does not
describe the scene. Nothing can fitly describe it except perhaps such a
pen as Victor Hugo's. The cathedral at Nieuport has two outer walls left
standing. The front leans forward helplessly, the aisles are gone. The
trees round about are burnt up and shot away. In the roadway are great
holes which shells have made. The very cobbles of the street are
scattered by them. Not a window remains in the place; all are shattered
and many hang from their frames. The fronts of the houses have fallen
out, and one sees glimpses of wretched domestic life: a baby's cradle
hangs in mid-air, some tin boxes have fallen through from the box-room
in the attic to the ground floor. Shops are shivered and their contents
strewn on all sides; the interiors of other houses have been hollowed
out by fire. There is a toy-shop with dolls grinning vacantly at the
ruins or bobbing brightly on elastic strings.

In a wretched cottage some soldiers are having breakfast at a
fine-carved table. In one house, surrounded by a very devastation of
wreckage, some cheap ornaments stand intact on a mantelpiece. From
another a little ginger-coloured cat strolls out unconcernedly! The
bedsteads hanging midway between floors look twisted and thrawn--nothing
stands up straight. Like the wounded, the town has been rendered
inefficient by war.

_6 November._--Furnes always seems to me a weird tragic place. I cannot
think why this is so, but its influence is to me rather curious. I feel
as if all the time I was living in some blood-curdling ghost story or a
horrid dream. Every day I try to overcome the feeling, but I can't
succeed. This afternoon I made up my mind to return to our villa and
write my diary. The day was lovely, and I meant to enjoy a rest and a
scribble, but so strong was the horrid influence of the place that I
couldn't settle to anything. I can't describe it, but it seemed to
stifle me, and I can only compare it to some second sight in which one
sees death. I sat as long as I could doing my writing, but I had to give
in at last, and I tucked my book under my arm and walked back to the
hospital, where at least I was with human beings and not ghosts.

Our life here is made up of many elements and many people, all rather
incongruous, but the average of human nature is good. A villa belonging
to a Dr. Joos was given to our staff. It is a pretty little house, with
three beds in it, and we are eighteen people, so most of us sleep on the
floor. It