Woman's Experiences in the Great War — Chapters 19-22

The story of Max's arrest was characteristic.

He was busy at the Hotel de Ville with his colleagues when a peremptory message arrived from Von der Goltz, bidding him come at once to an interview.

"I cannot come at once!"

said Max, "I am occupied in an important conference with my colleagues.

I'll come at half-past four o'clock."

Presently the messenger returned.

"Monsieur Max, will you come at once!"

he said in a worried manner.

"Von der Goltz is angry!"

"I am busy with my work!"

replied Max imperturbably.

"As I said before, I shall be with Von der Goltz at four-thirty."

At four-thirty he went off, accompanied by his colleagues, and a dramatic conference took place between the Germans and Belgians.

Max now fearlessly informed the Germans that he considered it would be unfair for Brussels to pay any more at present of the indemnity put upon it by Germany.

One reason he gave was very simple.

The Germans had posted up notices in the city, declaring that in future they would not pay for anything required for the service of the German Army, but would take whatever they wanted, free.

"You must wait for your indemnity," said Max.

"You can't get blood from a stone."

"Then we arrest you all as hostages for the money," was the German's answer.

At first Max and all his Échevins were arrested.

Two hours later the aldermen were released.

But not Max.

He was sent to his _honorable detention_ in a German fortress.

The months have passed.

He is still there!

CHAPTER XX GENERAL THYS

By degrees Brussels calmed down.

But the Germans wore startled expressions all that grey wet Sunday, as though realising that within that pent-up city was a terribly dangerous force, a force that had been restrained and kept in order all this time by the very man they had been foolish enough to imprison because Brussels found herself unable to pay up her cruelly-imposed millions.

Later, on that Sunday afternoon, I fulfilled my promise and went to call on General Thys, the father of one of my Aerschot acquaintances.

I found the old General in that beautiful house of his in the Chaussée de Charleroi, sitting by the fireside in his library reading the Old Testament.

"The only book I can read now!"

the General said, in a voice that shook a little, as if with some burning secret agitation.

I remember so well that interview.

It was a grey Sunday afternoon, with a touch of autumn in the air, and no sunlight.

Through the great glass windows at the end of the library I could see that Brussels garden, with some trees green, and some turning palely gold, already on their way towards decay.

Seated on one side of the fire was the beautiful young unmarried daughter of the house, sharing her father's terrible loneliness, while on the other side sat the handsome melancholy old Belgian hero, whose trembling voice began presently to tell the story of his beloved nation, its suffering, its heroism, its love of home, its bygone struggles for liberty.

And outside in the streets Germans strode up and down, Germans stood on the steps of the Palais de Justice, Germans everywhere.

Mademoiselle Thys, a tall, fair, very beautiful young girl, chats away brightly, trying to cheer her father.

Presently she talks of M. Max.

Brussels can talk of nothing else to-day.

She shows him to me in a different aspect.

Now I see him in society, witty, delightful, charming, débonnaire.

"I did so love to be taken into dinner by M. Max!"

exclaims the bright young belle.

"He was so interesting, so amusing.

And so nice to flirt with.

He did not dance, but he went to all the balls, and walked about chatting and amusing himself, and everyone else.

Before one big fancy dress ball--it was the last in Brussels before the war--M. Max announced that he could not be present.

Everyone was sorry.

His presence always made things brighter, livelier.

Suddenly, in the midst of the ball a policeman was seen coming up the stairs, his stick in his hand.

Gravely, without speaking to anyone he moved down the corridors.

'The Police,' whispered everyone.

'What can it mean?'

And then one of the hosts went up to the policeman, determined to take the bull by the horns, as you say in Angleterre, and find out what is wrong.

And voilà!

It is no policeman at all.

It is M. Max!"

Undoubtedly, the hatred and terror of Germany at this time was all for Russia.

In Russia, Germany saw her deadliest foe.

Every Belgian man or woman that I talked with in Brussels asserted the same thing.

"The Germans are terrified of Russia," said the old General.

"They see in Russia the greatest enemy to their plans in Asia Minor.

They fear Russian civilisation--or so they say!

Civilisation indeed!

What they fear is Russian numbers!"

It was highly interesting to observe as I was forced to do a little later, how completely that hatred for Russia was passed on to England.

The passing on occurred _after English troops were sent to the assistance of Antwerp!

_ From then on, the blaze of hatred in Germany's heart was all for England, deepening and intensifying with extraordinary ferocity ever since October 4th, 1914. And why?

The reason is obvious now.

Our effort to save Antwerp, unsuccessful as it was, yet by delaying 200,000 Germans, enabled those highly important arrangements to be carried out on the Allies' western front that frustrated Germany's hopes in France, and stopped her dash for Calais!

CHAPTER XXI HOW MAX HAS INFLUENCED BRUSSELS

In their attitude to the Germans, the _Bruxellois_ undoubtedly take their tone from M. Max.

For his sake they suppressed themselves as quickly as possible that famous Sunday and soon went on their usual way.

Their attitude towards the Germans revealed itself as a truly remarkable one.

It was perfect in every sense.

They were never rude, never sullen, never afraid, and until this particular Sunday and afterwards again, they always behaved as though the Germans did not exist at all.

They walked past them as though they were air.

No one ever speaks to the Huns in Brussels.

They sit there alone in the restaurants, or in groups, eating, eating, eating.

Hour after hour they sit there.

You pass at seven and they are eating and drinking.

You pass at nine, they are still eating and drinking.

Their red faces grow redder and redder.

Their gold wedding rings grow tighter and tighter on their fingers.

The Belgians wait on them with an admirable air of not noticing their presence, never looking at them, never speaking to them, the waiters bringing them their food with an admirable detached air as though they are placing viands before a set of invisible spectres.

Always alone are the Germans in Brussels, and sometimes they look extremely bored.

I can't help noticing that.

They do their best to win a little friendliness from the Belgians.

But in vain.

At the restaurants they always pay for their food.

They also make a point of sometimes ostentatiously dropping money into the boxes for collecting funds for the Belgians.

But the _Bruxellois_ never for one moment let down the barriers between themselves and "les Allemands," although they do occasionally allow themselves the joy of "getting a rise" out of the Landsturm when possible,--an amusement which the Germans apparently find it impolite to resent!

I sat in a tram in Brussels when two Germans in mufti entered and quite politely excused themselves from paying their fares, explaining that they were "military" and travel free.

"But how do I know that you are really German soldiers!"

says the plucky little tram guard, while all the passengers crane forward to listen.

"You're not in uniform.

I don't know who you are.

You must pay your fares, Messieurs, or you must get out."

With red annoyed faces the Germans pull out their soldiers' medals, gaudy ornate affairs on blue ribbons round their necks.

"I don't recognise these," says the tram guard, examining them solemnly.

"They're not what our soldiers carry.

I can't let you go free on these."

"But we have no money!"

splutter the Germans.

"Then I must ask you to get out," says the guard gravely.

And the two Germans, looking very foolish, actually get out of the tram, whereupon the passengers all burst into uncontrollable laughter, which gives them a vast amount of satisfaction, while the two Germans, very red in the face, march away down the street.

As for the street urchins, they flourish under the German occupation, adopting exactly the same attitude towards their conquerors as that manifested by their elders and M. Max.

Dressed up in paper uniforms, with a carrot for the point of their imitation German helmet they march right under the noses of the Germans, headed by an old dog.

Round the old dog's neck is an inscription: "_The war is taking place for the aggrandisement of Belgium!

_" The truth is--the beautiful truth--that the spirit of M. Max hangs over Brussels, steals through it, pervades it.

It is his ego that possesses the town.

It is Max who is really in occupation there.

It is Max who is the true conqueror.

It is Max who holds Brussels, and will hold it through all time to come.

For all that the Germans are going about the streets, and for all that Max is detained in his "honorable" fortress, the man's spirit is so indomitable, so ardent, that he makes himself felt through his prison walls, and the population of Brussels is able to say, with magnificent sangfroid, and a confidence that is absolutely real:-- "They may keep M. Max in a fortress!

But even les alboches will never dare to hurt a hair of his head!"

CHAPTER XXII UNDER GERMAN OCCUPATION

In my empty hotel the profoundest melancholy reigns.

The inherent sadness of the occupied city seems to have full sway here.

The palm court, with its high glassed roof, is swept with ghostly echoes, especially when the day wanes towards dusk, the great deserted dining-salon, with its polished tables and its rows of chairs is like a mausoleum for dead revellers, the writing-rooms with their desks always so pitifully tidy, the smoking-rooms, the drawing-rooms, the floor upon floor of empty, guestless bedrooms, with the beds rolled back and the blinds down; they ache with their ghastly silences and seem to languish away towards decay.

The only servant is Antoine, the bent little old faithful white-haired porter, who has passed his lifetime in the service of the house.

Madame la Patronne, in heavy mourning, with her two small boys clinging to either arm, sometimes moves across the palm court to her own little sitting-room.

And sometimes some Belgian woman friend, always in black, drops in, and she and la Patronne and the old porter all talk together, dully, guardedly, relating to each other the gossip of Brussels, and wondering always how things are going with "les petits Belges" outside in the world beyond.

In front, the great doors are locked and barred.

One tiny door, cut in the wooden gate at the side, is one's sole means of exit and entrance.

But it is almost too small for the Liège professor, and he tells me plaintively that he will be glad to move on to Liège.

"I get broken to pieces squeezing in and out of that little door," he says.

"And I am always afraid I will stick in the middle, and the Germans in the restaurant will see me, and ask who I am, and what I am doing here!"

"I can get through the door easily enough," I answer.

"But I suffer agonies as I stand there on the street waiting for old Antoine to come and unlock it."

"And then there is no food here, no lunch, no dinner, and I do not like to go in the restaurants alone; I am afraid the Germans will notice me.

I am so big, you see, everybody notices me.

Do you think I will ever get to Liège?"

"Of course you will."

"But do you think I will ever get back from Liège to Antwerp?"

"Of course you will."

"J'ai peur!"

"Moi aussi!"

And indeed, sitting there in the dusk, in the eerie silences of the deserted hotel, with the German guns booming away in the distance towards Malines, there creeps over me a shuddering sensation that is very like fear at the ever-deepening realization of what Belgium has suffered, and may have to suffer yet; and I find it almost intolerable--the thought of this poor brave old trembling Belgian, weighted with years and flesh, struggling so manfully to get back to Liège, and gauge for himself the extent of the damage done to his house and properties, to see his servants and help them make arrangements for the future.

Like all the rest of the Belgian fugitives, he knows nothing _definite_ about the destruction of his town.

It may be that his home has been razed to the ground.

It may be that it has been spared.

He is sure of nothing, and that is why he has set out on this long and dangerous journey, which is not by any means over yet.

Then the old porter approaches, gentle, sorrowful.

"Monsieur, good news!

there is a train for Liège to-morrow morning at five o'clock!"

"Merci bien," says the old professor.

"Mais, j'ai peur!"

I rise at four next morning and come down to see him off.

We two, who have never seen each other before, seem now like the only relics of some bygone far-off event.

To see his fat, old, enormous face gives me a positive thrill of joy.

I feel as if I have known him all my life, and when he has gone I feel curiously alone.

The melancholy old fat man's presence had lent a semblance of life to the hotel, which how seems given over to ghosts and echoes.

Unable to bear it, I moved into the Métropole.

It was very strange to be there, very strange indeed!

This was the Métropole and yet not the Métropole!

Sometimes I could not believe it was the Métropole at all--the gay, bright, lively, friendly, companionable Métropole--so sad was this big red-carpeted hotel, so full of gloomy echoing silences, and with never a soul to arrive or leave, to ask for a room or a time-table.

There were Italians in charge of the hotel, for which I was profoundly thankful.

How nice they were to me, those kindly sons of the South.

They allowed me to look in their visitors' book, and as I expected, I found that the dry hotel register had suddenly become transformed into a vital human document, of surpassing interest, of intense historic value.

As I glanced through the crowded pages I came at last upon an ominous date in August upon which there were no names entered.

It was the day on which Brussels surrendered to the Germans.

On that day the register was blank, entirely blank.

And next day also, and the next, and the next, and the next, were those white empty sheets, with never a name inscribed upon them.

For weeks this blankness continued.

It was stifling in its significance.

It clutched at one's heart-strings.

It shouted aloud of the agony of those days when all who could do so left Brussels, and only those who were obliged to remained.

It told its desolate tale of the visitors that had fled, or ceased to come.

Only, here and there after a long interval, appeared a German name or two.

Frau Schmidt arrived; Herr Lemberg; Fräulein Gottmituns.

There was a subdued little group of occupants when I was there; Mr. Morse, the American pill-maker, Mr. Williams, another American, an ex-Portuguese Minister and his wife and son (exiles these from Portugal), a little Dutch Baroness who was said to be a great friend of Gyp's, half a dozen English nurses and two wounded German officers.

I made friends quickly with the nurses and the Americans, and to look into English eyes again gave me a peculiarly soothing sense of relief that taught me (if I needed teaching) how alone I was in all these dangers and agitations.

Mr. Williams had a queer experience.

I have often wondered why America did not resent it on his account.

He was arrested and taken prisoner for talking about the horrors of Louvain in a train.

He was released while I was there.

I saw him dashing into the hotel one evening, a brown paper parcel under his arm.

There was quite a little scene in the waiting-room; everyone came round him asking what had happened.

It seemed that as he stepped out of the tram he was confronted by German officers, who promptly conducted him into a "detention honorable."

There he was stripped and searched, and in the meanwhile private detectives visited his room at the Métropole and went through all his belongings.

Nothing of a compromising nature being found, Mr. Williams was allowed to go free after twenty-four hours, having first to give his word that in future he would not express himself in public.

When I invited him to describe to me what happened in his "detention honorable," he answered with a strained smile, "No more talking for me!"

Surely this insult to a free-born American must have been a bitter dose for the American Consulate to swallow.

But perhaps they were too busy to notice it!

When I called at the Consulate the place was crowded with English nurses begging to be helped away from Brussels.

I found that Mr. Richards had already put in a word on my behalf.

This is what they gave me at the American Consulate in Brussels as a safeguard against the Germans.

I shouldn't have cared to show it to the enemy!

It seemed to me to deliver me straight into their hands.

I hid it in the lining of my hat with my passport.

[Illustration: THE AMERICAN SAFEGUARD.

] CHAPTER XXIII CHANSON TRISTE

Chilly and wet to-day in Brussels.