with speechless joy they embraced the British and French 
 soldiers who entered their towns after forcing the Germans 
 to retire. And now a year to the day later the Germans re- 
 turn and these unhappy people, rather than live again under 
 the Huns' hated yoke, have left their homes to find refuge 
 in central France. Said one of them yesterday: 
 
 "Saturday a French gendarme came to my house, as he did 
 to all the other houses in Noyon, and said: 'Madame, you 
 must get ready to leave. To-morrow at noon there must not 
 be a single French citizen in Noyon.' I hastily crammed into 
 two sacks as much clothing as I could, put the sacks into a 
 baby buggy and started away on foot. And what I did, 
 Monsieur, all the others did, too. We tramped I do not know 
 how many kilometers, until we were too tired to move a step 
 further, but we did not complain. Even the children did not 
 cry. We preferred exile and suffering to living under the Ger- 
 mans, for you see, Monsieur, we know from terrible expe- 
 rience what it means to live under them!" 
 
 Another of the women, from Ham, said: 
 
 "We were awakened by a guard at one o'clock in the morn- 
 ing and told that we must be gone within two hours. It 
 was short notice but c'est la guerre, Monsieur. One must 
 move quickly. Before the two hours ended we were at the 
 
2S6 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 station and a train took us to Amiens. But even as the train 
 rolled out of the station shells were raining on Ham." 
 
 "Were you frightened?" I asked. 
 
 The brave woman shook her head. "No, Monsieur," she 
 answered. "That is not the word to use. None of us were 
 frightened. Talk with my children here. They are laughing. 
 Even they were not frightened. But it was sad, very sad to 
 have to leave our homes." For a moment she turned her 
 head away and seemed lost in a reverie, then she turned with 
 a smile on her lips. "Yes, Monsieur," she said, "it is sad, but 
 it is not for long. As we started for Amiens we saw our 
 brave poilus, hundreds of thousands of them. We know they 
 will avenge our wrongs. They will drive the Boche back and 
 we shall soon see our homes again." 
 
 That is the magnificent spirit of this wonderful French peo- 
 ple; after nearly four years of frightful suffering, even when 
 Russia's debacle has enabled their implacable enemy to mass 
 millions of men against them, even in the instant that they 
 are fleeing from their homes, they retain their sublime faith 
 in ultimate victory! 
 
 The eleventh air raid over Paris occurred on January 29, 
 1916; the next one (in which German aviators succeeded in 
 dropping bombs upon the Capital) occurred two years and 
 one day later on January 30, 1918. Those two years of 
 quiet made Parisians believe the Germans could not break 
 through the French air defense. We know now they did not 
 come because it was not their policy to come; now that it is 
 their policy everybody expects Paris to be exceedingly "lively" 
 during the next few months. Thousands of women and chil- 
 dren are leaving for safer places to the south and west, but 
 business goes on as usual, and yesterday when I went to the 
 Galleries Lafayette it was so jammed with women shoppers 
 that I conclude the proportion even of women and children 
 who are leaving Paris is small compared with those who re- 
 main. . . . 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 257 
 
 The Kaiser's doings in Russia are curiously parallel with 
 Napoleon's doings in Germany a little more than a century 
 ago. Napoleon "reluctantly" received the crowns which were 
 "forced" upon him; he accepted the role of "Protector" of 
 the Confederation of the Rhine; he yielded to the "prayers" 
 of the Italians to be their king, and to the earnest "requests" 
 of Spaniards to give them his brother, Joseph, as their king. 
 And when the Corsican conqueror went to Moscow he was 
 followed by an army three-fourths of which were soldiers from 
 other lands than his own; they followed him in 1812 when his 
 power seemed supreme, they turned and devoured him in 18 14 
 when they saw that after all he was a man and not a God! 
 ... Is history about to repeat itself? The "people" of 
 Courland have prayed the Kaiser to accept the title of Grand 
 Duke of Courland; as soon as German military power is con- 
 solidated in Livonia, Ukraine, etc., doubtless the "people" of 
 those parts of Russia will 'beseech" the Kaiser to rule over 
 them. And he may do so for a while, just as for a while 
 Napoleon ruled over many parts of Germany; but as Nature 
 abhors a vacuum, so does the world abhor a bully, a giant 
 who overawes and overshadows the rest of mankind. My 
 guess is that no matter how successful Prussian militarism 
 may be for the moment, in the end it will meet a Waterloo 
 at the hands of the liberty-lovers of the world. . . . 
 
 Here is an extract from a letter just received from a young 
 American soldier who recently went for the first time to the 
 front: 
 
 "I have had my turn in the trenches and found it quite as dirty 
 a job as I had heard. The first night I was put on outpost 
 duty there was a heavy artillery bombardment during which 
 a shell exploded under my nose, sending a piece of steel through 
 my helmet and knocking me down into the mud at the bottom 
 of the trench. That helmet shall be kept as a souvenir in my 
 home, for to it do I owe my life. One of my men, a fine, hand- 
 some young chap, stooped to pick me up out of the mud and 
 
2 58 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 just as he said: 'Lieutenant, are you hurt?' another shell burst 
 and the poor boy crumpled up right before my eyes — killed in- 
 stantly, and three of the pieces of shell struck me, which is 
 why I am here in the hospital with a hole through my leg and 
 two wounds in my shoulder. . . . For all that I was badly 
 wounded I put my good arm about the boy's neck and raised 
 his head, thinking perhaps he might still be alive, but he was 
 stone dead. In his pocket was a letter beginning : 'Dear Sonny 
 Boy' and signed 'Mother !' As I saw the signature I closed 
 my eyes and said a prayer that this struggle for liberty might 
 not require too many such sacrifices and then, when I next 
 knew what I was doing I was here in hospital, tender hands 
 ministering to me and making me feel good to know that our 
 government is doing all it can to care for its boys at the front." 
 
 Paris, Friday, 
 March 29, 19 18. 
 The great battle of Arras has been on a week to-day; the 
 British have fought bravely but have been forced to yield 
 ground until now they are back on the old lines of 19 16 — all 
 their gains of two terrible years lost to the Germans. Al- 
 though officials and military men profess to be confident that 
 the enemy "will not pass" the week's events have made a 
 profound impression upon the American colony in Paris. The 
 Embassy has been besieged by both men and women anxiously 
 asking for the latest news, and wanting the Ambassador to 
 advise them whether they should stay or go; some seek per- 
 mits to buy a little gasoline that they may use their auto- 
 mobiles in the event that a hurried flight from the Capital be- 
 comes necessary. In strong contrast with this nervousness 
 of some Americans is the apparent confidence of the mass of 
 Parisians; despite the fact that the Huns are nearer the city's 
 gates than they have been at any time since the first few 
 months of the war Parisians are going about their business 
 quite as though nothing unusual were occurring. Indeed, 
 Paris looks even more normal this week than it did seven 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 259 
 
 days ago, for the reason that the seventy-five-mile bombard- 
 ment has ceased, and the air raiders also seem to be too busy 
 to call on the Capital. 
 
 In London yesterday Mr. William Dent was fined $680.00 
 for selling margarine at 32 cents a pound, 8 cents a pound 
 more than the law permits a dealer in margarine to charge. 
 The lesson, being so expensive, will probably be enduring; 
 Mr. Dent, no doubt, now realizes that among the many things 
 upset by the world war is the time-honored principle that 
 "Supply and Demand" has unrestricted sway in fixing the 
 prices a seller may demand and a buyer must pay. 
 
 Paris, Saturday, 
 
 March 30. 
 After next Monday, April i, there goes into effect a new 
 law which imposes a ten per cent tax upon the purchase of all 
 articles "de luxe," payable at the time of purchase; as the 
 law defines articles "de luxe" to mean almost everything that 
 costs more than a few francs, the net result will be that every 
 thing you buy after next Monday will cost 10 per cent more 
 than heretofore. The desks, carpets, chairs, etc., for the 
 branch of the Embassy which I am fitting out will cost some 
 twenty thousand francs, therefore by paying the bills at once 
 I save the government two thousand francs. Yesterday after- 
 noon while at the Bon Marche settling for the purchases 
 made there, the long-range gun dropped a shell upon the 
 church of St. Gervais, one of Paris' most ancient edifices, and 
 killed seventy-five people, mostly women and children, and 
 wounded ninety. It was Good Friday and the church was 
 crowded with worshippers; the shell hit one of the massive 
 stone supporting piers and when the pier fell, down came 
 the roof, crushing the praying people beneath its ruins. 
 I did not hear the bomb, neither did any one in the 
 store seem to hear it; business continued as usual and 
 I did not know of the tragedy until to-day; Paris is thrilled 
 
26o THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 with horror that the Germans should choose Good Friday of 
 all other days as the time to commit so senseless a crime; for 
 is it not both senseless and a crime? The killing of a lot of 
 women and children in a church does not lessen the fighting 
 force of the French army by one man, neither does it lessen 
 the morale of the French people. On the contrary it embit- 
 ters them more than ever and makes them grimly determined 
 to submit to any sacrifice rather than end the war short of 
 dethroning Prussian autocracy. . . . 
 
 At seven o'clock this morning the seventy-five-mile gun be- 
 gan firing again, and during all of to-day shells have been 
 falling in different parts of the city. The racket made by the 
 bursting of the nine-inch shells is all that enables one to know 
 that a bombardment is under way; nothing in the appearance 
 of the people or the streets indicates that anything unusual is 
 happening. To-day while sipping my after-lunch coffee on the 
 sidewalk in front of a cafe in the Latin Quarter, near the fine 
 statue of Danton, there was a deafening explosion; judging 
 from the force and loudness of the report the shell must have 
 fallen in that part of town, yet not one person in the cafe left 
 his table or so much as gave a start. Some exclaimed in 
 French: "The dirty Boche are at it again!" But for the 
 most part not even comment was made; all went on with 
 their lunch as if nothing had happened; the trolley cars in 
 front of the cafe clanged their bells and stopped to let people 
 on and off as before; pedestrians hurried on their way to 
 keep appointments of business or pleasure — all absolutely the 
 same as in time of peace. And yet seventy-five miles away, hid- 
 den in some unknown place behind the German lines, was a 
 gun firing nine-inch shells upon Paris. One had killed scores 
 of people yesterday; another had fallen five minutes before — 
 whether it killed any people we shall not know until we see 
 the papers to-morrow; a third shell might fall the next min- 
 ute, and whether it killed the people I saw hurrying along the 
 Boulevard St. Germain or passed harmlessly over their heads 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 261 
 
 depended upon whether that gun seventy-five miles away has 
 its muzzle lowered or raised the fraction of an inch. And yet no 
 panic, no alarm — everjrwhere "Business as usual." Verily, the 
 psychology of Parisians makes an interesting study! 
 
 Paris, Tuesday, 
 April 2, 1918. 
 At three o'clock this morning I was awakened by the long, 
 weird wail of the siren; it came up from the Avenue d'lena 
 below my room and floated through my open windows, at 
 first only vaguely reaching my sleeping brain, giving me the 
 impression that it was all a nightmare, that I was only in an 
 imaginary inferno. But with full consciousness, and with the 
 boom of bursting bombs and roar of cannon that swiftly fol- 
 lowed the siren's sound, I realized that the Gothas were visit- 
 ing Paris again. Leaping out of bed and looking out of my 
 window, I saw the flashes of light as a shell or a bomb burst 
 in the air and, judging from the terrific reports made by some 
 of the explosions, I surmised that the battle in the air was 
 taking place over this section of the city. Under such cir- 
 cumstances there is more danger in going out to seek an Abri 
 than in remaining indoors; and so, deeming the cellar of the 
 Roosevelt little, if any, safer than my room, I went back to 
 bed — but not to sleep, for sleep is not possible with such 
 an infernal din going on in the heavens about you. Recently 
 during an aerial bombardment the water main under an Abri 
 burst and rumor says the people who had sought refuge 
 there were drowned; in several cases houses struck by bombs 
 have collapsed and crushed through the supporting arches of 
 their cellars, killing some of the persons below, and imprison- 
 ing the survivors for days, before the ruins were removed so 
 as to permit their release. Of course, during those days of 
 imprisonment, buried beneath a mass of debris with neither 
 food, drink nor protection from cold and water, the suffering 
 of the captives is intense and in many cases leads to fatal 
 
262 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 illness. Unless an Abri is really an Abri, i. e., unless it is very 
 deep under ground and supported by masonry strong enough 
 to withstand the crashing impact of the falling structure above, 
 it is more apt to be a death trap than a shelter. Therefore 
 I have concluded that the best thing for me to do is to remain 
 in my room and trust that Fritz won't drop his bombs directly 
 on the roof of the Roosevelt Hotel. 
 
 Mr. B. of the Auditor's Department of the Embassy, has 
 had the tragedy of war brought close to him; a young 
 girl who makes her home with his family was among the vic- 
 tims in St. Gervais Church last Friday; so frightful were her 
 injuries that yesterday in order to save her life the surgeons 
 found it necessary to amputate both her legs! ... In my 
 notes for last Saturday I mention one of the big gun's shells 
 falling in the Latin Quarter while I was sipping my after- 
 lunch coffee on the sidewalk of the Boulevard St. Germain; I 
 thought at the time the shell fell very near, but just how near 
 I did not know until yesterday: it fell only a block away, near 
 the corner of the Boulevard St. Germain and the Rue de Bac. 
 Passing over a taxicab, it struck the pavement in front of the 
 auto's radiator and plowed a hole forward in the wooden 
 blocks, making a ditch that looked as if it might have been 
 dug with a spade. Had the taxi driver been ten feet further 
 on in his journey he would have been killed; as it was neither 
 he nor any one else was hurt. The shells of the big gun, when 
 they burst, do not seem to have much lateral force. The flying 
 pieces do not spread far and the holes they make in the walls 
 of adjacent buildings are hardly more than scratches, — at 
 least such has been the case in the places which I have per- 
 sonally inspected. . . . Yesterday the big gun bombardment 
 continued all day, killing four persons and wounding nine; it 
 began again this morning and as I write the boom of its burst- 
 ing shells is making a noise like unto that of distant thunder. 
 But the streets are thronged with people on business or pleas- 
 ure bent who seemingly give no heed to what the Germans are 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 263 
 
 doing. What worries them more than air raids and seventy- 
 five-mile guns is the new rule which yesterday went into effect ; 
 forbidding bread being served in hotels and restaurants ex- 
 cept upon presenting a ticket. Everybody has the right to a 
 monthly ration card permitting the purchase of stipulated 
 quantities of food, 500 grams of sugar per month, 300 grams 
 of bread per day, etc., but until yesterday cards were not 
 required in hotels and restaurants. Being the first day, also 
 being April first, a lot of people who hadn't heard of the new 
 law, thought it an April fool joke. But when they had to 
 eat their dinner without any bread the idea of a joke van- 
 ished; in a few days we shall have adjusted ourselves to the 
 situation and then, so far as I can see, it will work no par- 
 ticular hardship, while it will tend to secure an even distribu- 
 tion of the staff of life. For no matter how much money you 
 may have, you can not have an ounce more bread than the 
 poorest workman in France. You may have your 300 grams 
 per day — quite enough, 300 grams make six good-sized rolls, 
 or one long piece of French bread — but you can not have any 
 more, even though you save up your tickets. For the tickets 
 are not "cumulative," the ticket dated April i must be used 
 on that day or not at all. Yesterday my ticket enabled me to 
 buy six rolls, at a cost of 12 cents, and although my appe- 
 tite, is not a small one, bedtime found me with one roll still 
 on hand. . . . 
 
 In buying coal in America people frequently have cause to 
 complain of "slack" — rubbish — being mixed in with the an- 
 thracite; selling rubbish at the price of anthracite is, of course, 
 a profitable business, consequently coal dealers are not specially 
 severe with the drivers who let slack or rubbish get into 
 their wagons. It has remained for War to put a stop to this 
 petty swindle, at least in England. A government expert got 
 to figuring and found that the rubbish in coal in England 
 amounts to 20 million tons a year; he was not concerned 
 about the consumers who paid coal prices for that enormous 
 
264 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 amount of trash, but he was very much concerned that the 
 railways should be called on to transport 20 millions of stuff 
 that it would have been better to leave at the mouth of the 
 mines; railway tonnage, like ship tonnage, is too scarce, too 
 precious, too much needed for transporting munitions, to 
 waste. And so, forth has gone the edict that there shall be 
 no more slack or rubbish sold as coal. Thus does the Monster 
 War accomplish in some small ways a little good to offset the 
 great tragedy he has imposed on mankind. 
 
 Paris, Wednesday night, 
 
 April 3, 1918. 
 
 A Dutchman who came out of Germany only a few days 
 ago gave me the following interesting data as to conditions in 
 Cologne where he spent some weeks last month: 
 
 "There is not a shoemaker in the whole city of Cologne, and 
 a pair of shoes which before the war cost $3 now costs $30 
 and seldom are to be had even at that price. Our workmen 
 (Dutch) who come to Germany for jobs sell their shoes for 
 as much as $25. Last Monday a week ago a workman of 
 Rotterdam whom I know and whom I met in Cologne told 
 me he had two offers of $19 for his shoes within an hour after 
 his arrival. That same day as I was walking along the prin- 
 cipal street of Cologne I saw a well-dressed man go up to a 
 Dutchman, stop him, point at his shoes and offer to buy them. 
 They went into a cafe where the man tried on the Dutchman's 
 shoes and found they were too large; in spite of that he would 
 have bought them but for the protest of his wife who was 
 with him. She said he should not pay $19 for a pair of used 
 shoes unless they fitted him. All of our fellows, when they 
 go into Germany, take along something to sell; for instance 
 a little medicine bottle full of Holland gin that you can buy 
 in Rotterdam for 50 cents will fetch as much as $15 across 
 the line in Germany. Of course, there is some risk in carry- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 265 
 
 ing it across ; if you are caught you are sure to be heavily fined 
 and may even be sent to jail." 
 
 Speaking of the German food situation the Dutchman said: 
 
 "Eggs cost 20 cents each. Butter, when you can find any, 
 costs from $2.50 to $3 a pound; beef, of which one may buy 
 three ounces a week, costs 12 cents an ounce. Coffee is not 
 to be had, but a coffee 'Ersatz' (substitute) can be bought for 
 50 to 90 cents a pound." 
 
 From what this "Rotterdamian" says Paris is not the only 
 town bombed by air men. "A week ago last night (Tuesday, 
 March 26)," said he, "I saw two British airplanes drop bombs 
 on Deutz, a suburb of Cologne on the east side of the Rhine; 
 the bombs wrecked the Baden Aniline Dye Works, killed 15 
 people and wounded 70. A workman standing near me on 
 the street while the British were dropping their bombs said: 
 'For all I care they can blow up the whole town. If they'd 
 only smash the munition factories maybe we would get peace.' 
 . . . Last Friday, March 29, the day I started for Holland, 
 two trains of 27 carriages each came through Cologne, and 
 every one of those 54 carriages was filled with wounded, bleed- 
 ing soldiers. It was a fearful sight and made the Germans 
 who saw it begin to lose faith in the glowing reports that the 
 government has sent out from Berlin every day since the great 
 battle began on March 21. Cologne has been bedecked with 
 flags since March 23 in honor of the victory they think they 
 have won." 
 
 Paris, Sunday, 
 April 7, 1918. 
 
 A FEW days ago I received an invitation reading as follows: 
 
 Republique Franqaise 
 Liberie — Egalite — Fraternite. 
 
 La Municipalite de Paris 
 a rhonneur de vous prier de vouloir bien assister a la Recep- 
 tion qui aura lieu a Hotel de Ville, le Samedi 6 Avril 1918, 
 
266 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 a trois heures de rApres-midi, a I'occasion de I'anniversaire 
 de I'entree en guerre des Etats-Unis d'Amerique. 
 
 The ceremonies took place in the Grande Salle des Fetes, a 
 gorgeously decorated hall 164 feet long, 40 feet wide and 40 
 feet above the polished floor a ceiling bedecked with numerous 
 statues and paintings, among the latter one by Benjamin Con- 
 stant, entitled "Paris Inviting the World to Her Fetes." 
 Twenty-four huge crystal chandeliers, each with hundreds of 
 electric lamps and thousands of scintillating pieces of crystal, 
 were ablaze with light; at the far end of the grand hall a 
 military band of fifty instruments played the "Star Spangled 
 Banner" and the "Marseillaise"; along one side of the hall 
 was a hundred foot long table behind which servitors stood 
 dispensing champagne and ices — and into this hall with this 
 interesting setting there marched promptly at four o'clock 
 some of the most notable men of fifteen different nations. In 
 addition to the ambassadors of fifteen of the countries now 
 at war with Germany there were Prime Ministers, Generals, 
 Admirals, members of cabinets (including our own Secretary 
 of War Baker) and lesser officials. The windows of the 
 Grande Salle des Fetes look directly out upon the Church of 
 St. Gervais, less than a hundred yards away, and only eight 
 days ago one of the "Seventy-five-mile" gun's shells smashed 
 in the roof of St. Gervais and killed four-score men and women 
 who had gathered there on Good Friday to offer up prayers 
 on the day and on the hour that Christ died. The big gun 
 began bombarding Paris yesterday morning, as usual, and 
 even while the orators were speaking in the Grande Salles des 
 Fetes there came to my ears now and then the sound of a 
 muffled "Boom!" — a sound made by the bursting of a shell 
 somewhere in Paris! As I glanced out of a window at St. 
 Gervais across the open place in front of the Hotel de Ville, 
 this thought occurred to me: 
 
 "If the Germans from their lair, eighty miles away, can 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 267 
 
 drop a shell on that church across the street and kill eighty 
 praying people, what is to prevent them from dropping a shell 
 in this grand hall and killing the chief dignitaries of France 
 and of fifteen other enemy nations?" 
 
 Of course there was nothing to prevent such a catastrophe, 
 except blind chance; the shells we heard falling elsewhere in 
 Paris might just as well have fallen upon the Hotel de Ville. 
 But if this thought occurred to the people who gathered in the 
 Grande Salle des Fetes yesterday it was not manifest in either 
 their speech or action. The orators spoke as fervidly and 
 fluently, and the audience applauded as enthusiastically, as if 
 such a thing as a "Seventy-five-mile" gun had never been 
 heard of. The Mayor of Paris made a speech, followed by a 
 grave, thoughtful-looking man who resembled the late James G. 
 Blaine enough to be his brother; he looked like a statesman, 
 and talked like one — and may be one, for in France a "Prefet" 
 of Police is not just the same as a Chief of Police in an Ameri- 
 can city. After the Prefet of Police had finished what he 
 had to say, M. Stephen Pichon, the French Minister of For- 
 eign Affairs, spoke eloquently of France's gratitude to the 
 United States. Other distinguished Frenchmen made similar 
 talks, after which Ambassador Sharp answered them in a brief 
 but effective speech in English; I don't know how much of 
 the French speeches our Ambassador understood, nor how 
 much of his English speech the distinguished Frenchmen 
 understood — I noticed the Japanese Ambassador vigorously 
 applauding all the speeches, no matter in what language they 
 were spoken, and everybody else followed his example, so 
 whether the speeches were understood or not the enthusiasm 
 of both speakers and audience was maintained at the boiling 
 point. In truth, it was an occasion calculated to arouse en- 
 thusiasm, for the event we celebrated is the world's one hope 
 of overthrowing autocracy and securing liberty and democ- 
 racy for our posterity. . . . 
 
 The bombardment which was going on yesterday while 
 
2 68 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 France's President and other public men were entertaining dis- 
 tinguished guests from fifteen different lands receives in the 
 papers this morning less attention than is given by the press 
 of an American city to a first-class dog fight; the official com- 
 munique consists of these three curt lines: 
 
 "The bombardment of Paris by a German long-distance gun 
 continued throughout the day of April 6. 
 "Three persons were wounded." 
 
 To this brief announcement the Matin this morning adds 
 that the persons wounded were: Mile. Lucie Pivet and M. 
 Jean Duval, wounded in the right leg; and Jean Dugue, 
 wounded on his head and his hands. . . , 
 
 The Supreme Court has refused Bolo's appeal and he will 
 be shot next week, unless President Poincare pardons him, 
 which is not likely. The cost of prosecuting the traitor is 
 announced to day — Francs 10,915.15. As far as I can judge 
 the exposure of Bolo's plots, and the government's firm atti- 
 tude toward former Prime Minister Caillaux, now in prison, 
 have done much to restore public confidence in France's abil- 
 ity as well as will to carry on the war to a victorious conclu- 
 sion. 
 
 Paris, Tuesday, 
 April 16, 1918. 
 Last Thursday the Seventy-five mile gun scored another 
 hit, this time upon a maternity hospital; the shell burst in 
 the midst of a room in which were twenty convalescent women 
 and a number of new-born babes. In addition to killing a 
 number of these poor women and their innocent babes, the 
 Germans this time accomplished a new sort of f rightfulness: 
 they caused a "mix-up" which Solomon himself could not un- 
 ravel. The dozens of new-born babies that were in the hos- 
 pital were rushed out of the ruined place to near-by houses — 
 which was a wise move, so far as saving their lives is con- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 269 
 
 cerned. But now nobody knows which baby is which, and 
 consternation reigns among the mothers. It is not always easy 
 to tell one new baby from another and none of these unfor- 
 tunate women will ever be sure that the baby allotted to her is 
 in truth her very own. . . . The bombardment of Paris now 
 goes on nights as well as in day time: I imagine that a bom- 
 bardment of an American city would receive some big head 
 lines in the papers, but the Paris papers do not dignify Ger- 
 many's "Big Bertha" by lengthy notices. For instance, here 
 is all that one of Paris' great dailies, the Matin, says this 
 morning about the bombardment last night: 
 
 "One woman killed and tzvo wounded. 
 "Last night the big cannon of the Kaiser continued its bom- 
 bardment. A shell which fell upon a house killed a woman in 
 her bed and seriously wounded two other women." 
 
 In the courts of Paris yesterday 333 persons were fined five 
 francs each for neglecting to keep the lights in their rooms 
 from being visible from without; in case of a repetition of 
 such negligence three days' imprisonment will be imposed upon 
 the offenders. The same court fined M. Louis Garin, 17 
 Boulevard de Lorraine, 200 francs and sentenced him to three 
 months in prison for adding 2}^ per cent water to the milk 
 he sold to his customers. 
 
 Paris, Thursday, 
 May 23, 1918. 
 Near the Port Maillot is a quaint restaurant with enough 
 of Bohemia's flavor to make it unconventional, but not enough 
 to make it disagreeable to one who dislikes damp napkins, 
 saw-dust covered floors and the odor of garhc and onions. 
 Last night I dined at this cozy little restaurant and lingered 
 over the coffee to chat with the soldiers and artists about 
 me; then as I started home at ten in the evening a flood of 
 
2 70 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 silvery moonshine illuminated the streets and brought with 
 it, not romance, but fear of the Huns. For moonlight nights 
 are chosen for air raids over Paris. Foregoing my desire for 
 a stroll, I hastened to the nearest Metro station but alas! at 
 the very entrance of the Subway there came floating to my 
 ears that piercing, wailing, weird sound called the "Alerte," 
 which tells Parisians the Huns are coming, and that the 
 trains in the Metro have stopped running. 
 
 So, after all, I had a moonlight stroll along the Avenue 
 de la Grande Armee to the Etoile and thence on the Champs 
 Elysees to the Rue Pierre Charron. Because of the warmth 
 and beauty of the night hundreds of people were sauntering 
 along the boulevards, among them many American soldiers 
 with arms around the waists of their sweethearts, their eyes 
 fixed on those of their pretty partners rather than on the 
 thrilling drama being enacted about them. No one hurried, 
 no one seemed to pay much attention to the motor fire engines 
 which dashed by, emitting appalling noises to warn the people 
 of the impending danger, no one seemed disposed to leave the 
 moonlit streets and descend into the Abris (caves) merely 
 because the Huns were about to drop a few tons of bombs 
 upon the Capital! 
 
 When I reached the Etoile the huge bulk of the arch 
 loomed up in the moonlight seemingly magnified, glorified, more 
 impressive than ever before. Beneath its massive arches is 
 comparative safety even from aerial bombs, but not many 
 sought refuge there. Crowds of men and women stood in the 
 great space around the arch looking up into the Heavens 
 at the wonderful drama staged for them there. The French 
 guns were belching forth a hurricane of shrapnel, the Ger- 
 mans were dropping bombs which exploded with thunderous 
 noise, and looking down the Champs Elysees in the direction 
 of the Tuilleries I saw floating above either side of that 
 grand boulevard a number of sausage balloons, in the moon- 
 light their big bulks looming huge and weird and uncanny. 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 271 
 
 To the Huns they were deadly as well as uncanny, for de- 
 pending from the cable that spanned the Champs Elysees, 
 supported at either end by a balloon, were hundreds of feet 
 of steel wires, so small, so line as to be invisible but, touched 
 ever so lightly by the propeller of an aeroplane, they meant 
 instant death to the aviators. 
 
 It was midnight when I reached my lodgings and went to 
 bed amid the thundering of the French cannon and the 
 bursting of the German bombs. Half an hour later the 
 Berloque gave the signal that the invaders had been driven 
 away. But at 1.45 a.m. the siren sounded notice of another 
 raid and until 3 a. m. the inferno of cannon and bursting 
 bombs went on again. This morning the Paris papers have 
 to say of a night which once would have been deemed wildly 
 exciting only these two lines: 
 
 "Hier soir on a vu qu'un certain nombre de projectiles ene- 
 mies ont atteint la region Parisienne. On signale des victimes." 
 (Last night a certain number of enemy projectiles reached the 
 region of Paris, There were some victims.) 
 
 Paris, Monday, 
 May 27, 1918. 
 On March 26 the Kaiser's government ordered the people of 
 Germany to deliver to the authorities any and all articles 
 in their possession which are made of copper, tin, aluminum 
 or brass. Door knobs were exempted, but on May 23d the 
 Cologne Gazette announced that henceforth not only must 
 brass door knobs be given up, but the "ecussons" (brass coat 
 of arms) on all the letter boxes in the Empire are to be 
 removed and turned over to the Ministry of War! This in- 
 dicates that Germany is hard up for some of war's prime 
 essentials, yet Hindenburg was quoted a few days ago as 
 saying the "Fatherland is ready for another Thirty Years' 
 War, if the madness of the Entente continues so long!" On 
 April 2, 1865, seven days before Lee surrendered to Grant, 
 
2 72 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 and three weeks before the Confederacy's collapse, Jefferson 
 Davis issued a proclamation telling the people of the South 
 their victory was certain. Presidents and kings and kaisers 
 are alike in wanting to buoy up their people; Germany may 
 be able to carry on the war for years, but Hindenburg's saying 
 so doesn't make it so. My guess is that a nation which has 
 to use its door knobs and post box coats of arms in order 
 to eke out a supply of brass and copper is nearing the end 
 of its power of resistance. For the present, however, all 
 Germany is drunk with its success in Russia. Alone among 
 all the German newspapers I have seen does Harden's 
 Zukunjt recall that Napoleon's mastery of Europe in 1810 
 did not prevent him from being a wretched prisoner on a 
 distant island only four years later. In a recent editorial 
 Harden says: 
 
 "The Brest-Litovsk treaty which Balkanizes so ridiculously, 
 so vainly, the north and the southeast of Europe ; which divides 
 that which is indivisible; which invents a Russia without a 
 sea . . . which arrays on Germany's flank enemy peoples ready 
 to avenge themselves against Germany . . . such a treaty is 
 contrary to nature and reason. ... It removes to a remote dis- 
 tance the peace which would be useful to us." 
 
 Up to date eighteen countries have declared war against 
 Germany and eight have severed diplomatic relations — in all 
 twenty-six countries have openly proclaimed their contempt, 
 their disgust for German political immorality. 
 
 Paris, Wednesday, 
 May 29, 1918. 
 "One can get used to anything — except hanging!" 
 So says the old saw, and I am beginning to think even the 
 exception might be omitted. Certainly, before Paris' recent 
 experiences one would have believed it as possible to get 
 used to hanging as it has proved possible for three million 
 people to undergo with coolness, even with contempt, what 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 273 
 
 Paris has been, and still is, undergoing at the hands of 
 airplanes and long range guns. Last Thursday there were 
 two air raids in one night; on Sunday a third raid again set 
 Paris aflame with the fires of bursting bombs and exploding 
 shrapnel, and almost every day at half past six o'clock in the 
 morning Parisians are awakened by the deafening explosions 
 of shells from 75-mile guns. 
 
 Before leaving the United States, had I been asked what I 
 should do if awakened every morning by a bomb bursting be- 
 neath my window, I should have replied: 
 
 "I would run for a cave. At any rate, I should get up and 
 try to get details as to what had happened." 
 
 That, no doubt, is what one would do in America. But 
 what one does in Paris is this: One says: "Darn those Boches 
 for waking a fellow!" Then one turns over and tries to go 
 to sleep again. That is what I do, not because I am either 
 ignorant of, or indifferent to, the danger, but because in 
 Paris, as everywhere else in Europe, four years of frightfulness, 
 of butchery and horrors, have so "doped" the human mind 
 as to dull its sensibilities and distort its sense of proportions. 
 In bestowing this "dope" Nature is kind, for were the people 
 of Europe in a normal state of mind the daily shocks they 
 are called on to bear would make of Europe a continent of 
 neurasthenics. As it is, despite the nightly air raids and the 
 daily bombardments, despite the fact that millions of Huns 
 are only a few miles away on the Aisne, battering their 
 way toward Paris, Parisians do what I do — cuss the Germans 
 for beginning their bombardment so early in the morning. 
 But for the rest, they go about their vocations as usual. The 
 boulevards seem as busy, the cafes as crowded, the people as 
 intent on business and pleasure as before the air raids and 
 bombardments began. 
 
 Even after giving full weight to the "doping" effect of four 
 years of frightful war, this is remarkable. For there is enough 
 of the mysterious, of the uncanny, of the terrible about the 
 
2 74 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 75-mile guns to shake the stoutest nerves. Against the 
 Gothas some means of defense may be taken. One has always 
 enough advance notice to run down into a cellar. But 
 against the long range guns there is no defense, no warning, 
 no way of telling when or where their shells will fall. All we 
 know is that suddenly out of a clear sky there drops from 
 the heavens a shell which deals death and destruction to all 
 things near. It is like Fate, implacable, inexorable, — and im- 
 partial! No man is exempt from its deadly blow. It is as apt 
 to strike down France's President or Prime Minister as it 
 is to kill a day laborer. Whether it is the one or the other 
 is merely a matter of blind chance. And yet, knowing that 
 only blind chance determines whether it shall be you or I 
 who shall a moment hence be mangled into a mass of bleed- 
 ing fiesh, we both go about our affairs calm, even if not in- 
 different. A great many people have left Paris, but a great 
 many more — several million more — have stayed right here 
 and these seem pretty much the same sort of Parisians I knew 
 before the war. Last Sunday thousands of people prom- 
 enaded on the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne. Gallant looking 
 soldiers stopped to compliment smartly gowned women. Chil- 
 dren rolled hoops on the walks. Automobiles dashed along on 
 their way to the park. The side paths were thronged with 
 men and women on horseback. All the while, at regular in- 
 tervals of fifteen minutes, shells from the 75-mile guns dropped 
 somewhere in Paris. True, they happened to drop that 
 particular morning on some other boulevard than the Avenue 
 du Bois de Boulogne, but that was a mere chance. They 
 might just as well have fallen where that gay throng was 
 parading on the Bois. But if anybody thought of that dis- 
 quieting fact they did not let it affect their morning's amuse- 
 ment. No one spoke of the bombardment, and all that 
 the Paris papers said the next day was this two line an- 
 nouncement: 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 275 
 
 (Officiel.) "Le bombardment de la region Parisienne par 
 canon a longue portee a repris hier." 
 
 (The bombardment of the Paris region by long distance guns 
 was resumed yesterday.) 
 
 Paris, Thursday, 
 May 30, 1918. 
 The majestic Madeleine witnessed to-day what I am sure is 
 a spectacle unique in its history — a service held by and for 
 American soldiers. Monsignor J. N. Connolly, chaplain of 
 the American army in France, preached the sermon which 
 was listened to by an audience consisting in great part of 
 American soldiers. The boys in khaki occupied seats on 
 the right half of the grand nave; on the other side were 
 civilians and, although many of these were Americans, many 
 also were French. The hundreds of young men in khaki 
 had the joy and gladness and thoughtlessness of Youth in 
 their eyes; to them War is the Great Adventure. As they 
 stand at its threshold they see naught of its horrors, fear 
 naught of its dangers; their emotion is that of eager ex- 
 pectancy, eager curiosity to see this wonderful, if dreadful, 
 thing that Kaiserism has unloosed upon the earth. . . . But 
 opposite them, across the Madeleine's center aisle, was a 
 throng of men and women to whom the Monster War has 
 brought woe and desolation, men and women for whom all 
 the world has become black with the frightful blackness of 
 grief and despair! Most of the women were in deep mourn- 
 ing and on the arms of old men, men grey haired, bent 
 shoulders, drawn, haggard faces, were little bands of black, 
 telling the story of sacrifice that some loved one of theirs had 
 made for Liberty! One poor woman kneeling in her pew 
 below me wept silently all through the services; she was 
 richly gowned; the black of her mourning dress was of costly 
 material. But for all that I say poor woman — for no amount 
 of worldly goods can ever atone for the emptiness, the 
 blackness that war has brought into her soul. . . . 
 
2 76 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 The majestic marble columns back of the altar were twined 
 with the French and American colors, and never did Old Glory 
 seem so beautiful as it did to-day in Paris' famous church 
 three thousand miles from America's shores. And never did 
 the "Star Spangled Banner" so thrill as it did this morning 
 when its inspiring strains were sung by a thousand lusty young 
 men, the flower of American manhood, accompanied by a 
 fifty-piece orchestra and by the deep, rich notes of the 
 Madeleine's organ! His Eminence Cardinal Amette, Arch- 
 bishop of Paris, who spoke from the steps of the altar after 
 the last notes of our national anthem had died away and a 
 hush had fallen upon the multitude of people, was deeply 
 moved; in a brief address he paid a touching tribute to the 
 valor and the patriotism of the unusual audience before him. 
 The Cardinal's red robe, twelve feet long, trailed far behind 
 him, its further end being held all through his address by a 
 youth who was clad in a garb as red as that of the Cardinal 
 himself. Flanking this richly robed youth were members 
 of the Swiss Guard in gorgeous uniforms — knee breeches, white 
 stockings, braided coats and cocked hats brilliant with gold 
 trimmings and plumage. All in all, the picture was one the 
 like of which no other of our Memorial Days has witnessed 
 since America began the touching custom of setting May 30 
 aside as a day on which to do reverent honor to our patriot 
 dead 1 
 
 On Good Friday some weeks ago while a throng of men 
 and women were kneeling in prayer in the ancient church of 
 St. Gervais * a shell from a 75-mile gun struck one of the 
 pillars of the church, causing the roof to cave in and kill 
 nearly a hundred people. During the service this morning that 
 tragic day at St. Gervais came back in my thoughts and I 
 said a silent prayer that a similar tragedy might be spared 
 
 Note, January, 1919. 
 
 * As the War is now over, it is permissible to give details which 
 formerly would have been omitted, hence the names of places in 
 Paris struck by German shells and bombs are allowed to stand. 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 277 
 
 us to-day. Even as I said this prayer, and as Cardinal Amette 
 was making his brief but elgquent tribute to the young 
 American soldiers before him, the bursting of the 75-mile 
 gun shells was plainly audible. Fortunately none fell upon 
 the Madeleine during the service; had one done so, had the 
 striking of one of those majestic marble columns let the 
 colossal roof of the great edifice fall in upon us, the holocaust 
 would have been frightful. Not hundreds, but perhaps thou- 
 sands, would have been killed or crushed and mangled. . . . 
 
 To illustrate the margin that in these terrible times separates 
 Parisians from great catastrophes let me relate that — after the 
 memorial services ended, after Cardinal Amette was gone, 
 after the Swiss Guard had doffed their gorgeous garbs and 
 become plain mortals again, after the thousands of men 
 and women had filed out of the church and gone their separate 
 ways along the Boulevards into the narrow Rues, losing them- 
 selves in the bosom of the huge city — then a shell hurled from 
 its lair 75 miles away did strike the Madeleine. But for- 
 tunately it passed between two of the huge fluted columns and 
 buried itself in the massive masonry behind the altar. All 
 the damage it did was to behead the statue of St. Luke which 
 occupies one of the niches on the exterior of the church! 
 
 Paris, Saturday, 
 June I, 1918. 
 For the past 48 hours Paris has been living through anxious 
 hours. Since the issue will have been decided long before 
 any eyes other than mine shall read these lines it can do no 
 harm to tell here how great is deemed the peril, how the 
 Monster War with all his instruments of destruction, his huge 
 guns, his deadly gases, his liquid fires, is drawing nearer and 
 nearer to the most beautiful city in the world. The Germans 
 are again at the Marne! Can Foch stop them now, as Joffre 
 did in 19 14? Liberty-lovers throughout the world hope so, 
 but it is so uncertain that my task to-day and yesterday has 
 
2 78 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 been to prepare for the worst, and yet not to let my staff of 
 thirty men know what is impending. If thirty men knew how 
 serious is the situation the secret would hardly be kept, and 
 if the public knew that we of the diplomatic corps are pre- 
 paring to leave Paris a panic might ensue. That must be 
 avoided if possible, yet if the worst does come we must be 
 ready to leave quickly with the archives of the Embassy. And 
 so I have been buying trunks in which to store official papers, 
 and Col, Saffarans, commander of the American forces in 
 Paris, has promised a Camion to move us — where? No one 
 knows whither the French government will go this time. Four 
 years ago it went to Bordeaux. If forced to move again 
 rumor says it will be to some city in central France. 
 
 Last night at the Travelers Club I listened to the talk of 
 French and English officers. All agreed that the chances are 
 two to one that Paris must be evacuated, for the Germans 
 are only 39 miles away and another bound will bring them 
 close enough to dominate the Capital with heavy artillery; 
 then France's power to make war will be cut in half. An 
 enemy might burn Washington to the ground without impair- 
 ing America's industrial efficiency. He might destroy Pitts- 
 burg, but other steel centers would remain. He might destroy 
 the ship yards on the Atlantic, but those of the Pacific coast 
 would go on making American ships. But when the Germans 
 get Paris, sixty per cent of France's power to make munitions, 
 aeroplane motors, etc., is gone. This is the tragedy of the 
 situation, yet no one dreams of giving up the struggle. "We 
 may have to go back to the Loire," said a French general 
 last night. "But even if we have to retreat to the Pyrenees 
 this war will not end until the Prussian beast is killed!" The 
 English and American officers who were there applauded this 
 utterance, and declared peace will never be made so long 
 as a single German soldier stands on French or Belgian 
 soil. It was cheering to hear this determined talk, but private 
 hints from high French officials cause us to prepare for to quit 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 279 
 
 Paris on two hours' notice. I have procured gas masks for 
 those of us who must remain to the last and our archives 
 are ready to be boxed and carted away. At Soissons a few 
 days ago the first warning the citizens received was a torrent 
 of gas shells and asphyxiating bombs; many, for lack of gas 
 masks, dropped dead in their homes before the Germans ar- 
 rived. Should the rush upon Paris be as swift and as sudden 
 as it was upon Soissons the catastrophe may be the greatest 
 in human history. 
 
 Paris, Saturday, 
 June 8, 1918. 
 During the last week Paris has lived through seven fright- 
 fully anxious days — the seventy-five-mile guns dropping shells 
 on the city daily and Gothas dropping bombs almost nightly. 
 Night before last as I stood at my window pieces of exploded 
 French shrapnel fell on the street below with the sharp, crack- 
 ling noise of hail striking the pavement. Overhead the black- 
 ness of the night was pierced here and there by giant arms of 
 electric light, French lights searching the foe. And every- 
 where the firmament became incessantly illuminated by the 
 sudden twinkling of little stars — for such is the effect of a 
 shell bursting in the sky on a dark night. And when the shell 
 bursts its hundreds of bullets and pieces scatter over a wide- 
 spread area with sufficient force to kill any living being upon 
 whom they may chance to fall. Around the comer from my 
 lodgings on the Rue Pierre Charron a man was killed in front 
 of 75 Champs Elysees by a small piece of shrapnel hitting him 
 on the head; had that man been under cover he would not 
 have been harmed. From the ledge of the window where I 
 stood I gathered up a handful of shrapnel pieces varying in 
 size from a .44 caliber cartridge to a pigeon egg; and then I 
 hurried to my sleeping room and got into bed, in a corner of 
 the room as far from the window as possible. The fire of the 
 French barrage made sleep difficult; turning on the light over 
 
2 8o THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 the head of my bed (having, of course, first drawn tight the 
 black curtains across the windows), I read until i a. m, when 
 the Berlocque announced that the air battle was over. . . . 
 
 In the back part of a room on a lower floor (my bed cham- 
 ber is on the "Entresol") one has a fair measure of protection 
 against danger from shrapnel, and even from the small bombs. 
 Of course, only in a deep cave can one be safe from a large 
 bomb, while not even the deepest cave in Paris affords protec- 
 tion against a direct hit by an aerial torpedo. These devilish 
 death engines can smash an entire building of heavy masonry 
 as completely as if it were made by cardboard, and every now 
 and then they do it, but how often they do it we here in Paris 
 may be the last to learn. For instance, to-day my Collier's 
 Weekly for May i8 is laid on my desk, and for the first time 
 I am made aware of the fact that during an air raid over Paris 
 a couple of months ago a bomb which fell in the middle of a 
 prominent boulevard made so deep a hole that a taxi, which 
 unluckily turned into that boulevard half a minute after the 
 bomb exploded, fell into the hole, turned turtle and killed the 
 chauffeur and two occupants inside the cab. Collier's gives a 
 photograph of the upset taxi in the shell hole. Perhaps many 
 Parisians learn by chance of incidents like these, but they 
 must wait for the American newspapers to see the photographs 
 and read the details. . . . 
 
 A giant Gotha was captured a few nights ago; thinking they 
 were inside their lines the Germans came to earth just in the 
 rear of Betz where fortunately French soldiers were close 
 enough at hand to capture the eight aviators and their ma- 
 chine, the wings of which have an expanse of 136 feet! 
 The monster carried several tons of bombs, one of which 
 weighed 2,200 pounds! Experts say that the explosion of one 
 of these "super" bombs would destroy an entire city block, 
 not only on and above the surface but to a depth of probably 
 thirty feet. This means that if the Germans succeed in raid- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 281 
 
 ing Paris with Gothas of this type not even the deepest Abri 
 will afford safety to Parisians. . . . 
 
 Terrific fighting is still going on barely forty miles from 
 where I am writing these notes; thus far the enemy is being 
 '"held," but whether he will continue to be held, or whether 
 he will succeed in advancing again, and near enough to put 
 Paris within reach of his marine guns, remains to be seen. 
 Yesterday the French government appointed a "Committee 
 for the Defense of Paris," It is announced that this is only 
 a precaution and that the public must not become alarmed 
 or imagine that the government believes the Germans will 
 really enter the Capital, or that they will even come close 
 enough to bomb it with ordinary big cannon. It is added, 
 however, that even in the worst event not even to save Paris 
 will peace be made with the Hun; the civilian population will 
 be evacuated as far as possible and regardless of what ruin 
 and desolation may befall Paris the Allied armies will fight on 
 until America's legions arrive! . . . 
 
 Havelock Wilson, head of the British Seamen's Union, made 
 an announcement at Newcastle yesterday which ought to in- 
 terest Germany. It was to the effect that the seamen of 
 Great Britain have solemnly resolved to boycott Germany 
 and all things German for a given number of years following 
 the declaration of peace. 
 
 "We understand," said Mr. Wilson, "that it would be diffi- 
 cult for the government to declare a boycott at the moment 
 of signing a treaty of peace. But what would be difficult for 
 the government will be easy for us and we shall refuse after 
 the war to work on any vessel that contains any sort of mer- 
 chandise destined to, or coming from, Germany. And when I 
 say 'We' I speak not only for sailors but also for seamen of 
 all ranks, from Captain down to kitchen boys. The stewards 
 and cooks union are at one with us on this; so are the engi- 
 neers, the stevedores and mechanics. And we mean to go 
 further: we are founding a league pledged to boycott any 
 
282 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 British store that offers to sell anything made in Germany. 
 If the public will support us in this, and we believe it will, 
 then Germany will find no sale for even such of her goods as 
 she may be able to bring to England in her own bottoms." 
 
 By way of explaining this bitter, this implacable resolve Mr. 
 Wilson told how in 19 14 and 191 5 the British Seamen's Union 
 cared for the 7,000 German seamen who happened to be in 
 British ports the day of the declaration of war between Eng- 
 land and Germany and who, consequently, were interned by 
 the British government. The Seamen's Union treated the Ger- 
 man seamen as unfortunate brothers; it appropriated $75,000 
 out of its treasury to provide the Germans with special com- 
 forts. And, as Mr. Wilson relates, it planned to give a Na- 
 tional entertainment on May 8, 19 15, to raise more funds to 
 provide more comforts to the interned German sailors. Then 
 the Lusitania was sunk on May 7 and that same night Mr. 
 Wilson went to the Internment camp, told the German seamen 
 how 500 of their brother seamen had been sent without a mo- 
 ment's warning to the bottom of the sea and how that tragedy 
 made it impossible to go on with the entertainment. Did the 
 Germans express any regret at the cruel fate that had over- 
 taken their "brothers"? Mr. Wilson says that so far from 
 speaking a single word of regret they gave forth thundering 
 hurrahs and forthwith began singing Deutschland ueber Alles, 
 followed by Die Wacht Am Rhein! 
 
 "After that," continued Mr. Wilson, "can any sane man 
 believe in the 'Internationalism' of a German? Certainly we 
 seamen no longer have faith in them. They have proved them- 
 selves unworthy the high traditions of the sea that have been 
 observed for hundreds of years by the sailors of every nation 
 on earth. On the sea which at times is so cold, so cruel, so 
 destructive to man, — on that element where man is so power- 
 less and puny, Mercy, Charity, Brotherhood are to be expected 
 from even half civilized foes. But the Germans have shown 
 less mercy than the Barbary pirates of old. For instance, 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 283 
 
 when did ever Barbary pirate excel for cold, calculated, sense- 
 less cruelty the act of the Germans with reference to the Bel- 
 gian Prince? After sinking the Belgian Prince the U-Boat 
 Commander ordered the English crew to leave the life boats 
 in which they had taken refuge and to get on the U-Boat's 
 deck. Then the Germans smashed the life boats with axes, 
 after which they made the English, at the points of revolvers, 
 throw their life belts into the sea. This done, the Germans 
 climbed down into the U-Boat, closed the hatch, then sub- 
 merged, leaving 48 unhappy men floundering in the ocean 200 
 miles from land without so much as a piece of broken wreck- 
 age to cling to. For with a refinement of cruelty and cunning 
 unknown even to a Barbary pirate, before submerging the 
 U-Boat Commander ran his craft some miles away from the 
 scene of the wreck and from the spot where the life boats were 
 smashed. They thought to 'Sink without leaving a trace,' as 
 the German Ambassador to Mexico so cannily expresses it. 
 But three of those unfortunate men by superhuman efforts 
 managed to keep on swimming for fifteen hours and were res- 
 cued by a British destroyer. Shall sturdy British seamen 
 recognize as brothers men capable of such deeds as this?" 
 
 ... Of course, with the passing years hatreds grow cold. 
 Nevertheless, it will not be easy for this generation to forget 
 what Germany has done on the high seas and no matter what 
 governments may do, as long as British seamen feel as they 
 now feel it will be no easy matter for Germans to sell their 
 goods in British ports. 
 
 Every morning at eight Marcel brings me a big bowl of de- 
 licious strawberries and cream; the berries cost 40 cents a 
 pound, the cream costs 8 cents for a third of a pint — dear as 
 compared with pre-war prices in America, but I think cheap 
 considering it is in Paris with a million Germans thundering 
 almost at the city's gates. It may be interesting to give the 
 present Paris war-time prices of meats, vegetables, etc. Here 
 
284 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 are a few figures I noted at the market the other day: (all 
 figures are in francs and are per kilo, i, e., 2 1/5 lbs.) 
 
 Soup meat, 10; veal for a stew, 5.90; roast beef, 14; roast 
 veal, 14; roast pork, 10; mutton for stew, 5.80; leg of lamb, 
 1 5 ; best butter, 9 ; rice, 3 ; tapioca, 4.80 ; flour, 2 ; dry white 
 beans, 2.20; coffee, 6.80; sugar, 1.90; new potatoes, 1.50; 
 bacon and ham, 10; olive oil, 5; asparagus, fresh and very fine, 
 15 big stalks, 3 (medium grade, 1.50); eggs, per 100, 40 
 francs. 
 
 Paris, Tuesday, 
 June II, 1918. 
 To-day's Paris papers contain this brief announcement: 
 
 "Le bombardement de la region parisienne par canons a 
 longue portee a continue hier. On signale quelques victimes." 
 
 "One announces some victims!" — doesn't sound serious, 
 does it? And as all that 99 per cent of the people know about 
 the bombardment is what they learn from the newspapers 
 Paris is going about its business as usual, paying no more 
 attention to the "dull thud" of the big Bertha's exploding 
 shells than is paid by the people of an American city to the 
 noise of blasters in a rock quarry. But sometimes the deadly 
 seriousness of the bombardment is brought home to you. This 
 morning Pervis, my janitor, looked terribly solemn; I asked 
 him what was the matter. "Monsieur," said he, "an hour ago 
 I witnessed a horrible sight — a poor old man cut in two and 
 both of the two halves of him crushed and mangled to pieces — 
 it was frightful!" Pervis shuddered and covered his eyes with 
 his hands and it was some time before he could continue; then 
 he told me how by the merest chance it was the old man, not 
 himself, who had been thus crushed out of all human recogni- 
 tion. Pervis had paused a moment to greet a friend; that 
 moment was his salvation, for even while he stood speaking to 
 his friend a 75-mile gun's shell fell in the Boulevard a few 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 285 
 
 paces beyond him, striking and killing the old man with whom 
 he had been walking an instant before and who, unhappily, 
 had not stopped to greet a friend ! . . . 
 
 Two trifling, yet significant, incidents occurred last week 
 in Germany. In the Prussian Landtag when the Minister of 
 the Government in charge of the discussion proceeded as usual 
 to put the German armies under the protection of God one of 
 the members leaped to his feet and exclaimed: "This is in- 
 tolerable. We have a totally different idea of God. When we 
 view the things that have been done in this war we are 
 ashamed to be men and we dare not believe that a Supreme 
 Being would create such things as we!" 
 
 The other incident occurred in the Reichstag on June 7; in 
 supporting a bill providing indemnities for persons imprisoned 
 unjustly one of the Socialist deputies, Herr Wendel, mentioned 
 many cases of wholly unjust imprisonment, particularly in 
 Alsace. For instance, a merchant named May was kept in 
 prison ten months, then released; and to this day he has not 
 been given the slightest idea of what, if any, charge was made 
 against him. Another case is that of a poor woman who 
 wore a blue hat, a white belt and red stockings; the wearing 
 of these three colors was solemnly declared by a court martial 
 to be a "manifestation in favor of France." Accordingly the 
 woman was imprisoned. Herr Wendel declared that the popu- 
 lation of Alsace-Lorraine is so exasperated by the way it is 
 being treated by the military, in case of a plebiscite it would 
 vote by an enormous majority in favor of annexation with 
 France. This produced an uproar in the Reichstag and Herr 
 Wendel was vigorously denounced; none the less is it signifi- 
 cant that such a discussion can take place in the German 
 Reichstag at such a time as the present. , . . 
 
 Nearly two years ago I dined with my friends, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Dodge, at one of the fairly good grade restaurants on 
 the Boulevard des Italiens; last night I dined at that same 
 restaurant and a comparison between prices then and now may 
 
2 86 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 be interesting. The menu of my dinner with the Dodges is 
 given in an early entry in my Journal, and here is the menu 
 for last night: 
 
 Roast beef with two vegetables (spinach and string beans), 
 francs, 3.50; hors d'ceuvres (sardines, hard boiled eggs, an- 
 chovies, potato salad, radishes, etc.), i; lettuce salad, 1.50; 
 Yi liter beer, i; coffee, 75; total, frs., 7.75. To this was added 
 the government tax of 10 per cent, 80 centimes, making the 
 dinner cost Frs. 8. 5 5=$ 1.50. 
 
 The roast beef, though good, was not as tender as it might 
 have been; but the vegetables were delicious, the lettuce was 
 crisp and tender and the hors d'ceuvres "tasty" as well as 
 filling. Certainly, after four years of war one might fare 
 worse!* 
 
 Paris, Sunday, 
 June 16, 1918. 
 
 Our American soldiers have covered themselves with glory! 
 On June 3d streams of Marines flowed along the outskirts of 
 Paris toward Chateau-Thierry. There were other Americans, 
 too — infantry and artiller}^ — and as they hurried eastward 
 they met the French streaming westward. "It's no use. It's 
 all over. Don't go on. You will be slaughtered!" That 
 was the greeting shouted into the ears of the Marines and of 
 the American soldiers. "Slaughtered! Hell! It's we who 
 are going to do the slaughtering! " And on they hurried. The 
 French commander ordered a retreat. We hear our American 
 commander replied: 
 
 "I can not give the order to retreat. My men would not 
 understand it. We are about to attack!" 
 
 And attack they did, with such fury that the Huns were 
 taken by surprise and driven back across the Manie. And 
 now Paris is breathing a little easier; nevertheless the danger 
 is far from ended. My trunk remains packed and our archives 
 are still held in readiness for instant departure. The drubbing 
 
 * See page 82 for prices at this same restaurant in October 1916. 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 287 
 
 our boys have given the Germans seems to have infuriated 
 them. At any rate, their bombardment by day and air raids 
 by night have become more terrible than ever. Last night 
 during an inferno of falling German bombs and bursting 
 French shrapnel I looked from my window in the direction 
 of the Bastile and saw the heavens lurid with the glow of a 
 great fire. To-day's papers simply announce that last night 
 a squadron of Gothas succeeded in flying over Paris and that 
 "one announces victims." That is all that is to be learned from 
 newspapers, but my servant Marcel (who used to serve the 
 British Ambassador in Washington) is a clearing house for 
 gossip. He told me where the bombs fell last night, where- 
 upon, taking a Metro train and passing under nearly the 
 entire length of Paris, I emerged at the station "Nation," 
 whence several wide boulevards radiate like the spokes of a 
 wheel from the hub. Taking one of them, the boulevard Vol- 
 taire, I walked to the Rue de Charrone, turned from that 
 street into the narrow Rue Boulets and found myself on the 
 scene of the raid. A two story house was literally smashed 
 into kindling wood and powdered brick and stones. The ad- 
 jacent seven story building had its top floor demolished, but 
 the six floors beneath were unharmed and as I stood this 
 morning looking up at the damaged roof and seventh floor, 
 I saw the "locataires" on the sixth floor gazing serenely down 
 from their windows upon the street below. A few hours 
 before, death dealing missiles had come hurtling down from 
 the sky smashing the roof above them, demolishing the house 
 next to them, killing people all about them. But if this 
 tragedy struck terror to their souls they did not show it. 
 They were looking out of their windows, seemingly as uncon- 
 cerned as if they were looking down upon a street in New 
 York instead of upon a Paris street that had just received 
 a deadly visit from the Huns. Next to the seven story house 
 was a large department store which was utterly ruined. Bombs 
 striking the roof had blown up millions of francs' worth of 
 
288 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 silks, linens and the thousand other useful things department 
 stores sell. 
 
 On the Boulevard Voltaire, on the Rue de Charrone, on 
 the Rue Boulets, on all the streets of the neighborhood, were 
 crowds of women, baskets on their arms, doing their Sunday- 
 marketing. They displayed interest in the price of radishes, 
 new potatoes and the like, but apart from myself no one 
 seemed to have any curiosity about the damage done by the 
 Germans. 
 
 Bourges, Friday, 
 July 5, 1918. 
 
 A few days ago I received an invitation from President 
 Poincare to occupy a seat in his "tribune" at the inauguration 
 of the "Avenue du President Wilson" — Lloyd George, Lord 
 Derby, Clemenceau and other celebrities were to be there and 
 I was tempted to go, but was unable to do so, having 
 previously accepted an invitation of officials of the French 
 Foreign Office to deliver a Fourth of July address in Bourges. 
 
 At every station where the train stopped, coming from Paris 
 yesterday, I saw crowds of people reading the government's 
 proclamation calling on France to regard the American fete 
 day as if it were the 14th of July. Factories, banks, shops, 
 stores all over France were closed and American flags were in 
 evidence everywhere. The hall where I spoke was packed 
 with more than a thousand cheering men and women. My 
 French is villainous but it was sufficient for that friendly 
 audience; they applauded almost every sentence and M. Lucien 
 Corpechot of the Foreign Office, who was present, has urged 
 me to repeat the speech in Marseilles. 
 
 Yesterday afternoon, following the official luncheon given 
 me by the Mayor and dignitaries of the city, I stole away 
 from my hotel to see Bourges' cathedral built seven hundred 
 years ago and which in many respects is as interesting as any 
 edifice in France. While studying the curious "Last Judg- 
 ment" in the tympanum over the central portal — a motley 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 289 
 
 array of forked tail devils who are seizing poor wretches just 
 emerged from their tombs and shoving them down into tanks 
 of brimstone and fire — a gentleman in the uniform of an 
 American Major of Engineers approached and asked if I was 
 an American. When I said that I was he added: 
 
 "I thought so. You greatly resemble one of the dearest 
 friends I ever had, a friend who died years ago." 
 
 "Who was your friend?" I asked. 
 
 "Major Niles Meriwether." 
 
 "He was my father's brother/' I said. And thereupon the 
 officer introduced himself as Major Woolsey Finnell of Tusca- 
 loosa, Ala. A few questions and answers developed the fact 
 that fifty-three years ago, just before Gen. Lee surrendered 
 to Gen. Grant, my mother was a refugee in Tuscaloosa, having 
 fled from her home in Memphis, Tenn., as the Federal armies 
 moved South. And she took me, a baby in arms, to the home 
 of Major Finnell's mother! 
 
 "Well," said the Major with a smile, "it is a long time to 
 wait, and a long distance to go, to renew our acquaintance, 
 but now that we have met again I want you to visit my camp. 
 It is one of the biggest things in France." 
 
 It was to accept this invitation that I remained in Bourges 
 an extra day. Early this morning an American army auto- 
 mobile came for me and swiftly carried me over a splendid road 
 through a country so smiling, so quiet, so beautiful, for the 
 moment the world seemed at peace and war seemed only an 
 evil dream. 
 
 But in about an hour thoughts of peace were rudely 
 dispelled by a sight of the work Major Finnell is doing — con- 
 structing buildings forty acres in extent, to house the ten 
 thousand mechanics whom Uncle Sam is sending across the 
 Atlantic to rebore and repair the big guns as fast as they 
 get out of "whack" at the front! Yea, verily, there is no 
 sign of peace in the far flung structures I saw to-day rising as 
 if by magic out of the green fields of central France. On the 
 
290 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 contrary, judging from the prodigious size of those buildings 
 it seems as if America intends to make war its special job for 
 years to come. Last year I visited the gun works at Le 
 Creusot. Those works, the greatest in France, the greatest 
 in the world next to Krupp's at Essen, are the slow growth 
 of three quarters of a century, yet they are not much larger 
 than the prodigious plant Major Finnell is building. 
 
 "Judging from the extent of your operations you must think 
 the war will last for years," I said after we had walked several 
 miles through the vast sheds where soon thousands of men 
 will be busy with huge cranes, with steel lathes and all the 
 other paraphernalia for handling giant guns. 
 
 "We shall be ready to look after the army's artillery no 
 matter how long the war lasts," was the Major's quiet answer. 
 Then as we walked up a stretch of railroad track connecting 
 two of the big buildings, he added musingly: "These ties are 
 from Alabama, and these rails from Birmingham. All that 
 forest of steel T' beams, all this structural iron work comes 
 from Alabama. Haven't I a right to be proud of my native 
 state?" 
 
 "Yes," said I, "and Alabama has a right to be proud of 
 you. It is a man's job you have here, and you seem to be 
 doing it in a marHs way. But tell me. Major, where did you 
 find the thousands of skilled iron workers necessary to put 
 up this vast plant?" 
 
 Major Finnell smiled as he waved his hand toward some 
 hundreds of men engaged in putting rivets through the cor- 
 rugated iron roof, setting iron columns in concrete founda- 
 tions, etc. 
 
 "Those men you call skilled iron workers," he said, "all 
 came from the East Side of New York. A year ago they 
 were selling bananas or second hand clothing. Until they were 
 drafted and came to France they did not know they could 
 do this sort of work. Nobody thought they could do it. But 
 necessity forced us to make the experiment. We had to have 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 291 
 
 these buildings and, as you see, the former fruit peddlers and 
 small shop keepers rose to the occasion." 
 
 "Has all this been done by raw recruits?" I asked as I 
 beheld the miles of electric wiring, the acres of windows and 
 sky lights, the forest of concrete piers and iron "I" beams. 
 
 "Yes," was the reply, "and with not more than a score of 
 exceptions every man of them was a novice. When ground was 
 broken here three months ago we had only one man who knew 
 how to drive a nail or handle a saw. We had no iron workers, 
 no electricians, no glass workers, no concrete mixers. But I 
 was a civil engineer for thirty years. From your uncle whom 
 I knew as Chief Engineer of a Southern Railroad I learned 
 many things, and my men here have learned those things from 
 me. Less than a year ago the man you see there putting glass 
 panes into those windows was an $8,000 a year bank cashier. 
 He never puttied glass before in his life but, as you see, he is 
 doing a fairly good job. The man riveting the roof over his 
 head used to shine shoes in the basement of the other man's 
 bank. Then the cashier looked down on him; now the former 
 boot black looks down on the former cashier — you see he is 
 nearer the roof." 
 
 Major Finnell enjoyed his little joke, then added seriously: 
 "This war is a great leveler. A man stands on his present 
 worth, not on his former position in society. A bootblack, 
 become a sergeant, gives orders to a bank cashier who has not 
 succeeded in rising above the ranks. Frightful as war is, out 
 of it occasionally comes good. One of the good things is the 
 broadening effect it is having upon the manhood of the United 
 States. It is enabling men to 'find' themselves. You may be 
 sure when these fellows get back home they will aim at some- 
 thing better than pushing banana carts or selling old clothing." 
 
 I asked how the $8,000 a year men took their sudden shift to 
 manual labor at a soldier's wage of $30 a month. 
 
 "Admirably," was the reply. "I have not seen one of them 
 who is not keen about his new job. Of course, in the outset it 
 
2 92 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 seemed odd to Smith, six months ago cashier of a big bank, 
 to be driving rivets alongside of Kobolski who six months 
 ago was blacking Smith's boots in the basement of his bank, 
 but both Smith and Kobolski are in deadly earnest about put- 
 ting the Kaiser out of business; they know these great gun 
 works are necessary for that supremely important job, so both 
 are going to it as if success depended upon their individual 
 efforts — as indeed it does. For multiply Smith and Kobolski 
 by millions and you have the giant force that will make the 
 world safe for democracy. It is superb, magnificent. I have 
 never been so proud of America as I am now in face of the 
 splendid spirit displayed by her foreign born as well as by 
 her native citizens!" 
 
 As he spoke Major Finnell pointed to an excavation in the 
 center of the enormous building through which we were walk- 
 ing. "Heavy machinery is to be placed there," he said. "It 
 is necessary to dig deep to make a place for the concrete 
 foundation. Before getting to the depth you see there, we 
 came to the remains of the rock road which Julius Caesar built 
 here when he overran this part of France half a century 
 before Christ. My men found here four Roman coins one 
 of which I tried to buy for a hundred francs, but failed, the 
 finders preferring to keep the coins as souvenirs. Even the 
 Chinese laborer, who was one of the lucky finders and for 
 whom I did not imagine either Caesar or Caesar's coins would 
 possess any interest, declared nothing would induce him to 
 part with his find. He said he regards it as a mascot that will 
 surely get him back safely to China." 
 
 Much of the rough work, such as digging excavations, making 
 moulds of corrugated iron for concrete foundation piers and 
 laying railroad tracks, was done by the hundreds of Chinamen 
 whom Major Finnell hired from the French government, paying 
 the government one and a half francs (about 27 cents), and 
 paying each Chinaman two and a half francs per day — a wage, 
 however, which is soon to be increased to four francs, so that 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 293 
 
 ultimately each Chinaman will cost Uncle Sam five and a half 
 francs (about a dollar) a day, plus their food and lodging. 
 
 "When the Chinamen came here ninety days ago," said 
 Major Finnell, "they were the hungriest, thinnest looking men 
 I ever saw. Now they are fat and contented. To them our 
 army rations seem like one long succession of banquets." 
 
 After partaking of the luncheon to-day in the officers' mess 
 I too, think, army rations a feast; in many respects to-day's 
 luncheon was more wholesome and more palatable than one 
 can get in the best restaurant of Paris. For instance, no 
 Paris restaurant has such delicious, well baked white bread 
 as that which forms the regular ration of the American soldiers 
 in France. And nowhere in all France is cake of any kind to 
 be had ; but as dessert in the officers' mess to-day I was given 
 a thick slice of delicious cake with layers of peaches and choc- 
 olate! 
 
 Ninety days ago the place where I saw those forty acres of 
 buildings to-day was a vineyard; ninety days hence thousands 
 of mechanics will be busy in those buildings, supplied with a 
 vast quantity of the most improved machinery for repairing 
 our big guns as fast as they get out of order in their work of 
 smashing the Kaiser. I do not wish to take a single leaf from 
 the laurels on the brow of our fighting soldier; his deeds of 
 heroism and sacrifice will adorn the pages of history for a 
 thousand years. But neither should we lack appreciation of 
 the tremendous services performed by the S.O.S. — Service of 
 Supplies. The value and nature of those services may be 
 imagined when I say that the work Major Finnell is doing is 
 merely a sample of what other American army engineers are 
 doing in many other places in France. 
 
 Paris, Sunday, 
 
 July 7- 
 Kerensky, with whom I had a conference to-day, sought to 
 impress me with the view that Allied intervention is the one 
 
294 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 thing that will save Russia. I reminded Kerensky of the 
 fate of Dumouriez, of Lafayette, of other ardent republicans 
 who, horrified by the excesses of the Jacobins, sought to bring 
 France to her senses by the aid of foreign bayonets; the only 
 result was to unite Frenchmen of all shades of opinion against 
 the invaders. Dumouriez, the hero of Valmy, fled to England 
 and died in exile; Lafayette, flying from the wrath of the 
 people he had sought to make free, spent years in an Austrian 
 dungeon. Would not like results follow like causes in Russia? 
 
 M. Kerensky said he thought not. "In the first place," said 
 he, "the Bolsheviki sooner or later will call the Germans to 
 their aid and Lenine, not I, will play the role of Dumouriez. 
 It will be against the men who have betrayed Russia into 
 Germany's hands that our people will rally. Of course, in- 
 tervention should be by all the powers of the Entente. I rec- 
 ognize the fact that Japan alone is in a position to send a large 
 force into Siberia. But there should be some forces, however 
 small, of other members of the Entente. Above all, there 
 should be an explicit declaration of the purpose of the inter- 
 vention. Needless to say, that purpose must not be to 
 restore any pre-existing government in Russia. That stone 
 tripped such men as Dumouriez and caused their downfall; 
 they sought to force upon France the government of the Bour- 
 bons, a government nearly all Frenchmen despised. Should 
 the Entente powers enter Russia with the purpose of restoring 
 the Czar the parallel with Dumouriez would be just — and the 
 result would be similarly disastrous. It will be otherwise if 
 the Entente enters Russia merely to afford my distracted people 
 an opportunity to get together, to rid themselves of the Bol- 
 sheviki whose policy, whether they so intend it or not, would 
 make of Russia a jumble of petty provinces, one warring 
 against the other and all offering fields for German exploita- 
 tion!" 
 
 Kerensky is terribly in earnest; whether he is as wise as 
 he is earnest is a question. Certainly the Russian problem. 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 295 
 
 is one big with danger. Inaction which will permit that vast 
 country to fall completely into German hands is unthinkable; 
 but action that would cause Russia's hundred million people to 
 look on the Allies as invaders, which consequently would array 
 that great country against us — that sort of intervention would 
 be fatal. . . . News of the assassination of Count Mirbach, the 
 German Ambassador at Moscow, which reached Paris to-day, 
 has caused a great stir in Russian circles; Kerensky thinks 
 Germany will use this murder, as she used the murder of the 
 Austrian Archduke four years ago, as a pretext for military 
 aggression, and that prompt Allied intervention is now more 
 necessary than ever. 
 
 Kerensky speaks so little French that he refused even to 
 try to talk in that language; he knows not a word of English, 
 hence our conference was through the medium of his friend 
 Dr. J. O. Gavronsky with whom he is staying in Paris, Dr. 
 Gavronsky, because of his revolutionary activities, was sen- 
 tenced to twenty years' exile in Siberia — whereupon he fled 
 from Russia seven years ago; during those years he has lived 
 in London and Paris. Kerensky refused to talk about his 
 adventures since his dramatic overthrow by the Bolsheviki, 
 but Dr. Gavronsky spoke freely on the subject. Wlien he said 
 that Kerensky had not only been in Moscow all the time, but 
 had had daily conferences with members of all political parties 
 opposed to the Bolsheviki I wondered how he had managed 
 to escape detection: "didn't the Bolsheviki try to get him?" 
 I asked. 
 
 "They certainly did," replied Dr. Gavronsky with a smile. 
 "But it is not easy to get a man who has the sympathy of the 
 great body of the people around him. They protect you, hide 
 you, and mislead the police who try to find you. Moreover, 
 Kerensky grew a beard and mustache that disguised him. I 
 did not recognize him myself when he arrived recently. Of 
 course, now that the heavy beard and mustache are gone he 
 looks like himself again." . . . Kerensky is tall and spare 
 
296 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 rather than stout, but he is by no means the delicate man, Hv- 
 ing on his nerves, as many reports have described him; on the 
 contrary, he appears physically vigorous. His eyes burn like 
 coals of fire, but he keeps them half closed which gives one 
 the impression if not seeking to conceal his thoughts, at any 
 rate that he is not altogether frank and candid. But once 
 started on his hobby, the politics of Russia, he talks with a 
 nervous energy that gives one the impression he has the power 
 to persuade and convince, although one does not understand 
 the language in which he speaks. However, even in the heat 
 of his argument his eyes remain half closed, his glance does 
 not meet yours and the impression he makes is on the whole 
 the reverse of favorable. 
 
 I indulge in these personal remarks because, whatever 
 Kerensky's merits or demerits, whether his downfall resulted 
 from weakness, or from circumstances too overwhelming for 
 even the strongest man to withstand, for a brief period he 
 played a great part in one of the world's greatest upheavals. 
 During that brief period this tall, sallow man with half closed 
 eyes and nervous, quick gestures — this man who was a poor 
 lawyer, who now is not even that, who is now an exile with 
 a price on his head — during that brief period this man was a 
 more absolute dictator than the Czar he overthrew; during 
 that brief period he held in the hollow of his hand the destinies 
 of a hundred million people. And so, whatever Fate may do 
 to Kerensky in the future, he will always have a page in the 
 histories of the next thousand years. For the events in which 
 he played a short, but a great part, like the events of the 
 French Revolution, will engage the pens of philosophers and 
 historians for generations to come. 
 
 Paris, Monday, 
 July 29, 1918. 
 The notion that the Austrians are less inclined to ruthless 
 cruelty than are the Germans is apt to be dissipated when 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 297 
 
 the public becomes acquainted with a report on Austrian con- 
 duct in Servia made by Professor R. A. Reiss of the University 
 of Lausanne, Switzerland. It will be recollected that in the 
 beginning of the war, before Germany and Bulgaria came to 
 Austria's aid, little Servia repulsed her giant neighbor and 
 drove his armies back across the Danube. Thus during the last 
 months of 19 14, and the early part of 191 5, Servia was rid of 
 her invaders, and during those months Professor Reiss made 
 a painstaking and an impartial investigation of what the Aus- 
 trians had done during their first wild invasion of their little 
 neighbor. He examined scores of eye witnesses, both Serbians 
 and Austrian prisoners, and some of the deeds they told, 
 deeds corroborated by circumstantial evidence, and sometimes 
 by photographs, rival the worst German samples of "Schreck- 
 lichkeit." Here are one or two examples taken at random 
 from Professor Reiss's report. 
 
 I. — ^At Shabatz on October 23, 19 14, Austrian soldiers took 
 from the Hotel Europa, where they had sought refuge, a num- 
 ber of women and young girls, forced them to go to a church 
 and there, behind the altar, the officers violated the young 
 girls one by one. (p. 50). 
 
 2. — Mr. S. Rebitch, Mayor of the town of Pmjavor, testi- 
 fied that the Austrians burst into the house of one Vladmir 
 Preizovitch, a citizen of Prnjavor, and finding there a wounded 
 Serbian soldier, they built a fire under his bed and roasted him! 
 The charred boards of the floor under the bed were seen by 
 Prof. Reiss. (p. 58). 
 
 3. — In the town of Breziak on August 3, 19 14, the Austrians 
 butchered 54 men, women and children; Simo Yezditch, aged 
 14, had her nose and ears cut off; other children had their 
 eyes put out; one family of five persons ranging in age from 
 the father, 46, to the youngest girl, a child of 7, was exter- 
 minated. They were found by Prof. Reiss in a ditch with 
 their dog, pinioned and all tied together, including the dog! 
 
 4. — ^A large number of the inhabitants of the city of Shabatz 
 
298 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 were taken behind the church, shot and buried in a common 
 grave. Some of the witnesses testified that the number thus 
 murdered was 120. Prof. Reiss opened the grave, which was 
 30 feet long, 12 feet wide and 10 feet deep, and found from 
 personal examination of the corpses that the facts were in 
 accordance with the testimony of surviving witnesses of the 
 tragedy. Prof. Reiss says: 
 
 "The net result of all my investigation is proof conclusive 
 that the death of the victims enumerated is the result of a sys- 
 tem of extermination !" (p. 131.) 
 
 5. — In Leshnitza the Austrians executed 109 civilians be- 
 tween 8 and 80 years of age. Prof. Reiss says: 
 
 "From the depositions of eye witnesses taken in conjunction 
 with the results of my own personal investigations, I am enabled 
 to reconstruct the scene of the butchery. 
 
 "The 109 victims were taken to a spot near the station where 
 a large pit had already been prepared, measuring 62 feet in 
 length by 10 feet in width. The arms of the hostages were 
 pinioned . . . then the soldiers took up their position on the 
 embankment of the railway at a distance of about 60 feet from 
 the pit, and from there fired a volley. Everybody fell pell-mell 
 into the pit, which was immediately covered in with earth with- 
 out any trouble being taken to verify whether the persons were 
 dead or still living. It appears certain that many of the victims 
 were not mortally wounded . . . but they were all dragged into 
 the pit by the rest. ... I do not think I err in estimating that 
 about 50 per cent of the number WERE BURIED ALIVE!" 
 
 Prof. Reiss adds that on opening the grave he found that 
 the corpses still bore the cords with which they had been 
 pinioned, and that many of them were in positions that in- 
 dicated that they had twisted and turned in a futile effort to 
 free themselves from the earth which was piled upon them 
 immediately after the volley was fired! 
 
 Prof. Reiss' report, made by a neutral (a Swiss) at the 
 request of the Serbian government, is judicial in tone and is 
 supported by a mass of specific evidence, photographs and 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 299 
 
 sworn depositions of witnesses whose names and addresses are 
 given; it is a damning indictment of Austrian conduct. 
 
 Berne, Switzerland, Tuesday, 
 August 27, 1918. 
 It is more than a month since General Foch definitely turned 
 the tide of battle in the Allies' favor; after July i8th I un- 
 packed my trunk and sold the boxes bought June ist when 
 it was thought the Embassy's archives might have to be re- 
 moved on an hour's notice. Then I came to Switzerland on 
 a mission which has afforded an opportunity to see a lot of 
 Germans at close range. The German Embassy in Berne has 
 700 attaches and in the Sweitzerhof Hotel, where I am writing 
 these notes, are scores of Germans who, having enough money 
 and enough political "pull" to get them to Switzerland, have 
 come here to buy a square meal and such few clothes as they 
 are permitted to purchase. In comparison with Paris, food 
 and clothing here are scarce and dear, but in comparison with 
 Germany both are plentiful and cheap, hence Germans flock to 
 Berne to get at least temporary relief from the near-famine 
 prevailing in their beleaguered land. I have seen here a dozen 
 shop windows filled with bonbons and cakes over which is the 
 announcement: 
 
 "Kucken sind verkaueflich ohne Karten" 
 
 Cakes are sold without cards — about the only thing one 
 can buy without a card. Police permits are necessary for 
 the purchase of shoes, clothing, etc., as well as food. 
 
 Marie Antoinette has been derided for telling the French 
 fish-wives to eat cake, if they could get no bread. She would 
 not be mocked for making such a remark in Berne where cake 
 is the one thing that is plentiful, and bread the one article of 
 food hardest to find. The two exceedingly thin slices one is 
 given at each of the three daily meals are not at all satisfy- 
 
300 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 ing, and seem meager indeed in comparison with the generous 
 portions one gets in France; but the Germans at the tables 
 about me appear more than satisfied — from which it would 
 seem things in Germany are not so rosy as the Kaiser wants 
 the world to believe. The Chief of the German Secret Service 
 sat near me at dinner to-night — a slender, round shouldered, 
 rather melancholy looking man, who buried his face in a Ger- 
 man newspaper and seemed scarcely to touch his food. He 
 is the only German I have seen who does not eat ravenously, 
 as if enjoying the first square meal in months. The news 
 in the German papers continues optimistic (for the Kaiser). 
 Everything is "according to plan," even the retreat from St. 
 Mihiel. "Our High Command has planned for a long time 
 to rectify our lines at St. Mihiel; recently, in spite of the 
 enemy's desperate efforts to prevent us, our plans were ac- 
 complished and now the useless salient has been straightened 
 out!" Such is the picture held up for the people of Germany 
 to gaze upon — a serious defeat, accompanied by the loss of 
 17,000 men, 50 great guns and an immense quantity of 
 machine guns, rifles and munitions, is transformed into a 
 victory for the German High Command! But the Secret 
 Service Chief gets his information from other sources than 
 the newspapers of his country, consequently he is a sad, 
 dyspeptic looking man. 
 
 Minister Stoveall, with whom I dined the other day, says up 
 to a few weeks ago the German officials in Berne would indulge 
 in a smile half insolent, half malicious, when they passed him 
 on the streets, but now when they see the American Minister 
 they turn down a side street, or look the other way. Mr. 
 Stoveall says only those who saw the Germans before Gen. 
 Foch's great counter stroke can realize what a change has 
 come over them. They are now as humble and as crestfallen 
 as two months ago they were insolent and arrogant! All of 
 which indicates that the end, if not near, at any rate is cer- 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 301 
 
 tain. Kaiserism is doomed, and it is gratifying to know that 
 our American soldiers arrived in time to take a decisive part 
 in saving Liberty to the world. 
 
 Paris, Thursday, 
 October 17, 1918. 
 
 Things have been moving with astonishing rapidity; in 
 Berne six weeks ago I thought myself oversanguine because 
 I expected victory to come before the summer of 1919. Now 
 everybody says the Germans will be pushed out of France 
 and Belgium before Christmas and that peace will quickly fol- 
 low, for the Germans know too well what they have done to 
 French and Belgian cities to want enemy armies to get a 
 chance at German cities. They will sue for peace when Foch 
 reaches the Rhine, but unfortunately I can not wait in France 
 for that glad moment to come; I must leave soon for the 
 United States and before finishing this, the last entry in my 
 Journal, I wish to say what in my judgment is the basic 
 trouble with the German people. 
 
 It is this: They have permitted promises of riches and 
 power to blunt their sense of right and wrong; they have put 
 materialism above idealism, they have blindly followed a 
 Kaiser and a military autocracy which looks on mercy as a 
 weakness, on justice as a catchword meant only to fool men too 
 feeble to use the sword to build up their fortunes by robbing 
 their neighbors. The German people did not enter this war 
 because they feared being attacked; the giant who is armed 
 to the teeth knows he need fear no attack by a man who is 
 smaller than he is, and who also is unarmed. No. The Ger- 
 man people allowed themselves to be hurled wickedly and 
 causelessly against their neighbors because they felt sure they 
 were so strong as to make victory swift and certain. They 
 would have realized the monstrousness as well as foolishness 
 of this philosophy had they taken the trouble to glance at his- 
 tory's pages. 
 
302 THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 
 
 Once in the great Flavian amphitheater at Rome I saw the 
 pillars on which eighteen hundred years ago Christian martyrs 
 stood, swathed in cloths that were steeped in oil, then set on 
 fire — human torches to light the amphitheater while the Roman 
 rabble looked down upon the bloody gladiatorial games. As 
 I turned my eyes from the martyr pillars to the imperial box 
 where Caesar coldly watched the frightful fray, this thought 
 came to me — 1800 years ago had some one whispered in 
 Nero's ear: 
 
 "Nero! The world will be conquered, not by you, not by 
 the Emperors of Rome, but by those poor men there whom you 
 are burning alive to illuminate this barbaric scene!" 
 
 Had some one whispered this into Nero's ear, how he would 
 have sneered at the suggestion as a fevered dream ! But v/here 
 now is Caesar's power? What now is Nero but a name which 
 fills a few odious pages in history? But the Christians whom 
 he reviled, the martyrs he crucified, the men he burned alive 
 to make a Roman holiday — are they not in truth the con- 
 querors of the world? 
 
 To-day the great figure in the world-war is not the Kaiser 
 with his legions. Greater than the Kaiser, nobler than he, 
 more immortal than he, is a feeble old man, a man without a 
 single bayonet behind him, yet a man whom not even the 
 Kaiser has dared to touch — Cardinal Mercier of Belgium! 
 Surrounded by the Kaiser's armies, physically in the Kaiser's 
 power. Cardinal Mercier has yet kept his spiritual freedom. 
 And with a loftiness of soul, a grandeur of spirit that will live 
 in history, he has spoken to his people, has consoled them, has 
 upheld them amidst the most unparalleled misfortunes! So 
 with Lugon and Amette, the great French cardinals. They, 
 too, have proved that the spirit is mightier than the sword, 
 that ideals, not things, are immortal. 
 
 In the defeat they are about to suffer it is to be hoped that 
 the German people will unlearn the lessons autocracy has 
 taught them; that they will come to understand, what the 
 
THE WAR DIARY OF A DIPLOMAT 303 
 
 rest of the world has long understood, viz., that war does not 
 pay, that the only things that pay are Justice and Truth, Right 
 and Reason ! Until Germans learn this lesson Germany should 
 not be admitted into the brotherhood of civilized Christian 
 nations. 
 
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