July 31, 1915.

Our convoy crossed Switzerland last night. I should have been sorry to be ill, ill with relief and happiness, for this would have made it impossible to describe our reception. It delighted and I must say it surprised me.

I know Switzerland well. I love it like a second motherland. I am familiar with its history and its institutions. I have made prolonged stays by the shores of Lake Geneva, and dear friendships convinced me long ere this that our two nations are animated by the same instinct, the instinct of independence and humanity. In the terrible duel now in progress I was assured beforehand of the freely given sympathy of our predecessors in the art of republican government.

I believed, nevertheless, that on our way through the country we should find this sympathy, however true and however certain, veiled and restrained.

From prudential considerations, first of all. Switzerland is such a paradox! When a citizen of Lausanne manifests his love for French civilization (in which he has just as strong and legitimate an interest as any citizen of Orleans or Nancy), can he ever do so without being afraid lest he may be wounding a fellow-Confederate of Basle or Zurich? Supposing that his manifestation should become generalized, and that it should provoke a counter-manifestation, has he not good reason to dread the consequences to Switzerland of this spontaneous plebiscite? Would it not involve the ruin of this nation with two hearts, if within its frontiers war should suddenly be declared between the two rival civilizations? If during our nocturnal journey from Constance to Geneva we had encountered nothing but gentle and calm faces, I should not, on that account, have harboured any suspicions of my dear Switzerland.

I should have said to my companions:

“Continue to trust her; she loves us. This democracy is tranquil, healthy, little inclined to use lofty phrases, and by no means fond of scenes in the street; but she has a robust faith in the right of nations. With all her heart she detests aggressive imperialism and the cultured barbarism of Germany. You will find her shy, reserved, and circumspect; you will perhaps blame her for her silence. But this would be wrong, for her silence is a duty she owes to her patriotism. She is intensely patriotic. She would like to hail you with acclamations, but a great national obligation seals her lips. You could not possibly wish her light-heartedly to do anything owing to which German civilization and Latin civilization might suddenly come into hostile conflict within her closed borders, for she exists solely in virtue of their mutual accord, and it is her historic mission to maintain the contact between them, to harmonize them, to interpenetrate each with the other. This abominable war is a difficult hour in her inner life. Even in times of peace she has to walk circumspectly; but now, if she is to avoid a disruption which is always possible, she must control her every movement, must bridle her tongue, swallow her burning words, the words of love and admiration which, if she followed the dictates of her heart, she would utter to her valiant sister and neighbour. Believe me, my friends, the mountain democracy is praying in her heart for the victory of right, for our victory. Her silence is but a mask; she is mute for reasons of state.”

I did not have to deliver this address. From one end to the other of Switzerland, the Helvetian people, so hostile to demonstrations, hailed us with acclamations. They sat up all night. They overwhelmed us with gifts. The seats of the train were heaped with ribbons, cockades, flowers, boxes of cigars, baskets of food, bottles of the celebrated vintages of NeuchÂtel, La CÔte, Lavaux, and Yvorne. In my compartment alone we filled six haversacks with cigars, which we sent to the front to the 30th of the line, the regiment of poor Robequain, of whose death I learned on reaching Bellegarde.

Do not imagine that this explosion of generosity was inspired by mere pity for the wreckage of war. I am absolutely confident that it was inspired by love for France. Burghers and peasants, children and old men, in German Switzerland just as much as in French, they all sang the Marseillaise. They waved the tricolor. They cried, “Vive la France!” At the stops they talked to us frankly, like brothers. They handed us addresses which were hymns to “The Nation of Valmy and of the Marne,” to “The Champions of the Rights of Man,” to “The Citizen Army which has sworn to conquer or die for the Advent of a Free Europe.”

It seemed to me that the proud Helvetians of Morgarten and Sempach, these forefathers of democracy and liberty, had emerged from their national GrÜtli to line the road in our honour, and to give their blessing to the sons of the young republic.

I cannot describe the mad jubilation which surged through our veins. France! France the beloved! France of our blood and our heart. France the eternal, resuscitated by the German aggression, once more become the champion of freedom. France hailed by the neutrals, and by all men who respect the right! I was drunk with happiness. This single night was a compensation, for you, noble fellows mutilated in the war; for you, my brother, with broken ear-drums and split skull; and for you, my friends, all my dear dead friends, who sleep in Lorraine, in Belgium, in Flanders, and on the Marne.