IN ALSACE

August 13th, 1915.

My trip to the east began by a dash toward the north.  Near Rheims is a little town—­hardly more than a village, but in English we have no intermediate terms such as “bourg” and “petit bourg”—­where one of the new Red Cross sanitary motor units was to be seen “in action.”  The inspection over, we climbed to a vineyard above the town and looked down at a river valley traversed by a double line of trees.  The first line marked the canal, which is held by the French, who have gun-boats on it.  Behind this ran the high-road, with the first-line French trenches, and just above, on the opposite slope, were the German lines.  The soil being chalky, the German positions were clearly marked by two parallel white scorings across the brown hill-front; and while we watched we heard desultory firing, and saw, here and there along the ridge, the smoke-puff of an exploding shell.  It was incredibly strange to stand there, among the vines humming with summer insects, and to look out over a peaceful country heavy with the coming vintage, knowing that the trees at our feet hid a line of gun-boats that were crashing death into those two white scorings on the hill.

Rheims itself brings one nearer to the war by its look of deathlike desolation.  The paralysis of the bombarded towns is one of the most tragic results of the invasion.  One’s soul revolts at this senseless disorganizing of innumerable useful activities.  Compared with the towns of the north, Rheims is relatively unharmed; but for that very reason the arrest of life seems the more futile and cruel.  The Cathedral square was deserted, all the houses around it were closed.  And there, before us, rose the Cathedral—­a cathedral, rather, for it was not the one we had always known.  It was, in fact, not like any cathedral on earth.  When the German bombardment began, the west front of Rheims was covered with scaffolding:  the shells set it on fire, and the whole church was wrapped in flames.  Now the scaffolding is gone, and in the dull provincial square there stands a structure so strange and beautiful that one must search the Inferno, or some tale of Eastern magic, for words to picture the luminous unearthly vision.  The lower part of the front has been warmed to deep tints of umber and burnt siena.  This rich burnishing passes, higher up, through yellowish-pink and carmine, to a sulphur whitening to ivory; and the recesses of the portals and the hollows behind the statues are lined with a black denser and more velvety than any effect of shadow to be obtained by sculptured relief.  The interweaving of colour over the whole blunted bruised surface recalls the metallic tints, the peacock-and-pigeon iridescences, the incredible mingling of red, blue, umber and yellow of the rocks along the Gulf of AEgina.  And the wonder of the impression is increased by the sense of its evanescence; the knowledge that this is the beauty of disease and death, that every one of the transfigured statues must crumble under the autumn rains, that every one of the pink or golden stones is already eaten away to the core, that the Cathedral of Rheims is glowing and dying before us like a sunset...