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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
the penalty unless you confess. Confession now will save you much
suffering.”
Madame de X—— took up the embroidery that had fallen with her
hands; “I may be physically weak, Monsieur, and unfit for daring
deeds,” she said quietly, “but, had a daughter of mine done that with
which your suspicions honour her, no fear of pain would force me to
confess.”
“Your daughter must suffer the death penalty; do you realize
that?”
“Bien—if I could believe her capable of doing this thing for
Belgium, even her death and mine would not dim the pride of my
last moment. But, oh, Monsieur, I only ask let us not be sacrificed
without the glory! Let proof be found before we are made to suffer
as I know others have suffered.”
“Madame, I have told you we have the proof.”
“Of what?”
“Of your daughter’s guilt.”
“May I ask what proof?”
“It is known that she crossed the frontier on the sixth of last
month, and returned on the tenth; she crossed again on Monday of
this week and returned last night, bearing papers which are now in
this house.”
These statements, although not quite correct, were startlingly
near the truth; but Madame de X—— betrayed no sign of their effect
upon her.
“My daughter Amelia!” she ejaculated. “But, Monsieur, she has not
been to this house for over a month; she is heart-broken and dwells
in absolute retirement at our château beyond Boitsfort. Ah,
doubtless you are ignorant of the catastrophe she and we all have
lately suffered!”
“Ja—ja!” interrupted the officer, stirring uncomfortably; “I know
her husband incurred his death by rash and guilty action. In these
times mercy can be shown to no one who is guilty.”
Madame de X—— raised her head and fixed on him a pair of
scornful dark eyes. “Her husband, Monsieur, was innocent of the
smallest crime; he did not even know your troops had entered
Belgium. He was shot, it was said later, to avenge a stupid peasant’s
act! If my daughter is to suffer the same fate, then, I beg of you,
extend your vengeance to me; for such sorrows craze the mind and
are likely to make criminals of the best of us!”
Although, unlike Madame de Z——’s husband, who had done
nothing, the speaker was aware of her own guilt, her words
expressed the bitter grief that enabled her and her daughter to risk
their lives, not only to serve their country, but to avenge a crime that
had broken their hearts.
“My dear Madame,” returned the officer, somewhat impressed by
her sincerely tragic tone, “there is no question of vengeance in this
matter. Indeed, my sympathy is so greatly with you, I should gladly
serve you to the full extent of my power. It is, I know, dreadful for a
mother to see her loved child condemned to be shot as a criminal,
unable even to bid her a last farewell.”
The woman’s hands trembled slightly, but, noting it, she took
scissors from the work-basket and calmly cut the silk from her
needle, rethreaded it, and began work on another flower as she
remarked quietly: “I cannot anticipate such a horror on false
evidence. Surely you will take time, you will investigate the matter
thoroughly before condemning her!”
“Naturally; but before we leave this house positive proof will be in
our hands.”
 She glanced up, apparently mystified. “A proof you will find here—
in my house!”
“Yes, Madame; the papers your daughter brought here last night.”
“Oh!” She smiled again, the pathetic mirthless smile of baffled
innocence. “If those papers are here, Monsieur, you have full liberty
to find them.”
“Where did your daughter go to-day?” he asked abruptly.
“Which daughter?”
“Madame de Z——”
“I had no idea she had gone anywhere. Surely if she left the
château she would come to see me! Her sister was here last night
and said nothing of my daughter Amelia having left the country.”
“Her sister is Madame de R——, is she not?”
“Yes, Madame Charles de R——.”
“And she was here to see you last night?”
“She passed the night with me, as I was not well, and returned
early this morning to her house on rue de Bellevue.”
The officer grunted and, for the first time, looked away from her,
glancing thoughtfully about the room.
Madame de X—— noted the change in his face, and, after some
moments of silence, said quietly: “Will you not be seated,
Monsieur?” and indicated a chair near her.
He sat heavily, laying sword across his knees and remarked, after
a pause: “This is a sad business, and very distasteful to me.”
“I can well imagine so, Monsieur,” she returned, with a touch of
irony he did not notice.
 “If you would be absolutely frank, I am sure the matter might be
smoothed over—at any rate the punishment might be less severe.
The idea of a woman being shot is appalling; I should like to prevent
that.”
“Oh, if justice be done I have no fear of such an event. But if a
woman be guilty it is my conviction, Monsieur, that she should suffer
even as a man. Women have been shot here in Brussels; among
others, the Englishwoman, who died so bravely, and Gabrielle Petit.”
“Ach, ja!” He stirred again, and looked at the ceiling.
“Her crime was far less than that you accuse my daughter of,”
pursued Madame de X——; “therefore if Amelia were guilty, I could
have no hope, Monsieur; and surely nothing could make me more
frank than I have been with you. I have sought to hide nothing; you
may search where you will, and may even send for my two
daughters to corroborate what I have said.”
At this moment the other officer appeared, and announced, in
German, that his search had been fruitless.
“Good!” muttered his superior, rising; then, addressing Madame de
X——, said formally:
“I must demand to search this room, Madame.”
“Certainly,” she replied; “here are the keys of my desk and the
cupboard.” She took two keys from the pocket of a small black silk
apron she wore, and handed them to him.
The soldiers were then bidden to enter, and the search began. Not
only was her desk examined and every letter in it opened, but each
volume in the book-cases was taken out and looked through; the
cushions and upholstery of sofa and chairs were examined; the
carpet was pulled up at the edges, and every cranny and crevice,
where a paper might be hidden, investigated.
 And all that seemingly endless time Madame de X—— sat listening
to the wild beating of her heart, thrilled through with terror as one
or other of the men approached the little table where the papers
they sought lay hidden only by a flimsy embroidered cover!
Had her hair not been white, it would certainly have become so
during that period of moral anguish and suspense; but, in recounting
it, Madame de X—— affirmed she was scarcely conscious of peril;
the strain was so intense she lost sight of its cause and seemed to
suffer more physically than mentally. Each movement of the men
acted painfully upon her nerves, and though her hands still moved,
mechanically plying the needle, her very muscles seemed to stiffen;
she felt petrified and unable to move her head or body.
The men did their work in silence, but she could hear their
breathing, and now and then a cough or throaty sound that shocked
her like the discharge of a gun. During the whole procedure she
noted that the superior was secretly watching her; and, fearing he
might detect terror in her attitude, she made a mighty effort to
change it easily. But she dared not rise from that table, whereon lay
the price of her daughter’s life and her own.
When everything had been examined to the chief officer’s
satisfaction, he muttered something to his men, and, approaching
Madame de X——, laid his hand on the little table!
“What is in this, Madame?” he demanded.
“That?” she replied, with a calm that surprised herself; “only
embroidery-silks and things of that sort—it is my work-table.”
“There is a drawer in it, n’est-ce pas?”
“No, Monsieur, it opens at the top.”
Though this was the crisis of all, Madame de X—— stated that a
strange calm of indifference came over her; a conviction that the
end had come gave her the recklessness of despair.
 The soldiers, at that moment, were busy replacing books in the
bookcase; the other officer, at her desk, was putting together certain
letters of wholly innocent character he thought might be of service
later on.
“I should like to look into the table, if you please,” said the chief.
“Bien.” She lifted her work-basket and, handing it to him, said:
“Will you kindly set that on the other table?”
As he, while examining the basket’s contents, turned to do this,
she swept the table-cover with the papers under it into her lap.
Scarcely was this done, when he turned; and quickly lifting the lid,
she remarked, looking up innocently, with the smile now familiar to
him: “Its contents are not likely to interest a soldier, I fear.”
He put his hand in and felt through the silks, then drew it out
quickly, pierced by a needle!
“Good!” he said harshly, his face reddening. Then, when the pain
passed: “Thank you, Madame. So far we have found nothing
incriminating, but nevertheless you must come with me at once to
the Military Governor.”
“Go with you!” she gasped, fearing to rise because of those papers
in her lap; “but why, Monsieur? For what reason do you arrest a
woman of my age, against whom you have no charge?”
He raised his shoulders. “Our reasons, Madame, are not usually
given. You must be imprisoned until this matter is fully investigated;
that is all I shall say. If you wish to go to your room to dress, you
may do so; but I must ask you to be as quick as possible.”
The unyielding dryness of his tone told her argument would be
futile, and, in a last desperate effort to save the situation, she
gathered up her apron, in which lay embroidery, table-cover, and
papers, and left the room in proud silence, determined to benefit by
the moment of privacy allowed her, and destroy the papers. The
officer, after ordering one of the soldiers to examine the chair she
had occupied, said something to the other, who, with him, followed
her from the room.
As she mounted the stairs, Madame de X——, to her horror,
perceived that the second soldier mounted close in her wake. This
she knew meant ruin! It meant that the last possible chance to rid
herself of the fatal documents was to be denied her; for, taught by
the experience of others, she knew every inch of the apparel she
wore or discarded would be minutely examined. Consequently, by
some means or other, the soldier must be prevented from
accompanying her to her room. A plea for consideration, however,
was not likely to be granted, and rebellion would only incur greater
severity. She paused and glanced back, thinking frantically what to
do. Suddenly an idea came to her.
“Monsieur,” she said, with obvious embarrassment, “this man
cannot accompany me! You have examined every inch of my house;
you have cross-questioned me and my servants, and read my
intimate letters! Everything has been freely yielded to your
investigation, therefore I must beg you to recall this man for a little
moment. I am an old woman; I have urgent need of a moment of
privacy.”
“Good!” was the colourless reply; “He will await you in the corridor
and accompany you to your room.”
This being all she could hope for, and more than would have been
accorded had her acting been less perfect or the slightest clue
discovered, Madame de X——, followed by the soldier, went on to
the floor above. There the soldier, looking bored and miserable,
awaited her by the door of a small compartment at the end of the
corridor.
One moment later those documents which the enemy would have
prized—which would have condemned Madame de X—— and her
daughter to death—were driven, by a resounding rush of water, into
oblivion down the drain-pipe!
 But their contents she retained in her memory, and later found
means of communicating them to those for whom they were
destined—I believe during her imprisonment, but am not sure of this
point.
The consequence of her heroic courage was the exoneration—
after painful and lengthy imprisonment—of both women, as no proof
could be found of their guilt. But it is doubtful whether
condemnation to death could have caused more anguish than
Madame de X—— suffered during those hours of desperate peril!
Among the many great deeds of Belgian heroism few are more
deserving of admiration than the brave and clever fidelity of these
two daring women to the confidence reposed in them.
 VII
LTHOUGH time passed somewhat less dully than later, the
incidents that, during the winter and summer of 1915, relieved
our otherwise monotonous days were of such distressing character
that they only deepened the gloom. One by one our British friends
were carried off to Rühleben, while their wives were left behind
without sufficient means—in some cases absolutely destitute, since
they could receive nothing from without, and were consequently
worse off than the really impoverished Belgians, for whom charity
provided. For months at a stretch, this monotony of misery was
broken by nothing more encouraging than bad news from the front,
and the tragic events at the Tir National, where citizens were shot
for patriotic deeds, seldom graver than that of Miss Cavell, or the
brave Belgian girl Gabrielle Petit, twenty-one years of age. She,
however, was given a chance of having her punishment commuted
to imprisonment, but declined this favour which had been denied the
Englishwoman. The murder of Miss Cavell caused a pervading mood
of mourning that seemed unlikely ever to diminish, even in those
who did not know her personally. That crime, so pitilessly carried
out, in secrecy and under cover of false promises, was perhaps most
appalling to those in the vicinity whose hopes were stimulated by
misleading assurances, until the post-mortem announcement proved
them vain! Although a British subject has referred to the deed as
rather a “blunder” than a crime,—she being proven guilty of having
assisted young men across the frontier,—the fact that other women,
not British, found guilty of the same humane, although forbidden,
acts, were yet spared the extreme punishment reserved for spies
and the worst of treason, takes all logic from the argument of this
apparently prejudiced Irishman. Edith Cavell’s martyrdom impressed
us in Brussels, as it must always impress history, not only as
shortsighted stupidity—the very determination, secrecy, and haste
with which it was perpetrated contradicts such interpretation—but
rather as a deliberate and atrocious act of vengeance toward a hated
nation!
But other tragedies followed so quickly that this one gradually
became lost in the mass of appalling incidents related by relatives of
those who suffered, or widely announced in German affiches in
order to strike fresh terror to the hearts of a sorrowing and helpless
people.
Yet hope lived on; despite the prevailing misery, each gleam of
good news that reached us from the front was magnified to a great
victory for the Allies, and twenty-four hours sufficed to develop the
conviction that a glorious and triumphant peace was about to be
proclaimed.
Secret organizations in Belgium occasionally brought us a ray of
encouragement, despite the twenty thousand German civilians
endeavouring to discover and destroy these sources of information
opposed to what was allowed to appear in our papers. But, by dint
of passing from mouth to mouth, the news became so distorted or
exaggerated that one scarcely knew what to believe.
We all had maps spread over our walls, on which every mile that
the British and French advanced was marked with pins bearing little
flags of the nations. For how many months—years, indeed—we
pored over that line as it crept closer and closer to St. Quentin,
Cambrai, and other points considered the keys to a rapid and
overwhelming victory! I cannot recall them without painful
recollection of our many disappointments.
In the spring of 1918 we put those maps out of sight, and ceased
reading the communiqués vouchsafed us by a German press.
The most trying element of all, in regard to the front, was the
authentic information we received by word of mouth, as early as
December 1916, of the taking of Courtrai, St. Quentin, etc., by the
Allied armies. The stirring account grew as it passed from one
excited recounter to another. It was originally obtained, as stated
above, from some unknown but trustworthy source. But later on we
came to believe that these stories were, in great part, spread by the
Germans in order to weaken and destroy what faith and hope still
survived in the country. I heard soldiers, even at this time, express
very gloomy views as to their nation’s prospects in the war. Once in
a tram, just before the last temporarily successful onslaught of the
Germans at Verdun, I heard one, who pretended he was drunk and
had possibly been taught the words in French, cry out hysterically:
“Our cause is lost! Nous sommes fichus! Nous sommes fichus!”
For some reason beyond the comprehension of civil minds the
occupying Government appeared bent upon destroying every vestige
of hope in Belgian hearts. Invariably on the eve of a German victory,
exhilarating rumours of great Allied successes were set forth from
unknown sources awakening joy in the prison city which often
verged on an outburst of dangerous enthusiasm. Then, as invariably,
the blazing blue affiche appeared, announcing an overwhelming
defeat of the Allies in the very section where they were understood
to have been successful.
The subtle trickery of such tactics might in time have attained its
object; certainly there could be no better method of wearying and
torturing a people into losing faith. And while it did not succeed with
the better classes, it tired and broke the spirit of the suffering poor
to such an extent that, even when positive proof of successes
reached us, they would not believe; for they had come to the
conviction that the Germans were invincible and would never give up
an inch of Belgium.
We who had witnessed the easy and rapid advance of the enemy
through Belgium and deep into France, cut off as we were from all
reliable information, could not, during the first years, form any idea
of the vastly differing conditions affecting the Allied armies. As the
Germans, opposed only by hastily-mustered, unorganized, and
infinitely weaker forces, had swept on so quickly, we looked for like
speed from the Allies when once their strength was massed and
ready. That the enemy had had time to root himself in and fortify his
positions almost invulnerably, while England was forming an army of
untrained men, and France was preparing hers, we did not
comprehend until later. Few details reached us from the outer world,
although during the first year a London Times was occasionally
smuggled in. A Times! No one outside can realize what that meant
to us! The poor sheet, usually more than a week old, passed
surreptitiously from hand to hand, was reduced to a flimsy rag
before reaching its last reader! Enormous prices were paid for it. The
members of the Anglo-American club paid a hundred francs for one
copy which contained nothing of importance, but was nevertheless
of inestimable value to us as a voice from friendly regions whence,
week by week, we were further cut off. But soon these rare and
precious journals appeared no more; and the apparently innocent
newsvendors who shouted aloud: “La Belgique!”—and whispered,
when someone known to be trustworthy passed: “Le Teems,
Monsieur?”—no longer added the zest of dangerous intrigue to our
saunterings through the dull streets.
But tales of heroic deeds done by the Belgians afforded a certain
interest and satisfaction; tales only whispered to those who could be
trusted not to repeat them. And many were performed by the
Flemish, whom the Germans boasted they had won to their side.
One may be given to illustrate the real sentiments of these people,
so falsely represented in the German accounts. At Bruges, where the
Flemish element predominates, an old man, for many years foreman
in the unloading, etc., of canal boats, approached my friend the steel
manufacturer in that town, gruffly complained that the Allies were
making a mistake in bombarding the railroads from aeroplanes, since
the Germans were shipping their ammunition and so forth
exclusively by the canal, and asked the manufacturer if there was no
means of sending them word to this effect. The latter, not wishing to
betray himself, but meaning to attempt it, said he knew of no such
means. Whereupon the old Fleming withdrew, muttering
discontentedly, with bowed head and great bushy brows knitted over
a pair of clever dark eyes, meditating mischief.
 A few hours later, German officers came in hot haste to the
manufacturer, and, in a frenzy of rage and excitement, made him
accompany them to the canal. There a great crowd had gathered
about the old foreman, who was under arrest, and threatened with
death. He appeared stupidly indifferent to the menaces and curses
heaped upon him by the infuriated Teutons, merely repeating over
and over:
“I could not help it!—An accident!—I did my best!”
For some moments my friend, dazed by the reigning confusion,
was unable to understand what it was all about, until, led by an
officer to the canal bank, he saw the cause of their rage. He was so
much affected by amusement mingling with a deeper emotion that a
lump rose to his throat, and he could not speak.
The old foreman, as though by accident, had managed to let drop
the hook of his great iron crane just as a boat, carrying a vast
German war-cargo, was passing by. It caught the boat so firmly by
the nose that, in his pretended efforts to free it, he not only
overturned the bulky vessel, but dragged down his crane, which,
with the boat, sank into the canal, blocking it against all navigation
for nearly five weeks! He did this at the risk of his life, and only his
able pretence of stupidity, and the manufacturer’s representation
that he was in his dotage, won for him a term of imprisonment
instead of the extreme penalty.
The brave passage of young Belgians over the frontier to join their
army caused the barriers of our prison to be more closely guarded.
Those who still ventured to cross—and there were many even after
the deadly electric wires had been installed!—did so with scarcely a
chance for their lives. Boys as young as seventeen ran the gauntlet
of that “death-zone,” and many passed it in safety after incredible
endurance and suffering.
A Belgian woman, whose two sons made a daring attempt to pass,
told us their experience, related to her in part by one of their
companions, obliged by illness to return; and in part by the German
officer who coldly informed her of their fate.
After skulking for four days and nights under cover of a wood in
the Campine, devoid of food, save what little they carried in their
pockets, and exposed to incessant autumn rains, they at last
reached a canal lying between them and Dutch territory. Having no
other means of crossing, they plunged at night into the black water,
and struck out for the opposite shore.
The mother, not hearing of their capture, which would have been
widely published, concluded, after several days, that they had got
over safely. But one morning she was startled by the visit of a
German sub-officer who came to announce that one of her sons had
been shot while swimming the canal.
As she pretended ignorance of his intention to cross, the
information was considered sufficient punishment, especially when,
several days later, the tidings of her other son’s death in like manner
was conveyed to her by the same pitiless messenger.
This was the most tragic incident of the sort I heard first-hand at
that time; but tales as sad, or others picturing the glorious success
of such young heroes, were constantly circulating.
Later, when the electric wires and underground mines were
installed, the matter was differently managed. By a carefully-
organized plan, the boys were able to pass over in companies of
twenty, thirty, and more at a time, each one contributing his share to
the large bribe by which the sentinels were bought off.
Once, when, before this rare privilege was wholly withdrawn, my
companion was permitted to go by motor into Holland on business,
he was surprised to meet, in the little Dutch town of Nispen, a
Belgian acquaintance whom he believed to be in Brussels. He and
thirty companions had been safely conducted over the frontier the
night before! Three thousand one hundred francs, one hundred from
each member of the party, had secured them this easy passage. The
youths, now free and eager for revenge, were glad to regain liberty
at so small a price, and be able to join their colours. While he was
relating this in the street, he noticed a crowd gathered about two
German soldiers, unresistingly arrested by the Dutch police.
The young Belgian, on seeing them, uttered an exclamation: “Mon
Dieu!” he said. “Those are our sentinels!—the men who led us over
last night!” They hastened to the group, and the soldiers,
recognizing him, grinned and nodded in a friendly manner.
“What are you doing here?” he asked them genially, for the men
were evidently good-natured creatures, not reared in the army,
whose military sympathies were apparently no deeper than their
uniforms.
“Got tired of it over there!” returned one, still smiling. “We are not
so free as you are, but we can wait for that more comfortably here
than in Belgium!”
During the summer of 1916 the inhabitants of Brussels, weary of
suffering and the “hope deferred which maketh the heart sick,”
began a rather forced effort to brighten their existence. When, after
a bitterly gloomy winter, the first peep of green became visible in the
Bois, it seemed as though a tremor of new life passed through the
city. War, with its ever-recurring calamities and disappointments, had
come to be looked on as an unalterable affliction, which must be
endured with patience until some unforeseen and unimaginable
event should bring it to an end. Confidence in early and rapid victory
had gradually given place to a less definite though stubborn belief in
final triumph; but now even this was less openly expressed. War, in
fact, became a tacitly avoided subject of conversation. The tedious
communiqués, giving only such details as the Government thought
fit to present, were no longer discussed, even by bereaved and
serious folk whose thoughts were ever at the front. We who, as yet,
were spared the crape worn by so many, began to frequent tennis
and golf clubs, where, while healthfully exercising on the courts, or
“chasing a pill through a pasture”—as the Irishman defined golf!—
we tried to forget that the air we breathed came to us over acres of
death.
The Bois became alive again with children and pleasure-seeking
couples; and although there were no horses to drive or ride, boats
were launched, as of old, on the beautiful lake surrounding an island
café, which reopened its doors to serve, not the dainty repasts of
former days,—edibles were far too dear!—but tea and coffee of
sorts, while procurable, and a light home-made beer. One lump of
sugar was allowed to each cup, and no appeal or bribe could secure
more. But in a short time the place was crowded, not only by
Belgians, but German soldiers who mingled freely with them,
seeking relief from the dull routine of their days of rest.
One of the touching sights of this little island retreat was that of
these weary, battle-soiled men, to whose clothes still clung the mud
and grime of the trenches, delightedly visiting the dovecot, where,
for ten centimes, they procured grain to feed the pigeons. These
pure white birds, emblems of peace and beauty, would settle on
their hands, shoulders, and heads; and through their snowy
plumage the men’s gruesome, green-grey uniforms appeared like
the thought of an evil mind, marring the spiritual accord between
God and man.
This reawakening of the people was a natural reaction—the
demand of life for its own rights. As with individuals, sorrow’s tedium
had evoked in the entire occupied country a certain helpless
resignation to circumstances that after two years’ patient endurance
and discouragement offered no promise of change. Oppression and
deprivation had become permanent elements of existence. Tragedies
even failed to impress us so deeply as of yore; incidents of heart-
breaking pathos no longer brought tears to the eyes of those who
could still dress warmly in winter, and indulge adequately, if not
luxuriously, in the high-priced food. All had made such sacrifices for
the poorer classes as each considered possible without serious
menace to himself. Many had given the last centime they could
spare, others substantial donations which they probably did not
miss.
Nevertheless, evidences of distressing want increased, more
especially among those too proud to ask alms, who, before the war,
had been comfortably off.
During that summer and the following winter these once well-to-
do and industrious citizens swelled the long lines of hunger-driven,
ill-clad beings who, in rain, snow, or sunshine, stood for hours
outside soup-kitchens to obtain the loaf of bread and jug of hot
broth provided by charity. I think no visible sign of the country’s
calamity was more painfully impressive than the sight of those silent,
patient files of heterogeneous humanity, extending at certain hours
along whole blocks of the city’s streets. Chiefly were they eloquent
during the early dusk of winter, when, exposed to the blast of cold
winds, to sleety rain, or penetrating fog, refined men and women,
old and young, stood shivering side by side with the lowest
inhabitants of rue Haute!
Some faces seen in those sad gatherings I shall never forget;
faces of haggard, hopeless men, whose brave efforts to live honestly
had been frustrated when success was almost attained; of wan
women, whose husbands were dead or fighting in the trenches,
whose children starved in a heatless home; old women and young,
in whose eyes all human reasoning was eclipsed by an animal
hunger—old men and young with that same anguish in their eyes,
but with the hard and morose expression of embryo criminals lurking
about their down-drooping, sullenly closed lips.
Ah, only those who lived in the midst of Belgium’s agony, who
beheld a guiltless people verily crucified as recompense for their
loyalty to honour and truth, can fully appreciate the wrong that was
done them! Only those who saw with their own eyes the callous and
inhuman rage of the invader’s earlier treatment,—when, confident of
conquering a startled world with every diabolical device of
destruction which mind could conceive, he ignored all laws, and
deliberately aimed at crushing the very heart of this little land that
had done no wrong,—only those can understand with what
contempt, what loathing, we who did witness it came to look upon
the ruler and the chiefs of that race whose history has been thus
stained! For we saw these people starving while Germany was
seizing their crops, their horses, cows, even the contents of dry-
goods and other shops; shipping away the coal, for need of which so
many perished during the cold winters; taking all fats, so that butter
was unprocurable and milk too rare and dear for the poor to buy. We
beheld the famished mothers struggling to keep their fading children
alive on what charity could provide—so small a portion for each of
the many thousands to be cared for!—the country’s youth stricken
down with tuberculosis, and honest men driven to thieving and
crime!
Indeed, the bare sight of those lines of hunger-wan creatures,
stretching like black stains through the city, awoke depressing
conjectures as to whether man’s intelligence was, after all, of a
higher order than that of beasts, or merely the same limited
capacity, artificially burnished! Through nearly two-thirds of the
civilized world, life, beauty, and the harvests of ages were being
ruthlessly and insanely destroyed; every principle of right, every
element of higher sentiment scorned or ignored, in a senseless and
hideous conflict between men—between the most exalted of all
living creatures! Truth, the acknowledgment of a higher Power, and
even kindred sympathy—manifested even by the lowest animals—
were sacrificed day after day to an atrocious passion, costing
millions of lives, billions of wealth, and a loss in treasures, in
architecture, literature, and art such as a thousand years of labour
can never replace!
What wonder that individuals did not escape the almost universal
retrogression, and that, amid a people who had so nobly stood loyal
to their ideals, dishonesty and contempt for law gradually developed
from the festering and unalleviated wounds unjustly dealt them!
 Signs of this inevitable consequence of war became apparent later,
not only in Brussels, but throughout the whole of Belgium, as in
Russia and (more or less) in all the involved nations.
War! who after this can ever again insult patriotism by relating it
to the beat of drums and the roar of cannon? Every rational being
who has witnessed its dire and degrading effects, even in so small a
scene as the prison-capital of its vast tragic stage, must curse those
philosophic minds of Germany who exerted their intellects to exalt
intellect’s most horrible opponent, and sold their souls to the devil
for a vain Emperor’s praise!
On them, as much as on him they flattered, must be laid the crime
of a catastrophe that has menaced the very foundations of
civilization. Where now can be seen the benefits of that “drastic
medicine for the human race” which Treitschke informs us must
always recur by the Almighty’s will? He pretends that war is
elevating because the individual disappears before the great
conception of the State, and that to check war would be “a
perversion of morality,” in that it would abolish heroism! Is heroism
more beautiful or advantageous when forced from a man on the
battlefield, than when, of his own will, he proves it in a peaceful
struggle to live righteously and let others live?
How many criminals, for selfish objects, have evinced personal
courage like that of a soldier in action?—far greater, because not in
obedience, but in opposition to power! Paid or commanded heroism
is not heroism in the true sense. Thousands upon thousands in the
peaceful walks of life have more worthily deserved glory by labour
and sacrifice for the common good than they who are driven, under
command, to slay their kind—who obey for no clearly-comprehended
object, but first and foremost to preserve themselves. There are
perhaps fifty men in five hundred, apart from the officers, whose
dominant incentive in battle is other than self-preservation; whereas
in peace one-half, if not more, of a like body of men utilize their
physical and intellectual powers for the improvement of general
conditions—and often without aiming at other recompense. The hour
for lauding the soldier above the scientist and artisan is long since
past, and vast military power, or military power of any sort, is a
mockery of the present glorious age.
Can there be any more absurd sophistry than that of pretending
that war corrects egoism? War is bred of egoism, bred of the
cruellest of all egoisms—imperial ambition! In peace the basest
selfishness is less harmful than the selfishness of international
conflict. Even those men who have amassed enormous fortunes by
robbing the poor have been of greater benefit to the world in
general than if their intelligence and force had been utilized in
planning how to crush another nation. Egoism, after all, is necessary
to progress, and war is but its most barbaric expression.
Machiavelli’s assertion that power is the keynote of all policy has
been grasped by the German war-philosophers, who flatter
themselves they see clearly when looking upon the present epoch
through the eyes of an unscrupulous fifteenth-century Italian.
Machiavelli perhaps spoke truth for his time—a truth, moreover, still
real for our own; but his word power has now a different
significance. Now only is the power of reason generally developed;
now only the many nations of the world speak the same moral
language; now only the masses, formerly forced to be war-like
animals, are thinking and, to a great extent, cultured beings.
But what is the use of reiterating what every thoughtful mind has
heard crying to-day over the bleeding earth? That Reason which vast
catastrophes invariably rouse to ephemeral life soon dies in the
gathering storm-cloud of humanity’s innately savage passions! If the
race most boastful of its culture, a race which leapt so rapidly from
the confining narrowness of old-time heresies, could give birth to the
devastating horror that has reigned for nearly five years, and
threatened to thrust the world back into medieval darkness, what
faith can be placed in mere Reason? What faith can be placed in any
human argument, ideal, or belief—what faith in Man himself?—The
majesty of human intellect, before so deliberate a destruction of its
own works, is made to appear no more than a vain invention of
fancy; and the supreme creature of all knowable creation appears of
no more enduring significance than as depicted by Lamartine: “Ce
pauvre insecte c’est l’homme, qui chante quelques jours devant Dieu
sa jeunesse et ses amours, et puis se tait pour l’éternité!”
 VIII
HEN the spring of 1916 was in full leaf an unexpected pleasure
was accorded us: permission from the Governor to ride bicycles
within certain stated limits! The privilege was welcomed almost
joyously by all; for, since there were no horses and no means of
transit for those living in the suburbs, or those out of touch with
such trams as were running, many workers were obliged to walk
miles each day to and from their places of occupation. Besides, the
pleasure-hungry inhabitants—doomed to remain summer and winter
within the gloomy city—were glad of a chance to make excursions
into woods and open country without expense or too great fatigue.
Every man, woman, and child able to pedal immediately planned
how to purchase a wheel, although many were only able to do so
after a long period of saving—by cutting down their food supply, and
other sacrifices. There were, of course, not enough bicycles in the
country to meet even one-tenth of this suddenly-created demand,
since most of the Belgian stock had been requisitioned for army
purposes. But no sooner was the cheering permission given than the
market was flooded, as though by magic, with wheels of all styles
and all prices—made in Germany! Every shop was stocked to
overflowing, sold out, and restocked with incredible rapidity.
In a short time the Bois, so long deserted and melancholy,
presented a scene of life that did the heart good to see. Hundreds of
bicycles, all bearing the Teuton trade-mark cleverly disguised, rolled
gaily over the smooth asphalt of wide avenues, where the splendid
automobiles of former days no longer deterred the timid; where, at
that time, not even a German car or vehicle of any sort impeded
their way.
So great was the pleasure and benefit afforded, especially to wan,
under-nourished shop-girls and lads, in sad need of fresh air and
some diversion in their joyless existence, that one was tempted to
feel more kindly toward the occupying Government, until, later on,
the subtle and selfish aim became known of this sole act of seeming
consideration. Nevertheless, during those summer months a
surprising spirit of comparative gaiety developed. The conflict raging
without seemed temporarily forgotten. Young and old indulged to
the full the delight of wheeling along smooth cycle tracks (laid
before the war) through leafy woodlands out to Groenendael and
other picturesque spots in the environs, where restaurants, that had
done no business for two years, gladly welcomed them.
Whole families were to be seen awheel; fathers and mothers,
accompanied by children of all ages. Loving couples, even elderly
women and white-haired men, experienced the first semblance of
pleasure and liberty since the 20th of August 1914. On Sundays,
especially, this manifestation of reawakened life was delightful to
see. From morn till eve the city avenues and those of the Bois were
moving streams of radiant cyclists, eager to leave the town behind
and taste the sweetness of summer under fragrant boughs, or in
flowered fields where they would settle in parties for luncheon.
Jeanne from the laiterie, Jacques from the butcher’s shop—hundreds
of poor, tired young creatures, who slaved on weekdays to provide
themselves and war-widowed mothers with the necessities of life,
were all there, smiling and forgetting the sacrifices made to procure
a cheap German wheel—sacrifices often betrayed in their hunger-
pinched faces! But the privilege was not indulged in only by these;
the aristocrats welcomed it as gladly, and innumerable smart men
and women, deprived of their horses and cars, pedalled along by the
side of Jeanne and Jacques as contentedly as they.
I have no exact knowledge of how many bicycles were sold in
Belgium during that summer; but judging by the fact that one was
procured by every individual in the capital able to ride and scrape
together the price, many thousands must have been sold in Brussels
alone—all provided by Germany! A large number of the poorer
classes could not save the necessary sum until the summer was
over, and cold, bad weather prevented them enjoying their hard-
earned acquisitions. But they had something to look forward to for
the coming summer, should the war continue—and there was then
little prospect of it coming to an end!
These last, unfortunately, made their sacrifices in vain; for no
sooner was everyone provided with a wheel, and the enormous
demand, so cunningly created and provided for, had been satisfied,
than the moment arrived for the sequel of Germany’s clever
commercial coup!
Immediately an order was published that everyone possessing a
bicycle should not only declare but deliver his tyres, as the rubber
was needed by the army! Riding was forbidden, even to those who,
after yielding their tyres, asked permission still to enjoy their wheels
by using tyres of rope!
Thus was solved the mystery of that one instance of kindness
towards a wronged people! The German army secured the rubber
without robbing its own nation; and, moreover, enriched certain
home manufacturers with the pathetic savings of many a Belgian girl
and lad, since fallen a victim to tuberculosis—an epidemic then
already beginning to ravage their country’s youth!
Of course the usual excuse was given for checking the use of
bicycles: someone—who and how was not revealed!—had abused
the privilege, therefore all should be denied it! But if, indeed, that
abuse ever was committed, it must have been during the first weeks
after permission to ride was given. No one, anxious to serve his
country, or to escape, would have waited until the last importation of
wheels had been disposed of! This, moreover, did not explain why
permission was never again given, although during the two following
summers there was no conceivable reason why those who asked to
ride with rope tyres within a certain limited locality should be
refused.
 The whole affair was an abominable trick, subtly clever, with that
sly and treacherous cleverness which won a vast advantage for the
German army in the beginning, and has ever since characterized its
policy.
The dark months of winter crept upon us; another joyless
Christmas approached—a day suggesting not peace and good-will,
but rather blasphemous mockery of all that Christ taught. One black
day was like another, always throbbing with the more or less loud
roar of distant cannon, stirred only when good news fanned to brief
flame our almost extinguished hope. Only this, and the ever-new
laws imposed by the enemy, made us realize we were yet alive, and
roused us sufficiently to note what the day of the month might be.
Occasionally, however, we were awakened at dawn by a thunder
of near-by cannon, and, until taught by experience, sprang from our
beds thinking the Allies had come. But it was only to see puffs of
exploding shell surrounding a bird-like form far up in the sky—which
we recognized as a friendly aviator winging through the explosives
toward a Zeppelin shed rather uncomfortably close to our house.
Once, at dawn, several biplanes appeared bent upon destroying this
monster civilian slayer. Brussels, still asleep, resounded to the
thunder of cannon from the many points where high-angle guns
were set, one of these points being a water-tower two hundred
yards or so from us. The shooting was continuous; and puffs of
smoke, as the shells burst, surrounded the air-craft so closely it
seemed impossible that they could escape destruction. Fragments of
shell rained upon our roof, and crashed through the garden trees,
while we, in our night-clothes, leaned from windows watching the
brave flyers through our glasses. Our hearts almost ceased to beat,
fearing lest one should fall; for it appeared almost beyond hope that
they could all escape that determined and well-directed fire.
Presently one descended into full view, and, after circling about the
Zeppelin shed, slackened speed just above it. Shells burst round him
on every side, but the intrepid aviator paid no heed. As we watched,
scarcely breathing, he plunged downward close to the shed—
hesitated—then, apparently in no great hurry, soared up like a
fearless eagle to safer heights, through a very cloud of bursting
shells. Almost immediately there was a tremendous explosion, which
we scarcely heeded, so intent were we on his escape. For what
seemed hours, though it was probably not more than a few
moments, we followed his flight amid a storm of attack that seemed
to miss him at times only by a hair’s breadth.
In a villa facing ours dwelt a young American widow, who, with
her two sons, as little clothed as we, was also watching the combat.
One of the boys, as reckless of risk as he was indifferent to his
attire, had crawled from a window, and stood, bare-footed, in
pyjamas, on the roof cornice in great danger of being struck by
falling bits of shell. The widow, wrought to uncontrollable
excitement, called out as though the daring flyer could hear her:
“For Heaven’s sake hurry!—Fly!—Oh, they will bring you down!—God
have mercy on him! Spare him! Spare him!”
Her cries came thinly to us, through the thunderous din, and,
though she and we all laughed over it later, at that moment of
tension nothing impressed us as extraordinary or comic. Every sense
was centred on that rising form, until it finally disappeared in the
mist of higher ether. Had he been brought down we should have all
felt it as a personal tragedy; for, although at that time America was
still comfortably neutral, we who had witnessed Belgium’s
martyrdom were little in sympathy with our country’s attitude.
But this took place earlier; before the spring of 1917 the
Machiavellian intelligence ruling us is supposed to have devised a
means whereby it hoped to check aerial assaults upon these
cherished perils-to-unprotected-towns. Although the trick was
beyond all things diabolical, many in Brussels, taught by experience
the inhumanity of Prussian war-methods, believed it was done with
deliberate intention to terrify the inhabitants into opposing Allied
aerial attack.
 As the Zeppelin, unfortunately, was absent from its shed when a
well-directed bomb was dropped on it during this attack, another
attempt to destroy it was made later. During the latter raid several
shrapnel shells tore with direful effect through the city’s crowded
streets. Many ghastly details reached us, but one account, given by
an eye-witness, will serve to illustrate the vileness of a scheme
which, if indeed intentional, can only be equalled by the sinking of
the Lusitania and that shooting of the French wounded, openly
recorded in the German papers, under the heading: “A day of
honour for our troops”!
One of the shells, in its mad career through the city, struck a
brewer’s wagon, killing the driver, and the oxen which drew it, and
severely wounded a second man. A physician in the vicinity hastened
to the spot; and with those who gathered about the scene of
butchery came two German officers who appeared already prepared
for the event.
“Ach!” exclaimed one of these, in a tone of compassionate regret;
“you Belgians can thank the British and French for this! What is it to
them how many innocent beings are sacrificed to their senseless
attacks in a vain effort to cripple us!”
But, all unknown to the speaker, several tell-tale bits of the
murderous missile, proving it to be of German origin, had already
been gathered up and secreted by the Belgians present. The
physician had one of these, and, unable to control his fury on
hearing this malin interpretation of the tragedy, he turned on the
officer, his face white and quivering with reckless passion: “Pas du
tout!” he cried; “no French or English hand committed this crime!
Here is the proof!” He revealed the damning fragment. “Avions do
not drop shrapnel, and neither you nor anyone can deny where that
was made!”
The officers scorned the suggestion, but withdrew, for they were
unsupported by others in the midst of a silent but enraged crowd.
 One feature in the affair, which encouraged the belief that it had
been arranged purposely, was that German soldiers immediately
took possession of each locality where damage was done, ridding it
of every condemning particle of shell. But fragments enough have
been preserved by the Belgians as proof of a deed worthy only of
those who committed it.
In constant view of such trickery how could a neutral attitude of
mind or heart be retained?
The men of the American Alimentation Commission came to
Belgium as friendly towards Germany as towards any other nation.
Several of them, indeed, were somewhat biased in favour of the
Prussian army, and all as prone as were we ourselves, in the
beginning, to doubt the accounts of their atrocities. But before they
left I believe there was not one whose last trace of respect for the
occupying Powers was not destroyed by what he had witnessed with
his own eyes during his sojourn in the country. Very many, as the
world knows, lost no time, after leaving Belgium, to reveal their
outraged sentiments by joining the Allied forces. Even before
America came in, several of these gave their lives in fighting a wrong
they were forced to recognize, despite their original determination to
view all from a fair war-basis, and not be influenced by mere
hearsay.
And yet these men were more closely associated with the German
officials than with Belgians. Their duties necessitated constant
intercourse with the Government, and with those whose influence
might easily have counterbalanced Belgian accusations. Those
stationed in the étape regions were constantly accompanied by a
sub-officer. Day and night each had his “nurse,” as the boys called
these military supervisors, at his side; ate with him, travelled with
him, and slept near him! What more natural than that so intimate an
association should strengthen their original admiration for the
German army? But facts were too flagrantly against it. Little by little
incidents, at first regarded as awful but possibly legitimate features
of war, led to others, illegitimate and of enraging significance,
gradually destroying, in these fair-minded men, all sympathy with
the Central Powers.
As year followed year they saw these soi-disant defenders of their
“Vaterland” bleeding a helpless country, and clinging, at all cost and
by any means, to territory won through the use of poisonous gas
and burning oil—brutalities never before known, and all fore-
prepared, while the world was dreaming of peace!—saw them
draining broken Belgium by outrageous taxation, and requisition of
every kind, while doing their utmost to create internal strife between
the Flemings and Walloons.
Very few neutrals at first could gauge the situation correctly in
Brussels, where German argument and German lies were
predominant. It was only their actions that opened our eyes, and the
extraordinary advantages they so quickly attained, which gave
evidence of an inexorable and vandalistic plan that could not have
been brought to such perfection in a few months, nor even in a few
years.
Only a fool or an all-forgiving angel could have lived under that
domination and retained sympathy or respect for the nation it
represented. Although noble individuals in Germany were probably
as adverse as we to its pitiless barbarity and craft, the fact that no
united voice in that great and prosperous country was raised against
it, suggested that their number was too small to be of any avail. The
first easy victories, the violation and crushing of a neutral land,
seemed to have eclipsed the soul and intelligence of a people
formerly so proud of their culture.
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