Telegrams were suspect.  To get into a railway station was almost as difficult as to get into paradise.  A passport or a safe-conduct was the sine qua non of even the restricted liberty which had survived.  And yet nowhere did I see a frown nor hear a complaint.  Everybody comprehended that the exigencies of the terrific military machine were necessary exigencies.  Everybody waited, waited, in confidence and with tranquil smiles.  Also it is misleading to say that civil life was in abeyance.  For the elemental basis of its prosperity and its amenities continued just as though the lunatic bullies of Potsdam had never dictated to Vienna the ultimatum for Serbia.  The earth was yielding, fabulously.  It was yielding up to within a mile and a half of the German wire entanglements.  The peasants would not neglect the earth.  Officers remonstrated with them upon their perilous rashness.  They replied:  “The land must be tilled.”

When the German artillery begins to fire, the blue-clad women sink out of sight amid the foliage.  Half an hour after it has ceased they cautiously emerge, and resume.  One peasant put up an umbrella, but he was a man.

We were veritably at the front.  There was, however, not a whisper of war, nor anything visible except the thin, pale line like a striation on the distant hills.  Then a far-off sound of thunder is heard.  It is a gun.  A faint puff of smoke is pointed out to us.  Neither the rumble nor the transient cloudlet makes any apparent impression on the placid and wide dignity of the scene.  Nevertheless, this is war.  And war seems a very vague, casual, and negligible thing.  We are led about fifty feet to the left, where in a previous phase a shell has indented a huge hole in the earth.  The sight of this hole renders war rather less vague and rather less negligible.

“There are eighty thousand men in front of us,” says an officer, indicating the benign shimmering, empty landscape.

“But where?”

“Interred—­in the trenches.”

It is incredible.

“And the other interred—­the dead?”

I ask.

“We never speak of them.  But we think of them a good deal.”

Still a little closer to war.  The parc du genie—­engineers park.  Behind We inspected hills of coils, formidable barbed wire, far surpassing that of farmers, well contrived to tear to pieces any human being who, having got into its entanglement, should try to get out again.  One thought that nothing but steam-chisels would be capable of cutting it.  Also stacks of timber for shoring up mines which sappers would dig beneath the enemy trenches.  Also sacks to be filled with earth for improvised entrenching.  Also the four-pointed contraptions called chevaux de frise, which—­however you throw them—­will always stick a fatal point upwards, to impale the horse or man who cannot or will not look where he is going.  Even tarred paper, for keeping the weather out of trenches or anything else.  And all these things in unimagined quantities.