The lower-class Belgian’s horror of the invaders grew daily, as
more and more harrowing tales of their atrocities came to us from
regions through which their armies were rushing. “_Schrechlichkeit_”
was attaining its object at a bitter price to the poor unreasoning
peasants, who saw not only those dear to them slain for no apparent
cause, but also their superiors, priests, prominent townsmen, and
even women and children. Stories reached us of such unparalleled
ugliness that many refused to credit them, and only when like crimes
were committed in and about Brussels could we believe modern humanity
capable of such deeds. These are now more or less known to the outer
world; although doubtless many done in secret will never come to
light, save when the victims, at the Last Judgment, add their voice
of condemnation to those of innocent men, women, and children sent to
sudden and ghastly death on the _Lusitania_. But that revolting crime
had not yet happened, to inflame neutral minds in Brussels, which,
until convinced of those done in Belgium, were genuinely neutral.
So unbiased, indeed, was the feeling among them that even the
violation of Belgium was looked on by some as an ugly action, but
not wholly damning according to war morals. I heard neutral men, who
admired Germany, even seek to excuse it as a daring and possibly
necessary “strategic move.” But less than three weeks after the fall
of Liège, these very men were among the bitterest and most outspoken
haters of the race they had tried to defend. Civilized sentiment was
so outraged by the wrongs heaped upon Belgians that several Americans,
Dutch, and other neutrals undertook, for their own satisfaction, to
investigate certain awful incidents related. When they were convinced
that these were not only true, but in some cases too mildly depicted,
their neutrality fled in a storm of rage.
The terror which these acts temporarily roused in the peasantry was
revealed to me the day I ventured out, by bicycle, to our villa in
the vicinity of Wavre. No other means of conveyance being available,
I discovered, after considerable search, an old wheel unearthed from
the depths of a merchant’s cellar—one of the few secreted to escape
requisition. No trains were running and no trams, and offer of high
payment failed to tempt the drivers of such few miserable hack-horses
as remained after the taxi-cabs had been seized. But, by starting
early in the morning, it was possible to make the trip by wheel,
pack, and return before nightfall. So, having obtained a German pass
from Government headquarters the day after my visit to the sleepy
officer at the post office, I attached a small American flag to the
handle-bar, and started forth at six a.m. through the deserted Bois,
and thence to still more deserted country roads. There was no traffic
in those days save occasional German military cars, and no sign of
human or any other life on the roads. The Belgians were then for the
most part keeping indoors, in some cases through fear of the Germans,
in others because, commerce and business being dead, they had nothing
to tempt them out; therefore, until I reached an outlying village,
I met no one to direct me. Here, while coasting down the main road,
flanked by modest peasant abodes, I was startled by seeing two men
rush out, and wave frantically to stop me.
“You can’t proceed!” exclaimed one as I dismounted. “Come quickly into
the house! _Vite! Vite!_ They are there, just beyond!”
“Who?” I asked, amazement at this hysterical excitement making me
forget the cause of their terror.
“_Les Allemands!_ Come—be quick; they will appear at any moment!”
If a tribe of hungry cannibals had been in the vicinity, their
agitation could not have been greater. Women were shrieking warnings
from windows, children peering terrified from behind curtains, and
the two men literally trying to drag me indoors.
“But I _must_ go on!” I exclaimed. “I have a pass and am an American!”
“_C’est égal!_ they respect nothing!” was the reply. “They will shoot
you down! They will rob and tear you to bits! _Ne savez-vous pas ce
que c’est qu’un Boche?_ He is a beast without reason! He stops at
nothing! Think only what our innocents have suffered!”
“And my old father, who did no wrong!” wailed a woman from the window.
“They are burning the village beyond!” cried another.
Then several at once: “They killed my brother.... They cut off the
hands of little children;... they burned the farm of So-and-so and
murdered his daughter!... _Et mon fils! mon fils!_ the father of a
family! he lies, buried with twenty others in a heap, at Tamines!”
All that was said I could not hear, indeed did not try to, and being
anxious to go on, sought to escape the two men’s kindly attention.
When they were at last persuaded to resign me to the predicted doom,
I sped on down the hill to a cross-road, and, turning to the right,
saw a moving mass of troops rapidly approaching in the direction
I was obliged to take—on foot, as the road mounted too steeply to
permit of riding. The troop gained on me so rapidly that their heavy
tramp and rough breathing were soon audible. Before we reached the
level they were striding along within arm’s reach, line after line
of dusty, perspiring, war-brutalized men, pressing on to new scenes
of slaughter. The mounted officers in command glanced at me, noted
the flag which then had not been forbidden, and returned their eager
gaze to the distance beyond, evidently controlled but by one idea.
_Haste_—that was the motto of these frenzy-driven legions, ordered to
rush into France despite all obstacles, over the living and the dead,
treading even, if need be, their own fellows under foot!
The soldiers were the heavy, stalwart men of the first German army,
trained and hardened for war—conscious machines of destruction,
who appeared to have forgotten they were human. In their faces one
saw only an animal-like, unquestioning obedience that had become,
through long domination, the very essence of their strength, the will
actuating their movements, their thought, their very life; “Not to
reason why; but to do and die,” seemed branded on their souls. In none
of the many different army contingents that later came to Brussels,
either allied or German, was this strange, dogged, unhuman and
unthinking obedience so strikingly visible. While watching them and
noting their expression of unintelligent, inexorable determination to
push on according to supreme command, the impression came to me that,
had I fallen and lain disabled in the road, they would have marched
over me as unhesitatingly as they trod the dust.
At the hotel where we were staying, a party of English nurses were
putting in a weary time waiting vainly for the wounded. One of these
had offered to accompany me on the trip to our villa, but at the last
moment was forbidden to do so by her superior. The evening of my
return from the expedition, which proved successful and less eventful
than predicted, I told them that it had been accomplished without the
difficulties expected by their matron. “Really? So glad!” replied the
one referred to, evidently regretting that she had been denied this
chance to relieve her dull days.
They were a rather disconsolate lot, very smart-looking, in their
pretty nursing uniforms, but bored by enforced idleness. More than one
told me, with true British spirit, that she would prefer to be in the
most dangerous section of the front rather than pass another idle day
at the expense of those they had come to serve. Later on this wish was
gratified, and no doubt each of them has more than repaid the cost of
their brief period of sloth.
A certain man, also residing at the hotel, was constantly haunting
these women, who complained of his persistent attentions and efforts
to draw them into conversation. He posed as an Englishman, and,
before England entered the war, had been in that country. But his
appearance was not English, and his voice had a guttural accent that
made me suspect him of being a German spy—a suspicion that I later
had reason to believe was well founded. He had the room next to mine,
with a communicating door, through which one could hear voices even
when lowered. Visitors constantly came there, mostly women who spoke
French along the corridor to the servant directing them, but, once in
his room with the door closed, spoke German, and usually took care
that no word should be heard outside. But one day a woman entered
so early that the knock at his door awakened me; I then heard low
voices and the crisp rattle of papers. Presently another woman was
shown into the room; and she, evidently agitated, spoke in German
loud enough for me to hear in my bed these significant sentences:
“_Ach Gott_, you are confident, but I am not! It is said the Russians
mean to make of it a religious war. In that case it will go hard with
Germany.” The man’s reply was too low to be heard, and she continued:
“To be sure; but look at this.” A sound came of paper like that of
a letter being opened. At this moment the telephone-bell rang; the
man answered it in French, and his words came to me clearly: “Hallo!
Yes. She is here with me now; I have seen the letter.... _Pas du
tout!_ Do nothing until I see you.... Yes, he is a Belgian, but his
_wife_ is English—there are two sons; one got away the day the Germans
entered.... Inquire at the Anglo-American club, Toison d’Or.... _Oh
zut!_—tell him I shall be at your place at eleven and——” The rest was
drowned by someone’s pet dog barking in the corridor—a soldier’s dog,
as it proved afterwards.
On descending for dinner that evening, my companion and I were joined,
while awaiting the lift, by two German soldiers—probably the orderlies
of officers lodged on the same _étage_. With them was a fox terrier,
doubtless the one that interrupted my eavesdropping. It approached to
be caressed, which led me to ask the soldiers if they intended to take
it to the front.
“_Gewiss!_” replied one, rather aggressively; “he will come with us to
Paris and then to _London_!”
The emphasis on the last word betrayed that he thought me English, and
the intended taunt angered me.
“Really?” I replied; “evidently you think I am English!”
He smiled shamefacedly, and blurted naïvely: “Aren’t you?”
I coldly told him my nationality, and added: “But if I _were_ English
your boast would not trouble me. You are still a long way from Paris,
and even if you ever _should_ get there, you would not remain long.
And as for London—you might more easily get to heaven!”
They received this sally with confident laughter, and left the lift,
one repeating significantly, emphasizing the words with an upraised
finger: “You’ll see! You’ll see!”
As the German military element was increasing daily at the hotel,
all persons of other nationalities departed, save those obliged to
remain. We, the British nurses, and some few Belgians, unable to
return to their homes in other parts of Belgium, were consequently
in constant association with numerous high officials, who, in the
first pride of victory, discarded their war-raiment for brilliant
blue dress-uniforms, ornamented with gold or silver. They strutted
about with a domineering air of superiority which later became greatly
modified, but at that time was insufferable.
One evening, immediately after the fall of Reims, when the Belgian
spirit was more depressed than ever before, a dinner was held in
the public dining-room by a number of high-grade officers. They
were seated at a long table close to ours, all in gala attire, and
evidently jubilant over some new disaster to the Belgian forces—a
satisfaction which they appeared particularly anxious should be noted
by the Belgians present. But the latter, who hid their aching hearts
under lowered eyelids, appeared not to heed them. Outside, however,
there were many interested watchers. As the evening was warm, windows
had been left open, and at them gathered the idle street crowds,
with nothing, night or day, to divert their thoughts—no business, no
theatres, no cafés—and too anxious to remain in their homes.
No slight consideration for their helpless and ruined victims, looking
in on the joyous party, stayed the gay laughter and toasts of those at
that table! Triumph, which common decency should have impelled them to
indulge privately, was flagrantly flourished in the wan faces of men
who knew not how they were to feed their families in a week’s time, of
youths cast out of employment and unable to give their country the aid
they longed to give.
Soldiers bearing dispatches constantly entered the room, trod heavily,
with clatter of spurs, to within a few paces of the table, drew
up, brought their heels together, and stood at salute until given
permission to approach. Officers of lower rank paused, on seeing
the august and radiant gathering, saluted, and continued to bow and
salute while passing the table to find a smaller one in another part
of the room. Judging by their servility and that of the soldiers, the
two in general’s attire at the dinner must have been of high rank,
but their identities were not known in the hotel. To my eyes each
looked as important as the other, puffed up with pride, betraying,
in every glance and movement, confident conviction that the present
satisfaction was but a fore-runner of greater triumphs.
Again and again when a dispatch was read, evidently containing
satisfactory news from the front, the joyous cry, “_Hoch! Hoch!
Hoch!_” rang out to that pathetically wistful audience, who knew it
was in celebration of a fresh wound dealt to the country they loved.
And yet in their pale, troubled faces no sign of hatred or rage could
be detected, only the same childlike curiosity expressed on the
first day, and a sort of puzzled wonder, as though they found it
difficult to believe that atrocities such as were committed in their
land had been ordered by men of such good appearance, and apparently
so civilized. Even to us it seemed incredible, while watching that
gathering of smart-looking, intelligent beings, who might have won
the respect, possibly even the admiration, of a people accustomed
throughout their history to the wrongdoings of mightier nations;
who, as a whole, would have appreciated a generous recognition of
their noble and courageous stand for honour. But those men, whose
close-cropped, sabre-scarred heads were held so high above a uniform
they gradually made odious to the entire world, were blinded by
vanity, delirious with success. The long-awaited hour of opportunity
had arrived, as pregnant with great promise as those that bred the
first Roman and the first French empires; an hour when Europe, lulled
by the harmony of peace, might be shocked to submission before
Germany’s secretly-created Frankenstein!
It was amazing to see, during the first week or so of the occupation,
with what naïve interest the Belgians clustered about even minor units
of the army that had so ruthlessly afflicted them. They would pause to
stare at a common soldier with something of the awed perplexity the
Indians of America evinced on their first introduction to firearms;
or gather, silent and gaping, about the great automobiles to watch
imposing officers alight. This unconscious flattery, evidently
relished, disappeared, however, in a short time, not only because
Prussians became so prevalent that they no longer attracted attention,
but because the more intelligent citizens took a stand against it, and
reproved those who thus gratified the vanity of their enemies. And the
people were not slow to realize an error due more to their lack of
occupation than to tolerant interest in the intruders. Disaster, in
fact, had come so suddenly upon them; their lives had been so abruptly
changed from the even tenor of prosperity to want and misery, that
they were too stunned at once to realize the cause. Some among the
lower classes, indeed, appeared incapable of seeing the situation as
other than a temporary, inexplicable calamity, not likely to endure
more than a week or two. For this reason, no doubt, there was very
little resentment in speech or action. The general attitude was one
of patient endurance of incomprehensible ills, a fact which made the
lying German excuses for their atrocities ring false to all who had
witnessed the inoffensive bearing of the inhabitants at the time of
their bitterest hour, when the enemy entered Brussels.
Better-class Belgians, who understood the situation, were bitter
enough in private speech, and in their determined and unflinching
efforts to hamper the invaders by every possible means which their
unarmed and imprisoned condition permitted. That they accomplished
much secretly, and despite the severe and ever-increasing espionage,
was acknowledged by the Germans themselves, when information of
their every movement was proved to have reached the Allied forces
within an hour. Every effort was made by the Government to solve the
mystery, and discover the secret means by which the exact locality
of a Zeppelin garage or ammunition depot, army movements, etc.,
was at once conveyed to their adversaries. Many suffered death or
long imprisonment on mere suspicion of connection with these secret
societies, and spies in civil dress were set to watch even such as
were not suspected, whose intelligence or standing made it possible
they might be in the secret. Another mystery especially galling to the
Prussians was the inexplicable publication and distribution of the
_Libre Belgique_, a small truth-telling journal, which spared neither
the Kaiser nor his army in its caustic and often insulting criticism,
and served as a tonic to the oppressed people; an antidote to poison
injected with malignant persistency by the occupying Powers. No amount
of persecution, investigation, or bribery led to the discovery of
where this brave little sheet was published, or who managed it; but
several entire families were arrested and subjected to the torture of
military inquisition, to fines and long terms of imprisonment, on very
slight grounds of suspicion.
Although the _Libre Belgique_ seldom contained any definite news
from outside, its free voice, speaking openly what everyone longed
to utter but dared not, was a delight to us all. Persons of the very
highest social standing undertook its circulation, carrying copies in
hollowed-out walking-sticks, lining of hats, and so forth, in order
to distribute them as widely as possible. Some day the story of its
origin, its compositors, and indiscoverable place of publication will
be known and welcomed with intense interest by all who drew from its
single page almost the only ray of encouragement and hope those dark
years offered for jaded spirits.
On the evening of the military dinner above referred to, which was
in the early part of September, an incident occurred serving, in an
impressive manner, to relieve the fretting recollection of that
callously gay party, which had forced us and, I think, many others to
leave the hotel immediately afterwards.
In the midst of that discordant levity, when the Prussians’ laughter
and noisy toasts were ringing through the room, there suddenly sounded
from without a wild and excited cry that swelled to a very thunder of
voices as it was taken up by the throngs in the street. Naturally, we
all sprang from table and hurried to the entrance door, anticipating
we knew not what, for the cries were too glad in tone to suggest any
fresh blast of all-too-familiar calamity.
Outside many persons from near-by houses had gathered in the middle
of the boulevard—men in shirt-sleeves, women only partly dressed,
children, and aged grandparents, all electrified by a note of joy such
as they had not heard since they had cheered their departing army only
a few weeks ago; weeks already seeming like years! All were gazing
upwards into the pale sky of a summer-like twilight. “_Le voilà!
le voilà!_” was shouted on every side in rough men’s voices, the
shriller tones of women, and the piping treble of children. When the
object of interest became visible to all—an Allied aeroplane soaring,
like a bird of good omen, just above the street—those disjointed
cries blended into one universal roar, that seemed to shake to their
foundations the lines of massive buildings against which it rang.
So hysterically intense was the excitement that it looked for some
moments as if the people had lost control of themselves, and as if
some perilous outbreak would be the consequence—an event that could
only lead to ruthless slaughter of the unarmed citizens. But the
pathetic, almost tragic, poetry of the scene made one oblivious of
everything threatening. One felt only the doleful significance of
that high-soaring, unapproachable friend from the outer world, at
whose message of encouragement we could only guess; whose coming only
made clearer the fact that all who watched it from the dusk-shadowed
streets were prisoners, as much cut off from the free world as
though interned on some island far removed from the sphere of former
interests, and denied all communication with it.
I had not fully realized our woeful position before the air-craft’s
appearance, which stirred me to echo the excitement and joy of that
helpless throng, watching, many with tears in their eyes, this proof
that they were not forgotten by the nations they had so bravely served.
Although it was nearly eight p.m., daylight still lingered in the
heavens, or rather a soft, green aftermath of day where the great bird
circled, high above the house-tops, dark and awe-inspiring in that sea
of pale light.
“_C’est un Anglais!_” cried some; and others: “_C’est un Français!_”
“_C’est un Belge!_” while again and again a wild shout of glad
greeting rose from the streets to that far visitor, which was
presently recognized as a Belgian.
Suddenly a still louder sound shocked these cries to a brief silence.
The echoing report of cannon, already set up at advantageous points
in the city, told that the visitor had been espied by less loving
eyes. However, he seemed to know that nothing could reach him at that
particular point. At any rate, he never wavered, and while the cannon
roared, and cries rose again, now in frantic applause of his courage,
he hovered as before, quietly winging in a circle above the darkening
capital, seeming, by easy and fearless movement, to express sympathy
and encouragement.
When light deepened and lamps began to flare in the sombre streets,
the air-craft, whose driver evidently realized he would soon be
invisible, turned with a wide sweep and, heading southward, flew
off into the violet mist of distance, dying into a mere speck still
passionately watched by yearning eyes from that sea of upturned faces.
Later on these aerial visits became frequent; but this one, the first
sign we had had since the occupation from the outside world, made a
lasting impression. It was said later that printed slips—a sample of
which I unfortunately never saw—had been dropped from the aeroplane
bearing this cheering message: “Have courage for a little time; we
shall soon deliver you.”
That, alas, was in the first days of autumn 1914!
V
Conditions in Brussels became day by day more like those of a
vast prison. The prospect of escape only grew slighter with
time, and the yoke of German methods more and more bitter. Their
_affiches_, recounting the marvellous achievements of “_nos troupes
victorieuses_,” their proclamations of all sorts with which the walls
were constantly papered, were like hot irons turned in the wounds of
the Belgians, painful to everyone in sympathy with the victims. Even
announcements derogatory to the Belgian army were not spared them.
In one German report, which I read, a Belgian prisoner was quoted as
having praised the German army to the detriment of his own, and as
having added: “If we were led by German officers, we should do as
well as German soldiers.” Of course everyone understood this as only
another sample of _la vérité allemande_, but nevertheless it brought
the blood of anger to the face of many a man longing, but unable, to
strangle the armed liar with his shackled hands.
There was an ungenerous spirit expressed in every announcement
of events such as the Belgians were most eager to hear—a spirit
especially inexcusable in a victorious power. Every success of the
Allied armies was either ridiculed or ignored; only the Germans’
progress was set forth in glowing words, and victories of real
importance were presented in exaggerated detail, on bright blue
bulletins which no eye could avoid seeing. No event, however
trivial—as compared to their own rapid advance—that might awake even
a brief thrill of enthusiasm or hope in their prisoners, was allowed
by the Germans to reach them. Even the Marne victory was so disguised
that I have since heard German officers, engaged in administrative
duty in Brussels, state how neither they, nor any of their friends in
Germany, knew the reason of that astounding reverse, never definitely
acknowledged by official reports.
On 2nd September 1914 the Governor, von der Goltz, had published a
proclamation luring the Belgians to obedience by pretended sympathy
with their patriotic feelings. This began as follows: “Belgian
citizens: I demand of no one to renounce his patriotic sentiments.
I expect of you all a sensible submission and absolute obedience in
regard to the Governor-General’s orders. I invite you to show him
confidence and lend him your assistance.”
Two weeks later von Luettwitz, the Military Governor, demanded the
withdrawal of the Belgian flag—the sole expression of patriotic
sentiment possible to a people whose speech, action, and will were
under subjection. This was the first step in an administration of
tyranny, which rapidly developed to unprecedented brutality under the
odious governments which followed.
The noble Mayor of Brussels, Bourgmestre Max, fought Luettwitz and
von der Goltz with unrelenting obstinacy and courage, in every
instance where they sought to ignore agreements which they had
solemnly made at the time of their entrance—and quickly set aside when
safely installed! It was only then that the flags were forbidden,
which had been allowed to float until the iron hand had closed firmly
on the city; only then that demands were made contrary to primary
agreements. All manner of injustice was resorted to under the plea
that, “_nécessité faisant loi_,” the former contracts no longer held
good.
On the 29th of August the Military Governor of Liège had a bulletin
posted in that city announcing that Monsieur Max had stated that the
French Government declared itself unable to assist Belgium in any way.
The following day Monsieur Max proved the indomitable courage that
made him so hateful to the Germans, by publishing, in wall-posters
with enormous headlines, a flat denial of this utterly untruthful
assertion. His _affiche_ was as follows:
“Aux Habitants de la Ville de Liège
“Le Bourgmestre de Bruxelles a fait savoir au Commandant allemand
que le Gouvernement français a déclaré au Gouvernement belge
l’impossibilité de l’assister offensivement en aucune manière, vu
qu’il se voit lui-même forcé à la défensive.”
To this repetition of the German announcement M. Max added in the
largest available type:
“J’oppose à cette affirmation le démenti le plus formel.
“ADOLPHE MAX.”
It must have been a staggering surprise to the invaders, who thought
their frightfulness had killed the Belgian spirit, and consequently
that their trick would succeed.
Von Luettwitz at once publicly forbade the posting of any bulletin
without his permission.
To be rid of a man who so energetically defied them on undeniable
grounds of right, they arrested Adolphe Max alleging that he had
failed to deliver the whole amount of war indemnity within the
specified time. Although Echevin Jacqmain offered himself as hostage
in place of the Bourgmestre so greatly loved and needed by the people
of Brussels, his offer was declined; and on the 26th of September
Monsieur Max was carried away in an automobile—followed and preceded
by others filled with armed men!—to be imprisoned in a fortress. With
his departure, Brussels was more than ever at the mercy of those who
ruled her with the despotism and unnecessary severity which newly-won
power always develops in men of shallow mind and ignoble character.
So it was not sufficient that the flags had been withdrawn in response
to the beautiful appeal Monsieur Max had made to the people—an
appeal which, after referring to the inconsistency of the German
order with former agreements, ended in these words: “Je demande à
cette population de donner un nouvel exemple du sang-froid et de
la grandeur d’âme, dont elle a fourni déjà tant de preuves en ces
jours douloureux. Acceptons provisoirement le sacrifice qui nous est
imposé. Retirons nos drapeaux pour éviter des conflits, et attendons
patiemment l’heure de la réparation.”
The beloved tricolour was hidden from sight, but after the departure
of Max, even the wearing of a tiny button or bit of ribbon presenting
the colours, became a crime punishable by imprisonment. Women had
these roughly dragged from their dress in the street by any passing
officer who wished to make a public exhibition of power, and one whom
I know was ordered by a young stripling wearing the Prussian uniform,
when seated opposite her in a tram, to hand over a tiny brooch whereon
the three colours were scarcely perceptible.
I shall never forget the grief that swept through the city when the
Belgian flag was put away. It was as though the prisoners’ last
connection with their king and happy prosperous past were broken. Even
the children felt it; one saw them, when no German was in sight, drag
a faded bit of tricolour ribbon from their pockets and wave it in
gleeful defiance of a government that had robbed their young days of
all happiness, and later ground down so many of them through poverty
to death.
Gradually the adamant walls of oppression closed more narrowly about
us, and the pervading mood became subtly affected by crafty German
efforts to kill hope. Prisoners we were, and prisoners likely to
remain for indefinite time, with a monster for gaoler pitiless as he
who guarded the “cellar of the dead” at the ill-famed Luxembourg.
Indeed, the moral and physical misery to which the people of Brussels
were soon reduced was probably not less, measured by duration, than
the concentrated horror of those September days during the first
French Revolution. Streets never actually flowed with blood, but many
a life was extinguished on that crime-stained spot where Miss Cavell
was placed before a wall and shot in secret; many a mind was crazed in
futile efforts to save an innocent son, father, or brother. It was not
for days the people of Belgium suffered, but for months that dragged
on into years of ever-increasing oppression and tragedy.
But daring courage and heroism were not lacking. Many a man, still
unknown to fame, risked his life for his country within the city
walls; many a woman of high standing, secretly serving her nation,
scorned peril and drained a cup of moral anguish no less repellent
than that drunk by the Marquis de Sombreuil’s daughter—a cup, to speak
figuratively, not seldom containing the life-blood of those dearest
to her. It cannot be pretended that all whom the Germans suspected
were innocent, but Prussian astuteness was usually more successful
in trapping the guiltless than the guilty. Fretted by failure, the
Germans vented their passion on these innocent victims, in order at
least to obtain the advantage of a terrifying example.
Despotism waxed strong and incredibly barbaric, when every Teuton
was swelled to bursting with pride and the Allies seemed helplessly
retreating before the onrush of his mighty legions. Petty laws,
senselessly fretting, were imposed on the people of occupied Belgium.
Citizens were ordered indoors at seven p.m., all shops and other
public places had to be closed and street lights extinguished, often
without reason given; sometimes as punishment for the refractory act
of some peasant whose very existence was unknown to those who paid the
penalty. In Bruges and other towns, citizens were forbidden to walk on
the pavement which a German officer happened to be traversing, and had
to salute him deferentially from the centre of the street.
In time all liberty was extinguished, and efforts were made even to
suppress the French language. Flemish, closely related to German,
and consequently offering a means of facilitating future control of
the country, was ordered to appear first on all public announcements
and documents, legal or other; also tram conductors were obliged to
announce the names of streets in Flemish. The privacy of homes was
invaded with or without excuse, while of course all correspondence,
even in the city, and any other writing, was subjected to the
severest censure.
The English language was looked upon as an affront to the enemy. Even
we neutrals were made to feel it objectionable to speak our native
tongue in public because of the Teuton hatred of England, for an
English word affected the invaders as a red rag does a bull. Had they
dared then to offend America, which would have forced them to feed the
Belgians themselves, they would no doubt have officially forbidden it.