by train, or road. It was a wonderful, a poignant two months. This is
not the time, and, perhaps, not the place, to enlarge upon the tragic
character of the situation; a whole people seeing the culmination of its
misfortunes in a final catastrophe, unable to trust anyone, to appeal to
anyone, to look for help from any quarter; deprived of all hope and even
of its last illusions, and unable, in the trouble of minds and the unrest
of consciences, to take refuge in stoical acceptance. I have seen all
this. And I am glad I have not so many years left me to remember that
appalling feeling of inexorable fate, tangible, palpable, come after so
many cruel years, a figure of dread, murmuring with iron lips the final
words: Ruin--and Extinction.

But enough of this. For our little band there was the awful anguish of
incertitude as to the real nature of events in the West. It is difficult
to give an idea how ugly and dangerous things looked to us over there.
Belgium knocked down and trampled out of existence, France giving in
under repeated blows, a military collapse like that of 1870, and England
involved in that disastrous alliance, her army sacrificed, her people in
a panic! Polish papers, of course, had no other but German sources of
information. Naturally, we did not believe all we read, but it was
sometimes excessively difficult to react with sufficient firmness.

We used to shut our door, and there, away from everybody, we sat weighing
the news, hunting up discrepancies, scenting lies, finding reasons for
hopefulness, and generally cheering each other up. But it was a beastly
time. People used to come to me with very serious news and ask, "What do
you think of it?" And my invariable answer was: "Whatever has happened,
or is going to happen, whoever wants to make peace, you may be certain
that England will not make it, not for ten years, if necessary."'