These are problems for the leaders, who have the further task of keeping the population hopeful on an alarmingly decreasing diet.  Superficially, or until you want something to eat, or a ride in a taxicab, Berlin at night is gay.  But you somehow feel that the gaiety is forced.  London at first sight is appallingly gloomy is the evening, and foreigners hardly care to leave their hotels.  But I find that behind the gloom and the darkness there is plenty of spontaneous merriment at the theatres and other places of entertainment.  There is plenty of food, little peace talk, and quiet confidence.

Across the North Sea, however, great efforts are made by the German Government to keep up the spirits of the people.  No public entertainer need go to the war at all, and the opera is carried on exactly as in peace time, though I confess that my material soul found it difficult to enjoy Tristan on a long and monotonous diet of sardines, potatoes, cheese and fresh-water fish—­chiefly pike and carp.  A humorous American friend used to laugh at the situation—­the brilliantly dressed house, officers in their extremely handsome grey uniforms, ladies, some of them with too many diamonds, and—­very little to eat.

At the slightest military gain the bells of victory peal wildly, and gay flags colour mile after mile of city streets, flags under which weary, silent women crawl in long lines to the shops where food is sold.  A bewildering spectacle is this crawling through victory after victory ever nearer to defeat.

Early in the war a Norwegian packer, who had not had much demand for his sardines in Germany, put the picture of Hindenhurg on the tins and christened them the “Hindenburg Sardines.”  When he changed the trade-mark the Germans bought them as fast as he could supply them—­not because they were short of food at that time, but through the magic of a name.  To-day all that is changed.  Norwegians no longer have to flatter the Germans, who are anxious to buy anything in the way of food.  They flood Germany now with impunity with sardines whose merits are extolled in the hated English language, sardines which had originally been intended for Britain or America, but which are now eagerly snapped up at four and five times the peace price by people who invariably bid one another good-bye with “Gott strafe England.”  I saw the gem of the collection in a Friedrichstrasse window.  It was entitled:  “Our Allies Brand,” on a bright label which displayed the flags of Great Britain, Prance, Russia, Italy, Belgium and Japan.

In Germany you feel that the drama of the battlefield has changed to the drama of the larder.  Hope and despair succeed one another in the determination to hold out economically while soldier and sailor convince the world that Germany cannot be beaten.  People laugh at the blockade, sneer at the blockade and curse the blockade in the same breath.  A headline of victory, a mention of the army, the army they love, and they boast again.  Then a place in the food line, or a seat at table, and they whine at the long war and rage against “British treachery.”  Like a cork tossing on the waves—­such is the spirit of Germany.