d: fine spectacle of patriotism. The English army. The
artillery.

We no longer know anything, having no more papers, and we can't trust
the rumours which fly among the distraught population.

Splendid weather.

_Saturday, September 5_ (_at the end
of 60 hours in a cattle-truck:
40 men to a truck_).

On the same day we skirted the Seine opposite the forest of
Fontainebleau and the banks of the Loire. Saw the chateau de Blois and
the chateau d'Amboise. Unhappily the darkness prevented us from seeing
more. How can I tell you what tender emotions I felt by these
magnificent banks of the Loire!

Are you bombarded by the frightful aeroplanes? I think of you in such
conditions and above all of poor Grandmother, who indeed had little need
to see all this! However, we must hope.

We learn from wounded refugees that in the first days of August mistakes
were made in the high command which had terrible consequences. It falls
to us now to repair those mistakes.

Masses of English troops arrive. We have crossed numbers of crowded
trains.

Well, this war will not have been the mere march-past which many
thought, but which I never thought, it would be; but it will have
stirred the good in all humanity. I do not speak of the magnificent
things which have no immediate connection with the war,--but nothing
will be lost.

_September 5, 1914_ (_1st halting-place,
66 hours in the cage without being
able to stretch_).

Still the same jolting and vibration, but three times after the horrible
night there has come the glory of the morning, and all fatigue has
disappeared.

We have crossed the French country in several directions, from the
rather harsh serenity, full of suggestiveness, of Champagne, to the rich
robust placidity of Brittany. On the way we followed the full and noble
banks of the Loire, and now . . .

O my beautiful country, the heart of the world, where lies all that is
divine upon earth, what monster sets upon you--a country whose offence
is her beauty!

I used to love France with sincere love, which was more than a little
_dilettante_; I loved her as an artist, proud to live in the most
beautiful of lands; in fact, I loved her rather as a picture might love
its frame. It needed this horror to make me know how filial and profound
are the ties which bind me to my country. . . .

_September 7_
(from a note-book).

. . . We are embarked on the adventure, without any dominant feeling
except perhaps a s