In a flash I saw that Viennese pre-war world I had known so well, partaking tranquilly of the pleasant things of life, public events making little noise, intellectual passion absent—or discouraged, and things easy, easy—except for those dying of hunger. But that world has been burned to ashes, and the winds of destiny are about to scatter even them. Then, as usual, some one read the American _communiqué_. And to the deeds of the First Army must be added those of the National Guard, for the words Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri, Colorado, New Mexico, New York, New Jersey, are stamped in fadeless red upon the villages and banks of the Meuse. We talked long, and at two o’clock, as we arose from table, I knew that those others to the east had already arisen from the bitter meal of defeat, and after the manner of human hearts were adjusting themselves to the things that _are_. And perhaps there in Vienna they may not find it so difficult. They’ve been defeated before and they’re far enough east to have a touch of fatalism. _Later._—Through mist and low-hanging clouds and rain with Captain Bernard to Sewen, where we visited first the school. Neat rows of sabots were in the hallway, all alike to _me_, but it appears some spirit in the feet leads each unmistakably to his or her own pair. A dozen children only were in the schoolroom, the others ill with grippe. The school-teacher, a tall, horizon-blue-clad Frenchman, with kind eyes and a decoration on his breast, had just finished the dictation. Its subject was _de la viande_ (concerning meat). Looking at the copy-book of the nearest little boy, very blue-eyed, I read _de la fiande_, and his dictation was further embellished by sounds reminiscent of German rule. “_Chez le bourgé, le tinton, le charcoutier, le boutin, le zocisse_,” but as I said, that’s their German ear—and little by little it will be done away with and “French as she is spoke” will take its place. One small boy who wrote a beautiful, copper-plate hand was stone-deaf, but he had dear, questioning eyes and something patient in his being. I asked, when we came out, if nothing could be done for him. But the master said, with a terrible finality, “His father is an alcoholic.” It is evidently not without result that they distil their _quetsch_ and their _kirsch_, their rose haws and their gentian, and everything else that has the merest embryo of a fruit or a berry or leaf in these pleasant valleys; as to which the bright-eyed, Italian-looking curé initiated us further, as you will see. Leaving the school, we went to the church, beautifully familiar to me against the sky, but completely and, from our point of view, hopelessly modernized within; though I couldn’t help feeling that for those who come from dingy farms and dung-heaps the crude splendor of that house of God must be greatly comforting.