A War-time Journal, Germany 1914 and German Travel Notes | Page 9

them in the German papers, only columns of sneers and
abuse of England.
September 10th.--A rumour has reached us that the Crown Prince has
been captured, and that the enemy is retreating. No official
confirmation has come to hand however; but the flags are down at last,
and the jangling of bells has ceased, and we have not heard
"Deutschland über Alles" for twenty-four hours, "Gott sei Dank"!
Prince Joachim is wounded, and he has sent a telegram worded after the
manner of his dear Papa, thanking God who in His goodness permitted
him to be wounded for his beloved Fatherland. I wonder what
Frederick the Great would have thought of these boastful warriors. We
English are looked upon with horror as the brutal barbarians who use
dum dum bullets, and Sir Edward Grey's dignified disclaimer is
reported under the polite heading "Grey leugnet" (Grey lies).
September 11th.--Nothing new in the situation, but we rejoice to see

grave faces and groups looking solemn in the streets, and talking in
subdued voices, and thank God! we hear no bell-ringing! Everything
cheering we read in the "Corriere della Sera" is denied in the
"Frankfurter Zeitung" or given as a production of the "Lügen Fabrik"
(manufactory of lies).
September 12th.--The Germans seem depressed, no flags, no bands, and
although there is a notice posted up in the town to say that the Crown
Prince has achieved another victory, there is evidently something
unsatisfactory in the background to counterbalance this. I draw
deductions from the "Frankfurter Zeitung," which has a bitter article
entitled "Torheiten" (Folly), and which speaks of the "Kindische
Freudengeheul" (childish howls of joy) of the English and French Press,
because "ein parr Kalonnen deutscher Soldaten ein Stuck weges
zurückgezogen haben" (two columns of German soldiers had
withdrawn a bit of the way back). Then the writer contrasts the boastful
words ("prahlender wörte") of England with the self-restraint and pious
calm and virtuous behaviour of Germany. One has only to look at the
postcards in the Park Strasse to see which of the combatants is boastful.
England is drawn as ignominiously lying on the ground (when she isn't
running away) and Germany invariably is kicking or thrashing her.
People are less friendly than at first, though the bath attendants, people
in the Inhalatorium, and doctors are most kind. I had tea at Müller's
with Miss H---- the other day. There were at least thirty empty chairs in
the tea-room, but a German woman marched up to the chair on which I
had laid my daily newspaper, and ordered me to take it off, as she must
have my chair! She was stout and ugly, and had a way of doing her hair
which, as a writer says, "alone would have proved impeccable virtue in
the face of incriminating circumstantial evidence." For all their
"Kultur" Germans are gross, and to the last degree inartistic. Their
"nouveau art" is repulsive; their dressing outrageously ugly, and their
cooking atrocious. I have watched them here year after year tramping
up and down the shady walks stolidly drinking, wearing garments of
ingeniously devised ugliness and blind to "l'inutile beauté." There is no
variety of type nor individuality of person in either men or women.
These worthy Hausfrauen have no grace of dainty frills, diaphanous

lace or rustling petticoats. They are obviously and incontestably of the
class described by a witty writer to whom "a lace petticoat is as much a
badge of infamy as a cigarette on the stage." The German proletariat
cannot be susceptible to externals, else the universal sad-coloured skirt,
the ill-fitting blouse and the ugly hat worn by his women-folk could not
find favour in his eyes.
Life in Altheim has changed under war conditions. The Kur Haus is
closed, there are no teas on the Terrace or promenadings to the strains
of Grieg or Strauss, or theatrical performances. The German Kur-Gäste
have left, and only the Russian, English and a few Belgian prisoners of
war remain. Russians here are chiefly of a very low class. Most of the
women go about bareheaded, and all are rough and unkempt and
dirty-looking. I fancy some of them have suffered much privation, but
happily their order of release has come. They will have to travel by
Denmark, Sweden and across to Petrograd. The weather is autumnal,
and they have only summer clothes, like us. We cannot help them,
having so little money ourselves. I have had to borrow twice, and tried
to sell my jewellery without success, but I have developed a latent and
unsuspected talent for laundry work. The pretty summer shops in the
Park Strasse are now closed, and the sound of beating mattresses is
heard everywhere; the blinds of most of the villas are drawn down, and
the families having no longer lodgers have descended