On Friday, the 22nd of November, Brussels fulfilled the German
prophecy in a manner little expected by those who made it, for the
city really appeared the “bouquet of the war,” a radiant, triumphant,
glorious bouquet! Victories have been, and victories may be again, but
never in all history has a capital rebounded from long suppression
under such brilliant, unexampled, and ravishing conditions. As though
the Power ruling heaven were in sympathy with her deliverance, a
sky of Italian-like beauty canopied the day—the first really blue
and cloudless sky we had seen for months—the air was crisp and
transparent, the sun glorious. From every window, every balcony,
floated the colours of the Allies: Belgian, English, French, Italian,
Russian, Japanese, and the “stars and stripes.” Many of these flags
were home-made; sheets dyed and put together with feverish haste,
for materials of all sorts were long since exhausted in Belgium, and
the flags available were sold at a price beyond the means of most
people. A German merchant of Bonn, with the opportunist cleverness
of his race, had prepared a vast number of Allied flags, in time to
meet, more or less, the eager demand all through Belgium. But (a fact
which suggests the enterprising Teuton must have formed his scheme
before America came in) there was a great dearth of American flags.
These, consequently, being mostly home-made, were sometimes rather
woeful imitations of the great banner, for their colours ran together
lamentably during later days of rain.
Mention of the flag-making German recalls a significant incident which
occurred in the first year of war, when quantities of toys, all made
to appeal strongly to Belgian sentiments, and said to have come from
Nuremberg, appeared for sale in Brussels at Christmas-time. Among
these expensive playthings were regiments of lead German soldiers in
the act of surrender to their enemies, with hands uplifted as depicted
in the Allied reports after the Marne! These drew many buyers, but the
crowds that gathered about them finally attracted official attention,
whereupon the toys were confiscated, while the shop which sold them
was forced to close and subjected to a heavy fine.
But to return to the flags; on this glad day even the poorest had
their banners prepared in time to welcome their heroic King, and
multitudes gathered to acclaim his glorious return. All work ceased;
even the tramway employés, important as were their services on such
a day, refused large bribes rather than forgo a personal view of the
wondrous scene—and no one could blame them! As there were no horses
nor vehicles to be had, the stoppage of trams made matters difficult
for those living at a distance. But they walked, some nearly all
night, in order to secure points of view in those localities through
which the King was to pass with his cortège of troops. Such crowds
I have never seen; they were as impassable as a stone wall in the
streets; packed close on church steps, on the cornices of buildings,
on trees, at windows, on the roofs. It was a day never before known, a
day never likely to return.
It must be owned that the vocal enthusiasm was considerably less
than one, an American especially, could have expected. The cries at
first were rather brief and spasmodic, the waving of handkerchiefs
and so forth more the exception than the rule. There was none of that
mad acclamation which would have welcomed, or rather will welcome,
returning troops in America, none of the frenzied excitement with
which we had seen French troops applauded when departing from Paris.
The reason of this, no doubt, was the people’s inability to grasp an
event in such tremendous contrast to the four years’ sorrow which had
eaten into their very souls. They had, so to speak, forgotten the
meaning of joy—were too much dazed and overwhelmed by indefinable
emotion to express themselves adequately.
However, when King Albert appeared, riding, and beside him his young
wife—who looked rather worn after her hospital labours—tremendous
acclamations arose from the massed crowds. These were repeated for
Mayor Max, just returned from imprisonment, and for General Leman, the
hero of Liège. Then, after a brief pause, the acclamations rose again
to salute the American troops,—which were honoured with first place
behind the royal cortège,—the British, French, and Belgians. Over
these last brave legions enthusiasm was shown rather than uttered;
emotion seemed to check the cries, as though the vast throngs were
holding their breath. Then, after a moment of extraordinary silence,
there was a universal electric movement, as though that mighty crowd
longed to embrace them as one man.
The people could scarcely be held back from breaking the lines of
troops. Old women, with scranny, bare arms uplifted, ran forward to
touch them lovingly; men white with emotion, sweethearts and wives,
reckless of danger, almost threw the procession into confusion by
their eagerness to be recognized, or exchange a word with the brave
heroes returning from a hell such as they probably never expected to
survive.
That night the city was in delirium; the streets were a throbbing
mass of joy-drunken beings such as was never seen before. No madness
of carnival could approach the hysterical excitement of the people
in streets illuminated for the first time in two years; in the
cafés, where the almost forgotten sparkle of champagne gleamed in
glasses raised to the cries “_Vive la Belgique! Vive le Roi! Vivent
les Alliés!_” All through the main boulevards, shouting, singing,
and laughing groups were to be seen dancing in large circles,
hand-in-hand, about an English, French, or other Allied prisoner who
had drunk so many glasses of triumph he was generally seated on the
ground, or standing unsteadily, his hollow eyes staring in a dazed
but contented fashion from a face somewhat pale and thin.
In these groups all the Allied nations were blended with merry girls
and boys giving vent to long-suppressed spirits. The Scotch lads, with
their bare legs, flying cap-ribbons, and kilts, gave a delightfully
comic touch, and added to the magic dream-effect of the whole. They
were the cynosure of all eyes, the _pièce de résistance_ of the
foreign element. When their troops passed during the royal procession,
with bag-pipes in full voice, there was a lull of astonished wonder
and interest, followed by a simultaneous outburst of acclamation.
And that interest and admiration did not wane in the evening; crowds
thronged about them, girls clung to them,—and at times the latter
exhibited rather improper curiosity with regard to their “skirts.”
Now and again automobiles, once so rare a sight in Brussels, forced
the dancers apart for a moment, as a swift skiff might separate
bright-coloured dragon-flies dancing above the still surface of a
lake, only that they may unite with more vim after its passing. In
one of these cars, most of which were military, a party of young
American officers with their friends were making a tour of the city
after a gay supper, during which some twelve of them had sung in
full, clear voices all the beautiful and original songs of their
nation, much to the hearers’ delight. At the head of the car floated
a large American flag, borrowed from the café where they had regaled
themselves. That flag was greeted with continual outbursts of
applause, especially as one of the party, a man with the voice of a
ship’s siren, startled even the reigning hubbub with shouts of “_Vive
la Belgique! Vive le Roi! Vive la Liberté!_” Hundreds of voices at
once responded, screaming almost hysterically, “_Vive l’Amérique!_”
“_Vive Wilson!_”—and, as though the two English-speaking nations were
indissolubly united in the public mind, almost every response was
accompanied by “_Vive l’Angleterre!_”
_Allemande_ and the _casque à pointe_ were forgotten. The Kaiser’s
black shadow had fled before the glorious angel of a liberty crowned
with the fairest laurels ever gathered from the bloody fields of
battle—laurels flowering with noble loyalty and jewelled with
imperishable fame.
And, but a little way beyond the borders of joyous Belgium—hiding from
the rage not only of those whom he had made his foes, but from that of
his own people and his own allies, lurked the man who had boasted that
he would subjugate an advanced and prosperous world with his “iron
fist”!
William the Second, original promoter, if not sole author, of
history’s most appalling crime, cowered in Holland, bereft of sceptre
and throne, muttering perhaps what Milton put into the mouth of that
other great Enemy of earth: “Which way I fly is Hell—myself am Hell!”
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