Part 22 (1/2)

It was the 10th of July that we returned to Vevey, and it was just three weeks later that the world--a world of peace and the social interchange of nations--came to an end.

We had heard at Tours of the a.s.sa.s.sination of the Austrian archduke and his d.u.c.h.ess, but no thought of the long-threatened European war entered our minds. Neither did we discover later any indications of it. If there was any tension along the Franco-German border we failed to notice it.

Arriving at Vevey, there seemed not a ripple on the drowsy summer days.

Even when Austria finally sent her ultimatum to Serbia there was scarcely a suggestion of war talk. We had all the nations in our hotel, but they a.s.sembled harmoniously in the little reading room after dinner over the papers and innocuous games, and if the situation was discussed at all, the word ”arbitration” was oftenest heard.

Neither did the news come to us gradually or gently. It came like a bomb, exploded one evening by Billy Baker, an American boy of sixteen and a bulletin of sorts. Billy had been for his customary after-dinner walk uptown, and it was clear the instant he plunged in that he had gathered something unusual.

”Say, folks,” he burst out, ”did you know that Austria has declared war against Serbia and is bombarding Belgrade, and now all the others are going to declare, and that us Americans have got to beat it for home?”

There was a general stir. Billy's items were often delivered in this abrupt way, but his news facts were seldom questioned. He went on, adding a quick, crisp detail, while the varied nationalities a.s.sumed att.i.tudes of attention. The little group around the green center table forgot what they were there for. I had just drawn a spade when I needed a heart, and did not mind the diversion. Billy concluded his dispatches:

”We've all got to beat it, you know, _now_, before all the s.h.i.+ps and trains and things are used for mobilization and before the fighting begins. If we don't we'll have to stay here all winter.” Then, his mission finished, Billy in his prompt way pulled a chair to the table.

”Let me in this, will you?” he said. ”I feel awfully lucky to-night.”

Americans laugh at most things. We laughed now at Billy Baker--at the dramatic manner of his news, with its picturesque even if stupendous possibilities--at the vision in everyone's mind of a horde of American tourists ”beating it” out of Europe at the first drum-roll of war.

But not all in the room laughed. The ”little countesses”--two Russian girls--and their white-haired companion, talked rapidly and earnestly together in low voices. The retired French admiral--old and invalided--rose, his long cape flung back across his shoulder, and walked feebly up and down, stopping at each turn to speak to his aged wife, who sat with their son, himself an officer on leave. An English judge, with a son at home, fraternized with the Americans and tried to be gay with them, but his mirth lacked freedom. A German family instinctively separated themselves from the others and presently were no longer in the room. Even one of the Americans--a Southern girl--laughed rather hysterically:

”All my baggage but one suit case is stored in Frankfort,” she said. ”If Germany goes to war I'll have a gay time getting it.”

Morning brought confirmation of Billy Baker's news, at least so far as Austria's action was concerned, and the imminence of what promised to be a concerted movement of other great nations toward war. It was said that Russia was already mobilizing--that troops were in motion in Germany and in France. That night, or it may have been the next, a telegram came for the young French officer, summoning him to his regiment. His little son of nine or ten raced about excitedly.

”_L'Allmagne a mobilise--mon pere va a la guerre!_”

The old admiral, too feeble, almost, to be out of bed, seemed to take on a new bearing.

”I thought I was done with war,” he said. ”I am an invalid, and they could not call on me. But if France is attacked I shall go and fight once more for my country.”

The German family--there were two grown sons in it--had already disappeared.

It was about the third morning that I took a walk down to the American Consulate. I had been there before, but had not found it exciting. It had been a place of silence and inactivity. There were generally a few flies drifting about, and a bored-looking man who spent an hour or two there morning and afternoon, killing time and glad of any little diversion in the way of company.

The Consulate was no longer a place of silence and buzzing flies.

There was buzzing in plenty, but it was made by my fellow countrymen--country-women, most of them--who were indeed making things hum. I don't know whether the consul was bored or not. I know he was answering questions at the rate of one per second, and even so not keeping up with the demand for information.

”Is there going to be a war?” ”Is England going into it?” ”Has Germany declared yet?” ”Will we be safe in Switzerland?” ”Will all Americans be ordered home?” ”Are the trains going to be stopped?” ”Will we have to have pa.s.sports?” ”I have got a sailing in September. Will the s.h.i.+ps be running then?” ”How can I send a letter to my husband in Germany?” ”How about money? Are the Swiss banks going to stop payment on letters of credit?”--these, repeated in every varying form, and a hundred other inquiries that only a first-cla.s.s registered clairvoyant could have answered with confidence. The consul was good-natured. He was also an optimist. His replies in general conveyed the suggestion to ”keep cool,”

that everything was going to be all right.

The Swiss banks, however, did stop payment on letters of credit and various forms of checks forthwith. I had a very pretty-looking check myself, and a day or two before I had been haggling with the bank man over the rate of exchange, which had been gently declining. I said I would hold it for better terms. But on the day that Germany declared war I decided to cash it, anyway, just to have a little extra money in case--

Oh, well, never mind the details. I didn't cash it. The bank man looked at it, smiled feebly, and pointed to a notice on the wall. It was in French, but it was an ”easy lesson.” It said:

No more checks or letters of credit cashed until further notice.

By order of the a.s.sociation.

I don't know yet what ”a.s.sociation” it was that was heartless enough to give an order like that, but I hoped it would live to repent it. The bank man said that in view of my position as a depositor he might be induced to advance me 10 per cent of the amount of the check. The next day he even refused to take it for collection. Switzerland is prudent; she had mobilized her army about the second day and sent it to the frontier. We had been down to the big market place to see it go. I never saw anything more quiet--more orderly. She had mobilized her cash in the same prompt, orderly fas.h.i.+on and sent it into safe retirement.

It was a sorrowful time, and it was not merely American--it was international. Switzerland never saw such a ”busted community” as her tourists presented during August, 1914. Every day was Black Friday.

Almost n.o.body had any real money. A Russian n.o.bleman in our hotel with a letter of credit and a roll of national currency could not pay for his afternoon tea. The little countesses had to stop buying chocolates. An American army officer, retired, was unable to meet his laundry bill.