urbed by the intrusion of an infantry captain
who is out of his mind and has escaped from hospital. His Excellency,
though in a towering rage, controls his temper for the sake of
appearances, and has the inconvenient visitor sent back in his own car.
He turns the incident to account by uttering a few touching phrases
concerning the impossibility for a general to do his duty if he had to
witness all the misery at the front. He evades the correspondent's final
question, "When does Your Excellency hope for peace?" by pointing across
the square to the old cathedral, saying, "The only advice I can give you
is to go over there and ask our Heavenly Father. No one else can answer
that question."--Then His Excellency descends upon the hospital like a
whirlwind, blusters at the old staff-surgeon, and reiterates the order
to keep all the patients safely under lock and key. His wrath by now is
slightly assuaged, but it is revived by a message from the front. A
brigadier-general reports terrible losses, and declares that he cannot
hold the line without reinforcements. It was part of His Excellency's
plan that this brigade should be wiped out, after resisting the attack
as long as possible. But he is angry that his victims should have any
advice to offer, and sends curt orders, "The sector is to be held."--At
length, the day's work being over, the great man drives home in his
motor, still fiercely excogitating the correspondent's idiotic question,
"When does Your Excellency hope for peace?"

"Hope!... How tactless!... Hope for peace! What good has a general to
expect from peace? Could not this civilian understand that a
commander-in-chief is only a commander-in-chief in war-time, and that in
peace-time he is nothing more than a professor with a collar of gold
braid?"

The general is annoyed once more when the car pulls up because it is
necessary to close the hood on account of the rain. But during the pause
His Excellency hears the sound of distant firing. His eyes
brighten.--Thank God, there was still war.

* * * * *

My quotations have been enough to show the emotional force and the
trenchant irony of Latzko's book. It scorches. It is a torch of
suffering and revolt. Both its merits and its defects are sib to this
frenzy. The author is master of the writer's art, but he is not always
master of his own feelings. His memories are still open wounds. He is
possessed by his visions. His nerves vibrate