The Bridgeport times and evening farmer., 1918-10-21

belive heroes, and they are not al- ways easily djstinguishable," says the anonymous author of this curiously intimate document. To which, after reading his story, one may feel dis posed to add that in cases the make belive hero is every bit as admirable as the man whose absolute courage enables him to face death unf1inching ly. These records, which came to light after the death of Dutch vol unteer in the French service, were never intended to see the light of day. The name of the. author is, therefore, withheld; but we have reason to believe the documents to be genuine. The translation has been made from the original Dutch.)
 Paris, August 14th, 1914.
 Does everyone experience such en- ormous difficulty in reaching deci- sion in matters of importance, or is this peculiarity limited to inferior peo- pie like myself? I know well enough how readily one assumes an air of serene certainty towards ones friends and acquaintances, a tone of of course I will do this or that; and how one then does this or that be- cause one has said so. I am not con- cerned with such external apparent certainty, however, but rather with inner certainty, or, better still, with lack of certainty. And I at least have always had this paralysing hesitancy, whenever in my life I have stood be- fore an important choice.
 Since the declaration of war have felt nerYously excited. Frequently | have felt a vague fear; but I have also been full of an irritating, un- wholesome curiosity It is going to be an entirely new war-a struggle with flying machines, airships, sub marines (not to mention the improv- ed guns that must differ enormously from the cannon of 1870). How can anyone dare to begin such a war? In connection with the events of the last two weeks, I am constantly asking myself, What am to do? Paris, August 15, 1914. The answer to the question is fraught with no importance for France; for me personally it is of the | utmost consequence. Shall I enlist as volunteer or shall I stay at home? :? A Coward's Indecision For a fortnight now l have been l struggling with this question; and l | have not reached a decision. It is nearly five years since Jeanne | died, and since I moved into bachel- or's quarters. Mine has been an un- eventful existence, with but little va riety. The greater part or my leisure l f1 {,, Iinur iI7 O a little, doing a great many trif1es. I have performed the duties of my profession without much enthusiasm and without much aversion. But now I have suddenly been shocked out of my dull equilibrium.
 | When I look down into the street from my window I notice an unaccus- toner stir. A confused noise of mutt tering voices rises up to me-now and then shouts break through. It is clear to me that in these days all men in France stand shoulder to shoulder -one in thought, one in hope, one in determination. But I remain on the outside Again and again the question arises: Shall I join Or shall I stay out, being a foreigner? It is possi- ble-and, after all, is it not most natural?
 The most divergent feelings have forced themselves upon me these last days. Sometimes I experience agree able excitement when forsea the stu pendous events that are about to take place near me, under my eyes; and when I thing that I shall be one ot the few privileged to feel the eXalta- tions of the tremendous experience without being myself exposed to dan ger.
 Even after I had examined this by no means noble sentiment more close ly and when I had understood its did not pass away. The haseness ot origin, the pleasant, sparkling feeling of my character was revealed all tot , clearly
 His Better Self Speaks Out And yet I cannot bring myself tc the decision to remain at a safe dis tance from danger. I hesitate ant I continue to hesitate. My acquaint : ances are curious to l-now what
 am going to do.
 Twill you not have to enlist?''. an asked.
 , "I am not a Frenchman," Is m. reply, "I come from Holland"
 Most of them look at me then, no with much kindness; they shrug thei shoulders and mutter something like
 "Cela n'empeche pas" f Practically all my younger acquaint z ances, and those of my own age a . well. are serving. I cannot delud
 yself by pretending that I would no Io o1J !,
 out any disability so far as I an
 aware, and in fairly good health. Blu - I do not have to go, and when argu
 ing calmly, it seems as if I ought no = to.
 Yet I cannot be entirely satisf1e
 with this conclusion. I owe much t
 France. With Jeanne I have passe
 here my happiest-at any rate, m
 best years. And now that my life Il
 longer has much value, why shoul
 I spare it? And then 1 ask again
 is it not quixotfc to join the figh
 when one can stay out of it?
 Jeanne's Portrait
 Paris. August 18th, 1914.
 1 have got no further and I fore
 see that I shall not get any fl;rthe
 I have gazed at Jeanne's portrait o
 my desk and tried to convince myse
 that she is still alive and can tell m
 what to do. In what superstition
 does one seek refuge! Of course,
 how good it would be ii only Ere
 was of no use. Now I am thinkin were here, so that I could consu
 him. But Fred Is in the East II
 dies. If I write him now, montH
 will ho hnSnro T I,iz