BURGOMASTER MAX
The hotel is closed to the public.
"We shut it up so that we should not have Germans coming in," says the
little Bruxellois widow who owns it. "But if Madame likes to stay here
for the night we can arrange,--only--there is no cooking!"
The old professor from Liège asks in his pitiful childlike way if he can
get a room there too. He would be glad, so glad, to be in a hotel that
was not open to the public, or the Germans.
Leaving my companions with many expressions of friendliness, I now rush
off to the Hotel de Ville, accompanied by the faithful Jean.
Just as we reach our destination, we run into the man I have come all
this way to see.
I see a short, dark man, with an alert military bearing. It seems to me
that this idol of Brussels is by no means good-looking. Certainly, there
is nothing of the hero in his piquant, even somewhat droll appearance.
But his eyes! They are truly extraordinary! They bulge right out of
their sockets. They have the sharpness and alertness of a terrier's.
They are brilliant, humorous, stern, merry, tender, audacious,
glistening, bright, all at once. His beard is clipped. His moustaches
are large and upstanding. His immaculate dress and careful grooming give
him a dandified air, as befitting the most popular bachelor in Europe,
who is also an orphan to boot. His forehead is high and broad. His
general appearance is immediately arresting, one scarcely knows why.
Quite unlike the conventional Burgomaster type is he.
M. Max briefly explains that he is on his way to an important meeting.
But he will see me at eleven o'clock next morning if I will come to the
Hotel de Ville. Then he hurries off, his queer dark face lighting up
with a singularly brilliant smile as he bids us "Au revoir!" An historic
moment that. For M. Max has never been seen in Brussels since!
Of itself, M. Max's face is neither particularly loveable, nor
particularly attractive.
Therefore, this man's great hold over hearts is all the more remarkable.
It must, of course, be attributed in part to the deep, warm audacious
personality that dwells behind his looks.
But, in truth, M. Max's enormous popularity owes itself not only to his
electric personality, his daring, and sangfroid, but also to his
_common-sense_, which steered poor bewildered Brussels through those
terribly difficult first weeks of the German occupation.
Nothing in history is more touching, more glorious, than the sudden
starting up in time of danger of some quiet unknown man who stamps his
personality on the world, becomes the prop and comfort of his nation, is
believed in as Christians believe in God, and makes manifest again the
truth that War so furiously and jealously attempts to crush and
darken--the power of mind over matter, the mastery of good over evil.
From this War three such men stand out immortally--King Albert, Max of
Brussels, Mercier of Malines.
And Belgium has produced all three!
Thrice fortunate Belgium!
Each stone that crumbles from her ruined homes seems, to the watching
world, to fly into the Heavens, and glow there like a star!
On foot, swinging my big yellow furs closer round me in the true Belgian
manner, I walked along at Jean's side, trying to convince myself that
this was all real, this Brussels full of grey-clad and blue-clad
Prussians, Saxons, and Baverois, with here and there the white uniform
of the Imperial Guard. Suddenly I started. Horribly conscious as I was
that I was an English authoress and with no excuse to offer for my
presence there, I felt distinctly nervous when I saw a queer young man
in a bulky brown coat move slowly along at my side with a curious
sidling movement, whispering something under his breath.
I was not sure whether to hurry on, or to stand still.
Jean chose the latter course.
Whereupon the stranger flicked a look up and down the street, then put
his hand in his inner breast pocket.
"_Le Temps_," he whispered hoarsely, flashing looks up and down the
street.
"How much?" asked Jean.
"Five francs," he answered. "Put it away toute suite, vous savez c'est
dangereux."
Then quickly he added, walking along beside us still, and speaking still
in that hoarse, melodramatic voice (which pleased him a little, I
couldn't help thinking), "Les Allemands will give me a year in prison if
they catch me, so I have to make it pay, n'est-ce-pas? But the Brussels
people _must_ have their newspapers. They've got to know the truth about
the war, n'est-ce-pas? and the English papers tell the truth!"
"How do you get the newspapers," I whispered, like a conspirator myself.
"I sneak in and out of Brussels in a peasant's cart, all the way to
Sottegem," he whispered back. "Every week they catch one of us. But
still we go on--n'est-ce-pas? We don't know what fear is in Brussels.
That's because we've got M. Max at the head of us! Ah, there's a man for
you, M. Max!"
A look of pride and tenderness flashed across his dark, crafty face,
then he was gone, and I found myself longing for the morning, when I
should talk with M. Max myself.
But Sunday I was awakened by the loud booming of cannon, proceeding from
the direction of Malines.
"What is happening?" I asked the maid who brought my coffee "Isn't that
firing very near?"
"Oui, Madam! On dit that in a few days now the Belgian Army will
re-enter Brussels, and the Germans will be driven out. That will be
splendid, Madam, will it not?"
"Splendid," I answered mechanically.
This optimism was now becoming a familiar phrase to me.
I found it everywhere. But alas! I found it alongside what was
continually being revealed as pathetic ignorance of the true state of
affairs.
And the nearer one was to actual events the greater appeared one's
ignorance.
This very day, when we were saying, "In a few days now the Germans will
be driven out of Brussels," they were commencing their colossal attack
upon Antwerp, and we knew nothing about it.
The faithful Jean called for me at half-past ten, and hurrying through
the rain-wet streets to meet M. Max at the Hotel de Ville, we became
suddenly aware that something extraordinary was happening. A sense of
agitation was in the air. People were hurrying about, talking quickly
and angrily. And then our eyes were confronted by the following
startling notice, pasted on the walls, printed in German, French and
Flemish, and flaming over Brussels in all directions:--
"_AVIS._
"Le Bourgmestre Max ayant fait default aux
engagements encourus envers le Gouvernement
Allemand je me suis vu force de le suspendre
de ses fonctions. Monsieur Max se trouve en
detention honourable dans une forteresse.
"Le Gouverneur Allemande,
"VON DER GOLTZ."
Bruxelles,
_26th Septembre_, 1914.
Cries of grief and rage kept bursting from those broken-hearted
Belgians.
Not a man or woman in the city was there who did not worship the very
ground Max walked on. The blow was sharp and terrible; it was utterly
unexpected too. Crowds kept on gathering. Presently, with that
never-ceasing accompaniment of distant cannon, the anger of the populace
found vent in groans and hisses as a body of Uhlans made its appearance,
conducting two Belgian prisoners towards the Town Hall. And then, all in
a moment, Brussels was in an uproar. Prudence and fear were flung to the
wind. Like mad creatures the seething crowds of men, women, and children
went tearing along towards the Hotel de Ville, groaning and hooting at
every German they saw, and shouting aloud the name of "Max," while to
add to the indescribable tumult, hundreds of little boys ran shrieking
at the tops of their voices, "_Voici le photographie ed Monsieur Max,
dix centimes!_"
The Civic Guard, composed now mostly of elderly enrolled Brussels
civilians, dashed in and out among the infuriated mob, waving their
sticks, and imploring the population to restrain itself, or the
consequences might be fatal for one and all.
Meanwhile the Aldermen were busy preparing a new _affiche_ which was
soon being posted up in all directions.
"_AVIS IMPORTANT._
"Pendant l'absence de M. Max le marche des
affaires Communales et le Maintenance de
l'ordre seront assurés par le College Echevinal.
Dans l'interêt de la cité nous faisons un suprême
appel au calme et sangfroid de nos concitoyens.
Nous comptons sur le concours de tous pour
assurer le maintien de la tranquilité publique.
Bruxelles. "LE COLLEGE ECHEVINAL."
Accompanied by Jean, I hurried on to the Hotel de Ville.
"Voyez vous!" says Jean under his breath. "Voici les Allemands dans
l'Hôtel de Ville! Quel chose n'est-ce-pas!"
And I hear a sharp note in the poor fellow's voice that told of bitter
emotion.
It was an ordeal to walk through that beautiful classic courtyard,
patrolled by grey-clad German sentinels armed to the teeth. The only
thing to do was to pass them without either looking or not looking. But
once inside I felt safer. The Germans kept to their side of the Town
Hall, leaving the Belgian Municipality alone. We went up the wide
stairs, hung with magnificent pictures and found a sad group of Belgians
gathered in a long corridor, the windows of which looked down into the
courtyard below where the Germans were unloading waggons, or striding up
and down with bayonets fixed.
Looking down from that window, while we waited to be received by M. le
Meunier, the Acting-Burgomaster who had promptly taken M. Max's place, I
interested myself in studying the famous German leg. A greater part of
it was boot. These boots looked as though immense attention had been
given to them. In fact there was nothing they didn't have, iron heels,
waterproof uppers, patent soles an immense thickness, with metal
intermingled, an infinite capacity for not wearing out. I watched these
giant boots standing in the gateway of the exquisite Hotel de Ville,
fair monument of Belgium's genius for the Gothic! I could see nothing of
the upper part of the Germans, only their legs, and it was forced upon
my observation that those legs were of great strength and massive, yet
with a curious flinging freedom of gait, that was the direct result of
goose-stepping.
Then I saw two officers goose-stepping into the courtway. I saw their
feet first! then their knees. The effect was curious. They appeared to
kick out contemptuously at the world, then pranced in after the kick.
The conceit of the performance defies all words.
Then Jean's card was taken into the acting Burgomaster, and next moment
a Belgian Échevin said to us, "Entrez, s'il vous plaît," and we passed
into the room habitually occupied by M. Max.
We found ourselves in a palatial chamber, the walls covered thickly with
splendid tapestries and portraits. From the high gilded ceiling hung
enormous chandeliers, glittering and pageantesque. Under one of these
giant chandeliers stood an imposing desk covered with papers. An elderly
gentleman with a grey wide beard was seated there. We advanced over the
thick soft carpets.
M. le Meunier received us with great courtesy.
"Nous avons perdu notre tête!" he murmured sadly.--"Without M. Max we
are lost!"
The air was full of agitation.
Here was a scene the like of which might well have been presented by the
stage, so spectacular was it, so dramatic--the lofty chamber with its
superb appointments and hangings, and these elderly, grey-bearded men of
state who had just been dealt the bitterest blow that had yet fallen on
their poor tortured shoulders.
But this was no stage scene. This was real. If ever anything on earth
was alive and real it was this scene in the Burgomaster's room in
Brussels, on the first day of Max's imprisonment. Throbbing and
palpitating through it was human agony, human grief, human despair, as
these grey-bearded Belgians stared with dull heavy eyes at the empty
space where their heroic chief no longer was. Tragic beyond the words of
any historian was that scene, which at last however, by sheer intensity
of concentrated and concealed emotion, seemed to summon again into that
chamber the imprisoned body, the blazing, dauntless personality of the
absent one, until his prison bonds were broken, and he was here, seated
at this desk, cool, fearless, imperturbable, directing the helm of his
storm-tossed bark with his splendid sanity, and saying to all:
"Fear nothing, mes enfants! There is no such thing as fear!"