THE LAUGHTER OF BRUTES
Along the Avenue the grey uniforms are slowly marching, headed by fair,
blue-eyed, arrogant officers on splendid roan horses, and the clang and
clatter of them breaks up the silence with a dramatic sharpness--the
silence that has never been heard in Antwerp since!
As they come onward, the Germans look from left to right.
I stand on the pavement watching, drawn there by some irresistible
force.
Eagerly I search their faces, looking now for the horrid marks of the
brute triumphant, gloating over his prey. But the brute triumphant is
not there to-day, for these thousands of Germans who march into Antwerp
on this historic Friday, are characterised by an aspect of dazed
incredulity that almost amounts to fear.
They all wear pink roses, or carnations, in their coats, or have pink
flowers wreathed about their horses' harness or round their
gun-carriages and provision motors; and sometimes they burst into
subdued singing; but it is obvious that the enormous buildings of
Antwerp, and its aspect of great wealth, and solidarity, fairly take
away their breath, and their eyes quite plainly say chat they cannot
understand how they come to be in possession of this great, rich,
wonderful prize.
They look to left and right, their blue eyes full of curiosity. As I
watch, I think of Bismarck's remark about London: "_What a city to
loot!_"
That same thought is in the eyes of all these thousands of Germans as
they come in to take possession of Antwerp, and they suddenly burst into
song, "Pappachen," and "Die Wacht am Rhein."
But never very cheerily or very loudly do they sing.
I fancy at that moment, experiencing as they are that phase of naive and
genuine amazement, the Germans are really less brute than usual.
And then, just as I am thinking that, I meet with my first personal
experience of the meaning of "_German brute_."
A young officer has espied a notice-board, high above a café on the
left.
A delighted grin overspreads his face and he quickly draws his
companion's attention to it.
Together the two gaze smiling at the homelike words: "_WINTER GARTEN_,"
their blue eyes glued upon the board as they ride along.
The contrast between their gladness, and that old Belgian mother's
agony, suddenly strikes through my heart like a knife.
The pathos and tragedy of it all are too much for me. To see this
beloved city possessed by Germans is too terrible. Yes, standing there
in the beautiful Avenue de Commerce, I weep as if it were London itself
that the Germans were coming into, for I have lived for long
unforgettable weeks among the Belgians at war, and I have learned to
love and respect them above all peoples. And so I stand there in the
Avenue with tears rolling down my cheeks, watching the passing of the
grey uniforms, with my heart all on fire for poor ruined Belgium.
Then, looking up, I see a young Prussian officer laughing at me
mockingly as he rides by.
He laughs and looks away, that smart young grey-clad Uhlan, with roses
in his coat; then he looks back, and laughs again, and rides on, still
laughing mockingly at what he takes to be some poor little Belgian
weeping over the destruction of her city.
To me, that is an act of brutality, that, small as it may seem, counts
for a barbarity as great as any murder.
Germany, for that brutal laugh, no less than for your outrages, you
shall pay some day, you shall surely pay!