1915 - belgium's agony

8/8/2019 1915 - Belgium's Agony

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BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THEJACOB H. SCHIFF

ENDOWMENT FOR THE PROMOTIONOF STUDIES INHUMAN CIVILIZATION

1918


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B Cornell University9 Library

The original of tliis book is intine Cornell University Library.

There are no known copyright restrictions inthe United States on the use of the text.

http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924028358954


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BELGIUM'SAGONY


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Translation and Introduftion byM. T. H. SADLER. The threepoems in the book, which aregiven untranslated, have not be-fore been published in book form.


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EMILE FERHAERENBELGIUM'SAGONY

BOSTON AND NEW YORKHOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY1915


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K2>V\'iS

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAINCHISWICK press: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.

TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.

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CONTENTSINTRODUCTION .LA BELGISipE SANGLANTE

I. DE PROFUNDIS CLAMAVIII. THE MARK OF THE TEUTON .

CEUX DE LIEGE .III. BELGIAN PRIDE .IV. ALBERT THE WELL-BELOVED .V. THE LITTLE VILLAGES OF FLANDERSVI. PERVYSE ....VII. DIXMUDE, NIEUPORT, YPRES

GUILLAUME II . . .VIII. GERMANY UNCIVILIZABLE

IX. GERMANY AND ARTX. GERMANY THE INQUISITOR .XI. GERMANY THE ASIATIC

XII. CONCLUSION

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173741486573838997104III119


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INTRODUCTION ^IAFEW weeks after the outbreak of warthe newspapers, in an obscure para-

graph, stated that German artillery had bom-barded the Flemish village of Saint-Amand,near Antwerp. Nearly simultaneously, but innumerous and prominent columns, they de-scribed the wanton and ruthless destrudtionof the ancient university city of Louvain.Thirdly, on August 24, began the greatBritish retreat from the line Mons-Cond6, theretreat to south-westward that experts holdto rank among the finest military achieve-ments of history.And between these three happenings there

is a connecting link other than the tremend-ous struggle of which they form a part, alink to which subsequent events and, mostof all, this little book have given a melancholyand tragic interest.

' For permission to use again such portions of thisintroduftion as appeared originally in Poetry and Drama,I am indebted to the kindness of the editor.M.T.H.S.

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INTRODUCTIONAt Saint-Amand Emile Verhaeren was

born. At Louvain he was educated. Andnot more than fifteen miles south-west ofMons, in the full path of the retreating Britisharmy and the pursuing German hordes, lay(who can say what is now its fate ?) the littlecountry farm in which he used, every year,to spend the spring and autumn.

There are few men living who have lovedand served their country so nobly as Verhaerenhas loved and honoured Belgium. His be-loved Flanders, whose every feature he hasmade famous wherever the French languageis read or spoken, lies now bleeding andstricken. Shall the man who has sung hiscountry's beauty in time of prosperity, andwho now shares her misery, fail to sing herglory in her hour of triumphant agony ? Thispassionate and moving book is the answer tothat question. May it, as a comment on thegreatest war of history by the greatest poetof the time, be treasured and applauded alikeby this generation and posterity. The fewpages that follow are the tribute of one who,from admiring Verhaeren as a poet, has hadthe privilege to come to love him as a man.

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INTRODUCTIONII

Saint-Amand lies near the mouth of theScheldt in the fertile plain of Flanders, andthe poet has indeed assimilated to himselfthis land of wide horizons, of great gulfs ofsky. Its breadth and distance have becomepart of him, and from a childhood full ofwonder at the powers and moods of nature,he has grown to a manhood strengthened bythat finest of all beliefs, the belief in thelimitless possibilities of mankind.

It is barely possible to overrate the influ-ence of the poet's child-memories on hismature work and ultimate philosophy. Hespent his youth in a country where, yearin year out, is played in all its force theelemental drama of nature. The moods ofevery season became ingrained in him, andin his poems to-day the world may experiencethe same thrill, the same awe that the boyVerhaeren felt at the joy and sorrow of thatFlemish plain.As a child he would lie in bed and listen

while the great tempests from the North Seacame roaring over the fields and huddledvillages, beating their music into his brain,

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INTRODUCTIONfilling his blood with their blind and splendidstrength. As a man, forty years later, hewrites of " Vents de Temp6tes " :

Un poing d'effroi tord les villagesLes hauts clochers, dans les lointains,Envoient I'echo de leurs tocsins

Bondir de plage en plage.

As a child, the morning after one of thesegales, he would run out into the sullen, un-easy daylight and watch the racing clouds,the sudden glint of sunshine, the weary treesstill writhing after their buiFeting of the night,and hear, far to the southward, the mutter ofthe distant storm vanished beyond the edgeof that sad, tormented plain. As a man hewrites of the far-flung clamour of the winds"qui se querellent, de loin en loin, a I'infini"of the haunted menace of November:

Voici les vents, les saints, les mortsEt la procession profondeDes arbres fous et des branchages tordsQui voyagent de I'un h. I'autre bout du monde.Voici les grand'routes comme des croixA I'infini parmi les plaines,Les grand'routes et puis leurs croix lointaines,A I'infini sur les vallons et dans les bois

{Les Fignes de ma Muraille.)X


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INTRODUCTIONAs a child, again, he would walk the empty

streets of some little gabled town, while thequiet rain filled the air with its whispers,dripping from eaves and ledges, making littlepools among the cobble-stones. He wouldrove the plain in springtime feeling the burst-ing life in hedgerow and plough-land. Hewould lie among the sand-dunes in thesummersun and bathe in the royal waters of theScheldt, And all these moods of nature hehas sung as no one else has sung them, withthe fierce delight of intimate worship

:

Longue, comme les fils sans fin, la longue pluieInterminablement, k travers le jour gris,Ligne les carreaux verts avec ses long fils gris,Infiniment, la pluieLa longue pluie.La pluie.

(Les Villages Illusoires.)

Or again

:

Au long des cours, des impasses et des venellesDes vieux quartiers retraits,

La pluieSemble k jamais

Chez elle.{Les Villes a Pignons.)

The majority of the poems dealing withxi


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INTRODUCTIONVerhaeren's native land, and it is they, at sucha time and in such a book as this, demandchief mention, are contained in the five booksof the series Toute la Flandre. The firstpoem in the first book of the series {Les 'ten-dresses Premieres) is almost an epitome of thewhole. It is a rhythmic autobiography, be-ginning :

... les souvenirs chauffent mon sangEt penetrant mes moelles . . .

Je me souviens du village pres de I'Escaut,D'oi I'on voyait les grands bateaux

Passer, ainsi qu'un r^ve empanache de ventEt merveilleux de voiles,

Le soir en cortege sous les etoiles.The subsequent verses describe the garden,

the neighbouring faftory (belonging to hisuncle), his parents and relations, his animals;and the poem culminates in a song of praiseand love for Flanders. Fierce pride in hiscountry permeates these five books ; andevery summer, before the war, he would visitthis beloved land communing with the mightyghosts of her past history, moving among thepeasant men and women, or with the grim,silent fishermen watching the grey sea rolling

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INTRODUCTIONtirelessly against the desolation of " La Guir-lande des Dunes."This series of books comprises those poemsof Verhaeren which were formerly most be-loved by his countrymen and least admiredby foreigners. That they glorify Flanderswas reason enough for their fame among theFlemish, and also for their comparative negleftby the French. Whether Belgium's heroismwill cause them to be more widely read thefuture will show, but there are, between theirauthor and the Frenchman at least, psycho-logical differences too deep ever to be entirelybridged.

Verhaeren has never been one of the manygods of literary France, because only when heis entirely philosophic is he really in sympathywith French ideals. He is too tempestuous,too illogicalwith the unheeding illogicalityof natureto appeal to the Gallic sense. TheFrench, neither in literature nor painting,have yet grappled successfully with Nature.Corot could not refrain from obvious lyricism,from becoming a slave to twilight. OnlyC6zanne, and perhaps Courbet, seem to havefelt the stark basis of landscape, and the former

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INTRODUCTIONwas thwarted by lack of skill in externalisinghis impressions, while the latter never threwoff entirely the fetters of conventional com-position. In poetry the names of Hugoand Francis Jammes suggest themselves. OfHugo I shall speak in a minute, while Jammes,for all his charm, can never seriously be pittedagainst Verhaeren as a poet of nature. TheFleming is nearer the English, and one can-not help feeling the similarity between Ver-haeren's love of wind and sunshine and thepantheism of Wordsworth or the painting ofConstable. Indeed, Constable seems to sug-gest an apt example. Consider one of thosewonderful cloud-studies of hisa windy skypiled high with great white clouds, and at thebottom of the pidure a mere strip of sun-flecked field. Then read Verhaeren's poem" Les Beaux Nuages"

Avec ton ciel de nacre et d'ambreTu rehausses les champs, les pres et les villages,O mois des beaux nuages

Septembre*****L'air vibre ; et I'on entend la cadence des ailesPasser, en vols nombreux, sur les blanches maisons

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INTRODUCTIONEt prSs du bois, la-bas, les cueilleuses d'airelles

Vers leur rouge recolte inclinent leur chanson.* * *

Et Septembre, la-haut,Avec son ciel de nacre et d'or voyage,

Et suspend sur les pres, les champs et les hameaux,Les blocs etincelants de ses plus beaux huages.

{Les Plaines.)

A further comparison between this and, say,Baudelaire's prose poem " Les Nuages " willreveal an essential difference ofattitude. Simi-larly Verhaeren sees in autumn either thefragrant memories of a glowing summer orthe menace of wind and frost ; that is to saythe idea of continuity, of a future pregnantwith possibility, never leaves him. Verlaine,Merrill, Mor6as, or any other paysagiste ofFrench symbolist generation, will sing of theplaintive beauty of decay, rejoicing in thequiet music of the dying year, taking anisolated, sensuous delight in nature's melan-choly, but giving no thought to the place ofautumn in the endless cycle of seasons, feelingno sorrow that another summer has faded intomist.' And so it seems that those people who

^ This distinftion between Verhaeren and the FrenchSymbolistes holds good in other spheres than that of land-

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INTRODUCTIONblame Verhaeren for rhetoric and grandilo-quence (and they are not only Frenchmen)make the mistake of judging him by " sym-boliste " standards. There is no denying thatto pass, for instance, from Rette's "Grandvent" {Campagne Premiere) to any of Ver-haeren's poems on wind, is to pass out fromthe study of the philosopher on to a storm-swept moor. The Frenchman sees in thewind a disturber of nature, an angry intruderbringing war from distant lands, not Nature'sown anger, following her gentleness, as therighteous anger of a man succeeds his friend-ship.The critic, then, who approaches from this

point of view, is forced to fall back on VidtorHugo for his parallel, and Hugo to the" symboliste " is anathema. Hugo is indeedalways outside nature. Even giving him thecredit that is his dueand this, at present, israrely doneone cannot but feel that he seesscape. The ultra-subjeftivity of the latter's love-poems,which celebrate one night of passion, one hour even,leave unexpressed the vital importance of sex to sex inthe continuance of the race, are devoid entirely of thatnatural desire of male for female which gives Verhaeren'sfrankness the purity of wind and rain,

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INTRODUCTIONin Nature a pageant, like any other mightyspectacle, and that he tells of her triumphantcolouring as a looker-on would describe theuniforms and martial music of a procession.^Verhaeren feels himself a child of the windand rain and sunshine; their moods are hismoods, and as Wordsworth endowed hismountains with motive and idea, so theFlemish poet feels Nature has reasons for heranger or delight.The rhetorician loses the power to be

simple. The pageant-seeker can see no beautyin quiet colouring. But Verhaeren has metneither of these fates. His poetry can be

' TancrMe de Visan in his VAttitude du Lyrisme con-temporain gives a skilful study ofVerhaeren, which showsmore sympathy than is usually found in French criticism.Of the poet's conneftion with symbolisme M. de Visansays : " Verhaeren stands as the leader of the former ofthe two great movements springing from Vidlor Hugo,which ended, one in the lyricism from within, the lyricismof immanence, and the other, personified in Moreas, inthe poetry of classicism." He says further, when com-paring Hugo and Verhaeren, that while the former some-times loses himself in mere repetition of sounding words,the latter never allows eloquence or moral exhortationto swing his poetry over the boundaries of force into thegulf of bathos.

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INTRODUCTIONmore tempestuous, and also more profoundly-calm, than that of any other modern writer.He can be tender as only great strength istender. There is always dignity in his passion,even when there is most fire. Above all, hehas reached the point when passion has be-come enduring.Some considerations ofthe love-poems shall

close this brief homage to a noble poet. Theyare contained in three books Les HeuresClaires, Les Heures d'Apres-midi, and LesHeures du Soir, and when I read them I feelthat perhaps these three books are the greatesthe has written. " A celle qui vit a mes c6tes "he dedicates these tremendous poems of love.He is the ideal lover, the man who has passedfrom the bewildered awakening of passion,through the triumph of conquest, to the quietdevotion and confidence that lasts for ever.He writes none of the forlorn and plaintivemusic of the self-pitying, hopeless swain. Hefights his battle in silence, wins the woman hewants, and then with all thankfulness and allhumility sings his love for her

:

J'etais si lourd, j'^tais si las,J'etais si vieux de m^fiance,

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INTRODUCTIONJ'etais si lourd, j'etais si lasDu vain chemin de tous mes pas,Je meritais si peu la merveilleuse joieDe voir tes pieds illuminer ma voie,Que j'en reste tremblant encore, et presque en pleursEt humble a tout jamais en face du bonheur.

L'amour, oh ! qu'il soit la clairvoyanceUnique et I'unique raison du coeur,A nous, dont le plus fol bonheur

Est d'etre fous de confiance.{Les Heures Claires.)

In Les Heures d'Aprls - midi sounds agentler note, a note of greater peace, afterfifteen years' love and confidence. The mys-tery has partly gone, but no disillusionmenthas come in its place :

Je ne vois plus ta bouche et tes grands yeuxLuire, comme un matin de fete,Ni, lentement, se reposer ta tete

Dans le jardin massif et noir de tes cheveux.

Tes mains chores qui demeurent si doucesNe viennent plus comme autrefoisAvec de la lumiSre au bout des doigtsMe caresser le front, comme une aube les mousses.

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INTRODUCTIONMais, neanmoins, mon coeur ferme et fervent te dit

:

Que m'importent les deuils mornes et engourdis,Puisque je sais que rien au mondeNe troublera jamais notre etre exalteEt que notre ame est trop profonde

Pour que I'amour depende encore de la beautd.Finally, the poems of Les Heures du Soir

perhaps the most beautiful book of the threeshow us the poet, a little weary after a lifeof crowded effort, now lingering in the gardenamong the flowers, now watching the flameson winter evenings, but with a heart still onfire with passionate memories.

Mets ta chaise pr& de la mienneEt tends les mains vers le foyerPour que je voie entre tes doigtsLa flamme ancienneFlamboyerEt regarde le feuTranquillement, avec tes yeuxQui n'ont peur d'aucune lumierePour qu'ils me soient encor plus francsQuand un rayon rapide et fulgurantJusques au fond de toi les frappe et les eclaire.

* * * * *Comme je t'aime alors, ma claire bien-aimee,Dans ta chair accueillante et pamee,Qui m'entoure k son tour et me fond dans sa joie !Tout me devient plus cher, et ta bouche et tes brasEt tes seins bienveillants oil mon pauvre front las

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INTRODUCTIONApr& I'instant de plaisir fou que tu rn'oftroiesTranquillement, pihs de ton coeur reposera.There is one more short poem that I should

like to quote in full, before leaving the poetin, what seemed, the gathering twilight of hisperfed love-story

:

Avec mes vieilles mains de ton front rapprocheesJMcarte tes cheveux et je baise, ce soir,Pendant ton bref sommeil au bord de I'atre noirLa ferveur de tes yeux sous tes longs cils cachee.Oh! la bonne tendresse en cette fin de jour!Mes yeux suivent les ans dont I'existence est faiteEt tout a coup ta vie y parait si parfaiteQu'un ^mouvant respeft attendrit mon amour.Et comme au temps oti tu mMtais la fiancee,L'ardeur me vient encor de tomber a genouiEt de toucher la place oti bat ton coeur si douxAvec les doigts aussi chastes que mes pens^es.

IllBefore the war Belgium was a synthesis ofEurope. She contained every asped of civili-zation : rolling farmlands, quiet, cloisteredmonasteries, thunderous railway stations,belching factories. Equally and terribly isshe now the symbol of the German fury.Alike in her heroism and her agony does she

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INTRODUCTIONstand for the strength and suiFering of theAllied cause.

It is fitting then that Verhaeren also, inwhom is the essence of every art, should atthis time come forward and portray his mar-tyred country. To the reader his superbpoetry is exhausting. It sweeps him awaywith the turbulence of its power, it aweshim with its majesty, it soothes him with itstenderness. Like life it must be lived, becauseit is life. Verhaeren, more than any poet, isthe prophet of "art for life's sake," for noman has loved life more than he has lovedit, no man has wrenched from existence morevariegated masses ofjoy and sorrow.He has stood on the hill top in the carnivalof wind and sunshine, he has seen hunger,dirt and misery; he has known peace andlove. Now, in his old age, has come to himthe supreme and terrible experience of war.No man can wish for a better life than this,if it be granted to him, finally, his battlesdone, to sit by the fire with his soul at rest,while the storm weeps at the windows.

M. T. H. SADLER.xxii


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LA BELGI^E SANGLANTE


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LA BELGI^E SANGLANTEJ~\EPUIS bientot trente ans

JL^ ^e par Ventente litre en un effort con-stantS'etait comme augmentie

Vhumantte.La guerre

Semblait aux homtnes de ce tempsN'etre plus guere

^VLun vieux charmer cache, par les fleurs, sousla terre.

VOccident itait fier de penser sous les cieuxD'apres un ordre harmonieux

Pareil au large accord des itoiles tranquillesEt de voirjour a jour les plus belles idiesS'Slucider

Grace au verbe de ceux qui parlaient dans lesvilles.

lis affirmaient que desormaisUhomme a Vhomme s'opposeraitEncor, mais dans la paix

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BELGIUM'S AGONYûe pareil a la seve enftant Varhre et VecorceLe droit ilargirait Vap-pareil de la force ;ê lajustice etait une arme et un besoin;^'il fallait croire en son cerveau plus qu'en

son poing^'une rialiti plus haute et plus sereineAurait servi de champ a toute vie humaineûe dija s'annonfait Fimminent avenirOil les efforts rivaux devaient enfin s'unirToutcomme au long desfils desmachines nouvelles,Deux courants opposis font tout h coupjaillirGrace a leur conflit meme, une unique etincelle.Ainsi s'exaltaient-ils par les beaux soirs d'eti,Leurs gestes soutenant leurs paroles dâpo-

treslis se prouvaient fiers d"eux-mtmes et fiers des

autresEt comme heureux de leur timeriti.Et rEurope par dessus bois^fleuves, montagnes

Leur envoyait le cri de son assentiment,Et ce cri repHi troublait itrangement,Au long du Rhin arme, les peuples d'Allemagne.Pour euXy hilas, Ventente humaine itait sans

charmesEt nul rive ne leur semblait vaste et puissant

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LA BELGIQUE SANGLANTEê si les armesRouges de sangNe couvraient de leur bruit, tons les bruits de

la terre.

La haine organisie habitait leurs cerveaux,lis travaillaient dans leurs usines militaires,Toujours h qûelque meurtre effrayant et nou-

veau.lis itaient nets et prompts et durs, et le silenceCouvrait Voeuvre de mart de leur intelligence.En pleine paix, quand Vhomme h Vhomme est

indulgent,lis ipiaient partout les choses et les gens:ând ils savaient, ils se taisaient et atten-

daient.Leurs mattres h penser savamment bavardaient,Mettant leur dogmatisme h la solde des crimes;De laps en laps, quelqu'dpre et cruelle maximeDevenait h leurs yeux la neuve viriti.Si bien qu'ils s'exerfaient h la firociteAu nom d'une future et sinistre sagesse.Ils tuaient la vie ample et Vimmense ferveurEt Vessor libre et clair des volontis fkondesEt telle etait leur mkanique et sombre ardeur^'ils paraissaient vouloir paralyser le monde.

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BELGIUM'S AGONYlis le traitaient selon leur loi;

lis le pillaient et le brulaient avec la rageSiui remplace four eux Vilan et le courage.Maisons belles^ monuments clairs, nobles beffrois^Villes -par la science et le trnnps consacries.France foulie aux pieds et Belgique hentrie.Dites, quel deuil vous accablait en ces longsjoursOu rincendie errait h travers vos contriesEt bondissait de tour en tour!Tandis que vous, vous vous battiez avec fiertiPour ceux de vos berceaux, et pour ceux de vos

tombes,Eux ne songeaient qu'h rassemhler des hka-

tombesTour diployer leur cruauti.

En des hameaux perdus et des bourgs solitaires.Oil passait le galop effrini des uhlansOn a trouvi planti, dans la gorge des mhresDe longs couteaux couverts et de lait et de sangDesvieillards mis en rang au long d'une chaussiePloyirent les genoux pour recevoir la mortAu lord defosses queux-mSmes avaient creusies;Des filles de seize ans dont Vdme et dont le corpsEtaient vierges et clairs subirent les morsures

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LA BELGIQUE SANGLANTEEt les baisers sanglants et ivres des soldats,Et quand leur pauvre chair n'itait plus que

blessuresOn leur tranchait les seins avec des coutelas.Partout, dufond des bourgs vers les villes voisinesLes gens fuyaient avec des yeux ipouvantesDe voir comme une mer immense de ruinesCrouler sur le pays qu'ils avaient du quitter.Derriere eux s"exaltait le tocsinfou des cloches,Et quand ils rencontraient quelque teutonfrappiPar unebalk adroite, au bordd 'un cheminproche,Souvent ils dkouvraient, dans le creux de ses

pocheSyAvec des colliers d'or et des satins fripSs,Deux petits pieds d^enfant atrocement coupis.Oh ! quel triste soleilfut le tJmoin, en Flandre,Et des hameaux en feu, et des villes en cendreEt de la longue horreur, et des crimes soudainsDont avaitfaim et soif, le sadistne Germain.


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CHAPTER IDE PROFUNDIS CLAMAVI

THE Emperor William II has swornmany oaths. He swore that he wouldenter in triumph, now Paris, now Nancy,

now Calais, now Warsaw. These oaths, whichwere in their way magnificent, he has not kept.

But he swore another oath in his letter toAlbert I, King of the Belgians. He swore tolay waste the land of Belgium. And this oath,the oath of a criminal, is the only one he hasnot broken.

Before the war Belgium was a peacefulcountry, industrious, wealthy. She had beenmoulded gradually by the kindly hand oftime. Twice in history her art had dominatedEurope. First, in the fifteenth century, blazedfar and wide the genius of Hubert and Janvan Eyck,ofMemling, ofRoger de la Pasture.These men with their school, Gerard David,Patinir, Henri Bl^s, Quentin Metzys, werethe great gothic school of northern European

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BELGIUM'S AGONYart. On the banks of the Rhine they foundpupils. Two old painters, Wilhelm andStefan Lochner, who of themselves paintedwith naive timidity, acquired under the teach-ing of the Flemings, strong design, powerfulcolour, and above all vitality. Equally Francecame under the influence of the Flemishgroup. The schools of Avignon and Moulinsowed to them their glory. Italy sent herartists to pay them tribute. The greatest ofthem, Antonello da Messina, forgot the tra-ditions of his own land to follow those ofFlanders. Spain was, as it were, a meredependency of Flemish art, which art alsodominated the east.The second period of Belgian supremacy in

art was in the seventeenth century. ThenRubens, Van Dyck, Brouwer, Teniers, Jor-daens, Cornelius de Vos, reconquered forAntwerp the world-domination which thepainters of Bruges had lost. To this groupFrance owes Largillifere, Sebastian Bourdon,Watteau, Pater, Lancret, Fragonard, Englandowes them Dobson and Lely, and, in part.Constable.

Further, since the fifteenth century, thelO


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DE PROFUNDIS CLAMAVIhigh-loom weavers spread over the wholecontinent a new art. The tapestries of Brusselsare the finest in the world, and to them isowed the early glory of the Gobelins.

In this same period of famous painters,Belgium had her noble architedls. The stonesofher cathedrals atTournai, Brussels,Antwerp,Malines, Ghent, Bruges, Mons, and Liege,were laid one on another to the topmostpinnacles of their towers, so that the memoryof their Flemish and Walloon builders mightbe carried to the clouds and there abide forever. Wonderful town-halls rose side by sidewith the churches ; stately cloth or meatmarkets faced the great houses of the burgo-masters and aldermen. The rumour of thesetowns grew and spread, and they became thewonder of the world.

Along a great river, the Scheldt, whichwinds its wayamong the provinces ofFlanders,wealth and trade spread from town to town,and one of the greatest ports of Europe, alikein the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries, Ant-werp, came into being on Belgian territory,though on the very threshold of both Hollandand Germany.

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BELGIUM'S AGONYAnother great river, the Meuse, flows

through a distridt of beautiful, well-mouldedvalleys, among which tireless industry yieldedcoal and metals. From the banks of theMeuse came the stones which crown the loftygables of the great houses, the transepts ofthe cathedrals. The Meuse is the river ofWalloon industry, and the Scheldt is that ofindustrial Flanders.

These two races of Belgium, one Latin, theother Germanic, so wonderfully disposed overthe country and controlled by their respeftiverivers, are hard-working, tenacious, and mod-est. They also have each their patiencetheFlemish taciturn, the Walloon genial andhumorous. They have won for their countrynot only comfort but wealth. Standing inorder after England, Germany, and France,but before Italy, Austria, and Russia, Belgiumholds the fourth place among the commercialnations of Europe. Her prosperity, uniqueamong the small nations of to-day, is proofpositive of the gifts of her people.

But there is still another side of her to beconsidered. Thirty years ago Belgium, until1880 endowed only with material wealth,

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DE PROFUNDIS CLAMAVIproduced a school of writers, whose brilliancewas not long in winning a place among theintelledtual forces of Europe. The spirit ofthe whole world was influenced and madenobler by Maeterlinck. He, like Carlyle andEmerson, has moulded the thought of hisage, and trained its understanding and feelingafter his own manner. Poems there were, somedelicate and frail like those of Charles vanLerberghe, others vivid and intricatelywrought, like those of Albert Giraud.

Lemonnier, Eckhoud, Krains, Glesener,Delattre, showed themselves observers andthinkers either powerfully realistic or romantic.Spaak, Crommelynck, Delterne, Van OfFel,strove to found a school of original andpersonal drama. In every department of art,alike in painting and literature, new life showeditself. Charles de Coster, the father of Belgianliterature and author of its first masterpiece

:

Tyl Uelenspiegel, saw his pioneer work carriedon by numerous young disciples. They intheir turn wrote books that found placesbeside his in well-chosen libraries. They alsofound beauty in the storehouses of past lifeand heroism ; but many of them, belonging

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BELGIUM'S AGONYas they do to the modern age, have exploredthe soul of the modern world, and havewritten, if not with more emotion than deCoster, at least with greater reality and truerproportion.

If ever, then, a community has shown itselfworthy in loftiness and independence of lifeto make a part of European civilization, thatcommunity is the Belgian nation. She pos-sessed, if I may use the metaphor, a morecomplete armoury of weapons, material, in-tellecStual and moral, that any other nation ofher size. She had won the resped and ad-miration, not only of the smaller neutral states,but ofthe great sovereign nations of the world.And those sovereign nations had gone furtherthey had sworn together to protedt her. Shehad shown herself worthy of their protedion,and never more so than on the day when oneof her pledged protestors seized her treacher-ously by the throat and sought to strangleher.

There lies the deepest shame of Germany.She chose that little^ nation most deserving oflife and growth to suffer for the German

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DE PROFUNDIS CLAMAVIopinion of the labour and existence of thenon-German world. More than that, thoughinfinitely stronger than Belgiumstrongerby how many million men?Germany didnot even attack her face to face. She schemedand lied and even flattered. To within twohours of a cruel ultimatum she was breathingforth the purity of her intentions. She couldhave dared to offer open battle, but shepreferred a treacherous ambuscade. And bythis deed she has created against herself in thehearts of Belgians a hatred so passionate andso universal, that it will go down from gen-eration to generation to a depth that no mancan foretell. So far as any human sentimentcan be, this hatred will be eternal. It willbecome a part of the education of our primaryschools, it will be a tradition in our families,an instind in our homes. It will be for us ahallowed reserve of rage and vigour. Weshall feel, all of us, as did a peasant with whomI had a brief but wonderful conversation, notlong ago, in a coast-village between Coxydeand Dunkirk. He said : " My wish is thatwhen I am dying I may use the last reserveof my strength, which I shall have stored up

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BELGIUM'S AGONYinside me, to utter one more curse, one moreword of hatred against the Germans." Iremarked that such feelings were far fromChristian. He replied: " So much the worse !

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CHAPTER IITHE MARK OF THE TEUTONYOU also may say, " To hate Is unchristianand wrong." I agree with you. But mustwe not add that to hate is necessary.'' Theremust be hatred in battle. The fighter whodoes not hate will fight feebly and be beaten.

Besides which, for us Belgians the instindtof national self-preservation lays hatred uponus henceforth as a duty. Only by love or byhatred do nations achieve great things, andour freedom is a great thing. But the Germanshave given us no choice of mood, no choicebetween hatred and love in our fight againstthem.

If ever oppression has been systematicallybrutal, it is theirs. They have waged no realwar against us, they have been ravishers,thieves, pillagers, and assassins. Courageousenough in the adtual battle, after each fightthey have behaved like cruel cowards. Drunk

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BELGIUM'S AGONYwith our wine they became the merest bandits.They pradised upon us, among many othervices, that particular perversion which, as hasbeen proved more than once by legal trial, isrife in the German barracks and officers' clubs.Our Belgian women, our girls, our children,

became the playthings of German lust. Someof the varieties of debauch were of suchcomplicated vileness as to be almost incredible.The extremes ofhorror to which these warriorscan go have benefited them to this extent,namely, that the world's imagination willnever wholly credit the perverted ingenuitythey displayed in brutalizing Belgium.Now that reports alike trustworthy andcareful have been published, general opinionis bestirring itself and examining seriouslythe charges brought. Already shame is apparentin Germany itself.When I first came to England, in theautumn of 19 14, every story of atrocities wassuspedl. People said : " That 's all very well,but show us the man who has had his handscut off, or the woman with the mangledbreasts." And as it was unfortunately impos-sible to comply with this request, because the

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THE MARK OF THE TEUTONman who had lost his hands, and the womanwho had been mutilated had involuntarilydied of their wounds, the sceptics concludedthat the Germans were at least real soldiersand not murderers. " When we see, we willbelieve," was their attitude. Alas, such proofcould only have been given by digging in theearth and opening up the graves of the victims.To paint a complete pidure of the Germansavagery in Belgium is, of course, impossible.Too many fadts have escaped observation.Even those witnesses whose evidence can bechecked are too numerous all to be quoted. Itwas principally at the beginning of the war, inthe provinces of Lifege, Namur, Luxembourg,and Brabant, that the Teuton hordes were attheir most barbarous. More recently, eitherbecause they were so commanded or becausethey were glutted with cruelty, they have keptdown their evil instinfts. Their fury lastedtwo or three months. Perhaps the deliberatepurpose of giving free rein to the army's ragewas to annihilate the conquered race. Flanderswas less violently and less persistently torturedthan La Wallonie. The latter, by her veryexistence, wasjudged guilty. She was to blame

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BELGIUM'S AGONYfor not belonging to the Germanic race. Shewas not, as Flanders was, a distrift whereultimately there was chance of the Germandomination beingaccepted. Theinvaders knewthat in her they would find an implacableenemy.They have therefore not been satisfied with

the devastation caused by their armies ; theyhave now deliberately created a famine insouthern Belgium. Now, in the full twentiethcentury and in Europe, there are cries of apeople dying of hunger. Help pours in fromall sides. America is splendid. But how farwill these gifts go to satisfy the hunger ofwhole provinces ? It is an unvarying rule thatconquered territories must be provisioned bytheir conquerors. But the Germans recognizeno duties in warfare. They are glad that thosewhom they have not been able to slaughtershould die a death even more horrible. Thefury against us felt by the German officersdates from the very day of the war's beginning.We barred their road to France. The aft hadno meaning, no honesty to them. True totheir traditions, they sought to buy us off.Calling our government, as it were, into the

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THE MARK OF THE TEUTONroom behind the shop, they asked, " For howmuch ? " And waited for the answer theyexpeded, " For thirty pieces of silver."

But the answer was given by Liege, andLi^ge infuriated them. They lost thousandsof men ; by no means were they able to forcethe instant passage which was so essential tothem. Behind our defence France was mob-ilizing. For England and for Russia we gaineda precious respite.The world jumped immediately to the

conclusion that the fate of the war was alreadysettling against Germany. Even this firstcheck, given by a tiny nation in the cause ofhonour, was regarded as the death blow.Certainly there was talk of peace. Threeseparate times did Germany approach us withproposals. The first occasion was in August.M. Davignon, Belgian Minister of ForeignAffairs, received through our minister at TheHague a long telegram which contained thefollowing sentence : " The German govern-ment is ready to take any steps in order tohave Belgium on her side in her war withFrance." Belgium's reply was prompt anddefinite

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BELGIUM'S AGONY" True to herinternational duties,Belgium

can only repeat her answer to the ultimatumofAugust 2nd. And this especially as, sincethat time her territory has been violated, aterrible war has been carried into her lands,and the guarantors of her integrity havepromptly and loyally responded to herappeal for help."Germany's second attempt was through

political channels in Belgium, but it failed asignominiously as the first.The third of the peace proposals was made

by M. Eyschen, a politician of Luxembourg,who toured the neutral states, persuading themto issue a joint appeal for peace between usand Germany. Such a scheme could not haveany result. Belgium, first of all, met it witha point-blank refusal. It could not be en-couraging to M. Eyschen to read in a Belgiannewspaper

:

" If our government had wished it, wecould have entered Into negotiations withGermany. But our government did notso wish, and it will greet with the samerefusal every ambassador or agent of thesovereign who, having invaded, devastated

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THE MARK OF THE TEUTONand shed the blood of Belgium, havingmocked her through a bribed and corruptedpress, has dared, three times in succession,to oiFer his viflim a peace without honour."So, after violating our neutrality, Germany-

behaved as though positions were reversed.It was she, the great nation, that made advancesto the little nation she had despoiled and out-raged. She must have mistaken our powerof resistance to decide thus rapidly to swallowher pride. In any case she afted with suchcharadleristic delicacy and ta


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BELGIUM'S AGONYthe German diplomats ! With what elephant'sfeet do they pick their way about the greatgarden of human emotions

I have also heard that they said" The Belgians should have accepted our

peace propositions, even if it was onlybecause they at least proved that we weresorry for the wrong we had done."I do not know what blockhead uttered this

argument, but his childish brain does notseem to have realized that Germany, stainedwith her crimes, will have very little rightto plead repentance when she is deservedlychastised by the master-hand of the allies.Germany has vented her rage, not only on

human beings, but also on inanimate objects.Wood, stone, thatch, metal-work, anything thatcould be used for shelter or refuge, bore thebrunt of her fury. Her soldiers carried specialnaphtha grenades, special packets of pitch tofit them for arson as well as for rifle shooting.Deliberate burnings took place all over. Inthe province of Luxembourg alone

:

Neufch^teau shows 21 houses burnt;Etalle, 30 ; Houdemont, 64 ; at Rulles halfthe houses have been destroyed by fire ; the

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THE MARK OF THE TEUTONvillage of Ausart is entirely consumed ; atTintigny only 8 houses remain. Jamoigneis halfdestroyed ; also Les Bulles. At Noyen42 houses destroyed ; Rossignol is entirelydestroyed ; Mussy la ville has 20 housesburnt; Bertrix, 15 ; at Bleid a great part ofthe village ; at Signeulx a great part of thevillage; at Ethe five-sixths of the villagehave been burnt. Bellefontaine has 6 housesburnt; Mussin, half the village ; at Baranzyonly 4 houses remain ; at Maissin only 36out of 100; at Villance, 9. At Anlay 26houses have been burnt.So runs the report. The figures are minima.

By a computation necessarily incomplete, thenumber of houses destroyed by fire exceeds3,000. In every case, let it be noted, thehouses were destroyed, not by the inevitableprocesses of warfare, but by deliberate andsystematic incendiarism.

In Flanders and Brabant, Termonde, Ma-lines, Alost, Aerschot, Dixmude, Nieuport,Ypres, Louvain are now mere ruins. Theyhave been bombarded and rebombarded. TheBelgian army had only to inflid the slighestcheck on the Germans, for the latter to shower

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BELGIUM'S AGONYtheir shells once more either on Termonde,Malines, or Alost. The aftion suggests thepunishment infli


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THE MARK OF THE TEUTONand women were shot ; at Claireuse 2 menwere shot and 1 hung.After wholesale murder came wholesale de-

portation. Every man strong enough to work,gardeners, wood-cutters, miners, peasants,were sent off to work In Germany. The in-vaders succeeded thus in reviving the ancientcustom of slavery. Terrible was the treat-ment these poor men received. The whip isa German national institution. The Germaneagle might be depidted holding it in his claws,as the American eagle grasps the lightning.

Stolen goods in piles were carried off overthe Rhinepidtures,furniture, mirrors, pianos.Captain de Gerlachethe same who conductedthe Belgian Antarctic expeditionhas de-scribed in the Norwegian paper " MorgenBladet," the sights he saw. His statementsare supported by photographs taken by him-self. At Malines the station was blocked with700 pianos taken from the pillaged houses ofthe town. One of his friends, an importantofficial, returning home, finds his house hasbeen sacked. He asks to see the Germangovernor. His neighbours have assured himthat a party of German soldiers came pur-

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BELGIUM'S AGONYposely to ransack his home. " They werepeasants," puts in the governor. "They wereyour officers," replies the victim. The gov-ernor consents to follow the Belgian officialto the station. There they discover the stolengoods. They have gone to swell the vastpile of belongings filched from neighbouringhouses.

This story is typical. I could tell a hundredothers.

Burning houses, stolen possessions, humanbeings driven into captivity, are a mere back-ground for the better setting of the horrorswhich take the front of the stage. And thisforeground is devoted entirely to the tortureof old men, of women, and of children.Germany, for all her customary heavy clumsi-ness, developed, of a sudden, an amazing in-genuity. Cruelty stimulates her. A kind ofhorrible lyricism seizes her. She wallows infrightfulness.German military usageand the word is

not used lightlydemands that an old manshould walk in front of the soldiers, whenthey are going under fire. If, instead of this,the old man is judged likely to be of more

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THE MARK OF THE TEUTONvalue as a hostage, German military usagedeems it good to kill his sons before his eyesand to maltreat him to the utmost limit ofexhaustion. If, again, a considerable numberof old men are made prisoners, German milit-ary usage lays down that they shall be placedin a single line, forced to dig their own gravesjust behind the place at which they are orderedto stand, and then that they shall be shot insuch a way that the bodies fall, of themselves,into the holes made. If, finally, the old manis a priest or a monk, German military usagerecommends that he be first flogged and thenhung.

In the case of women, German militaryusage inevitably orders rape or violation as apreliminary. Husband, brother, and childhaving been done to death, the wife, the sister,or the mother is given a spade and told tobury her dead. Pregnant women unfailinglyreceive the bayonet thrust in the womb. Awoman engaged to be married is forciblymade one with her Jianci, bound tightly withcords and set in a pile of trusses of straw. Amatch is struck on a boot-sole, the strawcrackles and blazes, and the young people end

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BELGIUM'S AGONYtheir embrace in death. For women who arenot pledged to marry, the German soldiershave another form of procedure. The follow-ing anecdote, proved and vouched for by theFrench Minister ofwar, may serve as example.The story has been related by Jean Bernardin the " Ind^pendance " for 2 January 191 5.The scene is a country-house near Antwerp.A merchant of the city has chosen to remain

in his home, with his two daughters, agedrespectively twenty and seventeen years. Bothare beautiful, with that placidly joyful beautythat has distinguished Flemish women fromthe time of Rubens onwards. After the fallof Antwerp, the Germans spread about theneighbourhood and several officers quarterthemselves on the merchant, who has had therash courage to stay on in his country house.Being a man of means he receives them withall the hospitality possible. The most com-fortable bedrooms are given up to them ; forthe first evening an abundant dinner is pre-pared. Five German officers sit down to thismeal, at which there is every promise ofplentiful wine as well as food. Unfortunately,however, drunkenness cannot be pleaded in

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THE MARK OF THE TEUTONtheir defence. Before the feast begins at all,the German captain, the oldest and seniorofficer of the five, orders the owner of thehouse to be thrust into his own cellar, andthe door guarded by two sentinels with loadedrifles and instructions to shoot, if necessary.

This precaution having been taken, thetwo girls are commanded by the revellers toundress. They protest, resist, implore. Allin vain. As answer to their prayers the captainorders some of his men to strip them nakedand hold them during the meal before theleering eyes of the diners. At last, sated witheating and pleasingly drunk, the savages,before the amused eyes of common soldiers,themselves reeling with drink, take the twopoor children for their amusement. You willforgive me for not reproducing here the fur-ther details quoted by the Minister of War.It is enough to say that when, the followingmorning, the merchant was set free from hisprison, his daughters had been handed overto the tender mercies of the common soldiery.One had gone raving mad ; the other has sincekilled herself in shame and grief.German military usage has methods also of

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BELGIUM'S AGONYdealing with children. They have little handsthat are delightfully easy to cut off. Theirfeet are barely attached to their legs at all. Alittle blood-spilling and the thing is done.But there are refinements. M. le SenateurHenry Lafontaine Nobel prizeman andfamed for moderation and pacificismhastestified in a public meeting that children'snostrils and children's ears have been burntwith the flaring stumps of lighted cigars.The babe in the cradle is, of course, an

ideal vidtim. He can be tortured and willtell no tales. I know well that one habit ofGerman military usage is to deny proven fadsand attribute the crimes immediately to theother side. But this method becomes dailyless pradicable. Too many horrors have beencommitted. The loathing roused is too deepand too universal. Too many mouths arecrying aloud for vengeance. Their noise over-bears and drowns the muttering of lies. Ithas become necessary for Germany to admitthe least tinge of shame, the least suspicionofdishonour. So, German military usage nowprotests that a few examples had to be made,because the civil population fired on the

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THE MARK OF THE TEUTONsoldiery. It is unexplained in what way littlechildren, young girls, or even old men couldhave assaulted the officers. As for the able-bodied men, they had handed over aU theirarms to the authorities of their communeseven sporting guns had been given up. Oneis forced to conclude that the shots, if anywere fired, came from the Belgian or Frencharmies in fair fight, or perhaps from theGermans themselves. M. Emile Van derVelde, Minister of State, has recently readaloud in public in London a letter from aGerman officer, who admits that at Huy aquarrel broke out among his own men and ashot was fired which killed a German soldier.Of course, the result was a massacre of thenative civilians. What happened at Huy,concluded M. Van der Velde, happened atLouvain and at many places besides.

But why trouble to meet even this charge ?What repressive measures can possibly justifythe orgy of savagery and hate in which theinvaders of Belgium wallowed .' It is in theGerman character that reasons for such bar-barity must be sought. Like some evil de-formity of the brain, unfit for the light of day,

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CEUX DE LIEGE


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CEUX DE LIEGET^UT la guerre mortelle et sacrilege

JLy Broyer notre pays de combats en combatsJamais sous le soleil^ une dme n'oublieraCeux qui sont marts, pour le monde, Ih hasA Liege

Ainsi qu'une montagne^ui marcherait et laisserait tomber par chocs

Ses blocs,Sur les villes et les campagnes

S'avanfait la pesante et firoce Allemagne.Ce fut un tragique moment

Les gens fuyaient vers I'inconnu, eperdHment;Seuls ceux de Liige rhist'irentA ce sinistre kroulement

D'hommes et d'armes sur la terre.S'ils agirent ainsi,

Cest quails savaient qu'entre leurs mains itaientremis

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BELGIUM'S AGONYLe sort

Et d'Athines etde Rome, et de la France claire,Et qu'il fallait que leurs effortsyipres s'etre acharnh se doublassent encor

En des efforts plus sanguinaires.Peu importait

^aV ces temps sombres,Contre Vinnombrable empire qu'ils affrontaient

lis ne fussent qu'un petit nombre;A chaque heure dujourDefendant et leur ville, et ses forts tour h tourlis livraient cent combats parmi les inter-valles;Us tuaient en courant, et ne se lassaient pasD'ensanglanter le sol h chacun de leurs pas

Et d'itre prompts sous les raffaksDes balks.

Mime lorsque la nuit, dans le del sulfureux,Un Zeppelin rodeur passait au-dessus d'euxLes dhignant aux coups par sa brusque lumiere,Nul ne reculaityfut-ce d'un pets, en arrihe;Mais tous ils bondissaient d'un si farouche Han

En avant,^e la place qu'ils occupaient demeurait videSluandy frappait la mort rapide.

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CEUX DE LIEGEA Pattaque, sur les glacis^

^and, rangpar rang se prisentaient les ennemisSous reclair courbe et regulier des mitrailleuses,Un tir serre qui tout a coup se dilatait

Immensiment les rejetaientEt rang par rang les abattaitSur la ierre silencieuse.

Chaudfontaine et Lonfin et Boncelle et BarchonRetentissaient du bruit d'acier de leurs cou-

poleSylis assumaient la nuitylejour, sur leurs ipaulesLa charge et la tonnerre et Veffroi des canons.

A nos troupes couchiesDans les tranches,Des gamines et des gaminsDistribuaient le painEt rapportaient la bihre

Avec la bonne humeur indomptie et guer-riere.

On y parlait d'exploits, accomplis simplement;Et comme, h tel moment,Le plusjeune des regiments

Fut, h tel point,fureur, carnage, etfoudroyment^ejamais troupe de guerreNe fut plus ferme et plus terrible sur la terre.

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BELGIUM'S AGONYLa ville entiere s'exaltaitDe vivre sous la foudre;

Uhiroisme s'y respiraitComme la poudre

Le cceur humain s'y composaitD'une neuve substance^

Et le prodige y grandissaitChaque existance.

tout s'y mouvait dans I'ordre intense et sur-humain.

O vous, les hommes de demain,Dut la guerre mortelle et sacrillgeNous avoir icrash dans un dernier combat.Jamais, sous le soleil, une dme n'oublieraCeux qui sont morts pour le monde, Ih bas,A Lihge.

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CHAPTER IIIBELGIAN PRIDE

IT is the duty of Belgians to-day, howeverterrible their misfortunes have been, notto sink to mere complaining nor to dwell ontheir misery, but to prove themselves worthyof their soldiers, who have been, one and all,heroes.The lamentations of women driven from

their homes, forced to tread the highways offamine, flight, and exile, their children clingingto their skirts, are justified and truly pitiable.But it is not fitting that men, especially menwho can think and afl, should echo thesecries, already somewhat over-prolonged.

In times before the war, those of us whodreamed of a greater Belgium had no visionsof territorial expansion in Europe, nor of acolonial empire in Africa. What we picturedwas a rebirth of Belgium, a rebirth essentiallyof the mind and spirit. We pidlured certainly

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BELGIUM'S AGONYan ever-growing adtivity of trade and industry,but our desire was even more for a greatermodernity and vitality of thought. We soughtfor Belgium the power of influence ratherthan of conquest.And now we see the influence of Belgium

stronger than it has ever been. It is true thatfor the moment our fa6lorIes are silent, ap-parently deprived of the panting breath whichis their life. But no one really thinks themdead. As soon as the war is over they willspring to life again, the wonderful monstersthat they were before. The weight of dust andashes that now covers them will be a lightburden to their thousands of tentacles, whenonce again they spring, in their twisted energy,to the light of day.As ever, we Belgians shall be young and

keen. Until to-day our nation has known nodanger. We were too sure of the morrow. Welived like rich people who had no knowledgeof want. War, we thought, was the businessof others.

But war has come upon us, fierce andterrible, when least we expecfted it. Like agreat mountain, crashing downward, the em-

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BELGIAN PRIDEpire ofWilliam HohenzoUern hasoverwhelmedus. We were alone ; we were few. We wereattacked with treachery and lies. Into the oldforts of Lifege we threw ourselves in desperatehaste. We had, as it were, to invent courageand resource for ourselves ; we had to manu-fadture a tragic spirit of resistance. All thatwe did in a day, an hour, a moment. And inthat moment we won the admiration of theworld.

Oh, what unforgettable impromptus werethat courage and that glory ! Some of us,seeing the little bands of men leaving for thefrontier, could not but doubt. " They will bebut fodder for cannon. We have no army, nogenerals, no fortresses."And four days later a name, unknown a few

hours ago, was in every mouth. The boys inthe streets dressed up as General Leman.Girls sold his portrait in every town. Thepersonality of a true General had stampeditself upon the mind of everyone. Nor wasthis all. The same little bands of soldiers,whom we had pitied as destined only to feedthe hostile cannon, came to Brussels, theirhands full of Prussian sabres, at once timid

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BELGIUM'S AGONYand triumphant, still unconvinced of the greatpart they had just played. The women kissedthem ; the men carried them in triumph.One of them, when a "Taube" hovered

threateningly over Brussels, thrust into theair a Prussian eagle, torn from some Germanhelmet, and, with a laugh of mocking rage,taunted the aviator to come down and fetchit. Splendid moments, alive with all the feverof pride ! The weather was brilliant, the veryair seemed golden. One breathed in heroismwith the sunlight.

These early triumphs of Liege, and thosethat followed at Haelen and the Yser, havewon for Belgium the eternal honour, resped:and admiration of all. For three months wehave held the vast German armies in ourcountry; the armies that allotted to us threedays. With the most convincing argumentsof all we have challenged the dogma of theirinvincibility. We have caused them theirfirst losses. Like moving blocks, the menthrust elbow to elbow against each other,they advanced towards the glacis of ourforts. Before giving the adual assault, to-gether they shouted"Kaiser!" "Kaiser!"

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BELGIAN PRIDEAnd the Belgian guns answered them. Theyfell, row upon row, like dominoes. Some-times the swift flashlight of a cruising airshiplit up their agony. A great murmuring groanspread along the lines, died away and gaveplace to the silence of death.The force of our resistance gave time to

France and to England to arm themselves,to perfed: their organization, but it is notfor us to harp on this. More important stillis what lies behind.Our handful of soldiers at Liege and at

Haelen represented, unconsciously of course,a great past of cultured civilization. If theFrench-speaking race is the incarnation ofboth Greece and Rome, we can assert thatthese soldiers of ours defended and upheldtheir inherited traditions, at the momentwhen they were most seriously threatened.That is why this simple adl of courage is sogreat. We need not dread comparing theirexploit to the deeds at Thermopylae. AtLifege, as in Sparta, a handful of men savedthe world.With the memory of this supreme service

rendered to Western civilization in our45


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BELGIUM'S AGONYminds, we should have no feeling but pride.Tears dishonour us. Let us rather be thank-ful that Belgium, of all the countries, waschosen to do this wonderful deed, wasprivileged to be the first and the mostvital rampart of modern civilization againstsavagery and brutal aggression, and that hername in future will be joined to those fewsmall nations whose fame is immortal. Letus further rejoice that in these tremendousdays our people have lived with an intensitythat makes all our past existence as a nationseem valueless in comparison. It seems thatbefore this sudden baptism of fire we werehardly a nation at all. We frittered away ourstrength in petty squabbles ; we argued overwords instead of fadts ; we blamed each otherfor being Walloon or Flemish ; we busiedourselves as lawyers, business men, officials,instead of striving before all to be proud andfree citizens of one State. Danger ratherthan safety has been our cure. We havediscovered ourselves. So strong is the union,so tenacious the bonds of a common resist-ance that now bind us together, that to manyminds Belgium dates only from yesterday,

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BELGIAN PRIDEand has never felt herself so real, so livingas when, deprived of her land, she has, asrallying point for her national consciousness,only her King.

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CHAPTER IVALBERT THE WELL-BELOVED

THOSE who knew him before he cameto the throne, though theybelieved firmlyin him, yet wondered a little how he woulddevelop. He comes of a royal stock that havealways reached a late maturity. Leopold Iwon his reputation as European arbitrator atthe age of fifty ; Leopold II was at first keptin check by his famous ministers, Rogier andFr^re-Orban, and he had to throw off theirtutelage before he could stand out as the manwho, by bringing Western civilization intoAfrica, gave the world, as it were, the gift ofa new continent. Alike, the first and secondkings of Belgium started their public careerswith diffidence and hesitation.What awakening was in store for their suc-

cessor? As Crown Prince, Albert gave hisattention to social and military questions. Hetalked sparingly, but no one who had the

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ALBERT THE WELL-BELOVEDprivilege of speaking with him could fail tonotice the thoroughness with which he hadstudied and learnt. As King, he would cer-tainly have carried through vigorous reforms,both economic and democratic. Indeed, hewas plainly heading towards striking changeswhen suddenly the war broke upon us,

I shall never forget that fourth of August,nineteen hundred and fourteen. I saw theKing go into the Parliament House and I sawhim coming out. He had taken counsel withthe representatives of his people, on the eve ofhis and their blood-stained Easter Day.And indeed it was, for us Belgians, nothing

short of an Easter morning. It was our re-surredion. War was upon us. Everywherewas fear and anguish. On our frontier atorrent of men and munitions threatened theold defences of Li^ge. We were a handfulagainst a multitude, and could have no hopeof viftory ; only in resisting as best we mightlay our chance of glory. We did our duty,and in the simple doing of it we were bornagain. Pride, determination, courage, self-denial, all the qualities which had lain hiddenunder our riches and our prosperity, sprang

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BELGIUM'S AGONYsuddenly to light. In a few weeks the littleBelgian people became a great nation.The word "motherland" had been for mostof us a mere catchword for official haranguesand popular songs. We were very far frombeing Chauvinist. Indeed, a large number ofour best citizens actually regretted that theybe-longed to so tiny a country. Some would havepreferred to be French, others English, otherseventhose whom we called FlamingantsGerman. To-day all such regrets and longingshave vanished. We are all Belgians and asknothing better ; Belgians, fiercely almost, anduntil death. For our country is now ourreligion.And our King is the symbol of this resur-

reftion of Belgium. Alone, of all the kingsand emperors concerned in this war, he hasbeen one with his soldiers, sharing theirdanger and their glory. He has lived in thetrenches, eating and smoking as his simpletroopers eat and smoke ; he has shown a quietcourage, a resistance, and a strength at oncevigorous and profound. Among his generalsand his officers he has more than once shownthe qualities of a far-sighted and forceful tac-

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ALBERT THE WELL-BELOVEDtician ; his suggestions have been adopted andhave proved successful. The darker and morecruel was the outlook, the more reliable anddecisive has he shown himself to be. Thewar might have been made solely that Albertcould come to a consciousness of himself, thathe might leave behind him his hesitation andhis reserve, and take his place, not after but bythe side of his noble predecessors. Leopold Iwas a diplomat; Leopold II was a colonizerand a business man ; Albert has shown him-self a soldier.He is as triumphantly a soldier as theGerman Emperor is not. From the outset of

the war this has been clearly evident. Theirvery proclamations were different. William II,with his mystic rhetoric and parade of literarygrandiloquence, strives to impose himself bywonder and not by sharing in the fight.Albert's words are few and sincere. Hespeaks in order himself to take a gun andhasten to meet the enemy. From him comeno appeals to heaven ; he goes neither asGod's ambassador nor the favourite of theVirgin Mary. He puts a simple trust inProvidence and, for the rest, relies on his

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BELGIUM'S AGONYown courage and on the strength of hisarm.

For him no basking in the gaudy flatteryof a court. For him no schemes of triumphalentries; he is no Lohengrin at the royalyacht's prow. Sparing of words, he striicesno useless attitudes. He even prefers goingon foot to horseback.

In manner he is gentle, diffident. He wel-comes you with a cheery handshake. Con-versation begins slowly, but once the banalitiesand embarrassments of the first words are leftbehind, it thrives and develops. The King isinformed on all subjedts. He is no poet, buthe will recall a verse here and there remem-bered in his reading. The Belgian artistic re-naissance ofrecent years has found him a warmand enthusiastic supporter. He understandsand helps. He is the first of our kings tomake mention of art in a speech from thethrone.

Albert I is beloved by the mass of hispeople as a "beau gars." No King-cripple willever be popular in Belgium. Our sovereignmust be able to wield a sword in both hands.Albert is massive and healthily large. He is

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ALBERT THE WELL-BELOVEDthe incarnation of the Flemish and Walloonidea of beauty, which is never separated fromstrength. His people know that, at need,theirKing would be a stalwart boon-companionat the Kermesses. No nation is more attachedto the idea of equality than the Belgians. Thepomp and arrogance of the Germans are in-tolerable to us. Only to see in Brussels aGerman officer pass by, especially to see thesolemn prancing of the goose-step, is sufficientto realize that the popular commonsense ofthe Bruxellois condemn such sights as theposturing of folly itself. Albert is a soldierwithout parade or mannerism. His simplicityis exaftly the quality that commands the great-est love and veneration. No one can imposeadmiration on the Belgians ; they give it towhom they will.

In the achievement of his popularity, rapidfrom the beginning and by now strikinglyestablished, the King has been throughouthelped by his wife. She understood immedi-ately the actions, the words, the virtues thather position demanded. Her weapons wereshyness, gentleness, and taft. She was be-

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BELGIUM'S AGONYloved of artists as well as of the commonpeople. She is herself a musician, but herinterest and love for art embraced also litera-ture and painting. She surrounded herselfwith carefully chosen piftures and statues,whose creators were among her friends. Inthe royal palace at Brussels she had furnishedthree or four of the salons after her own taste.The gilding, the pillars, the lustres, the officialcandelabra were all swept away. The wallswere decorated in plain colours, and on themwith penetrating taste she hung a few piduresby young Belgian artists. These pidlures shewould defend against attacks, and those whowere fortunate enough to be able to talk franklywith her knew that she was interested in anygenuine artistic novelty. She asked nothingbetter than to be convinced by fresh ideas.

This war has shown to the world the extentto which she, more than anyone else, helpedthe King. She was at his side during thosetragic days when Antwerp was besieged ; andlater, while tremendous battles were thunderingalong the Flemish coast, she stayed faithfullyby the side of the man who is at once herhusband and her friend. In appearance she is

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ALBERT THE WELL-BELOVEDslight, almost fragile, but how eager and fear-less is the spirit that animates her frail bodyOne hour before she was leaving Brussels

for Antwerp, it was my privilege to pay hera visit. Her palace, into which, three dayslater, the enemy was to enter in triumph, washalf turned into a hospital. She expressedthe determination to pay one last visit to thewounded soldiers. She was calm, imperturb-able; no word of complaint or even sadnesspassed her lips. And after this final visitationshe went out in all the strength of faith tomeet the unknown.The future should indeed smile on such a

Queen and on such a King. Gloomy Germanhistorians in vain deny the nobility of theiradions and their thoughts ; for the admirationand affedlion of their united people will gowith them down the ages. On their side theyhave youth, strength of purpose, suffering,unconquerable courage of soul. In themselvesthey are splendid. They have already theirpage of history, they will soon have theirchapter of legend.

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CHAPTER VTHE LITTLE VILLAGES OFFLANDERS

ENGLAND is a vast meadow, sprinkledhere and there with spaces of tillage.

Flanders is like a chess-board, the varioussquares of which are covered with rye, wheat,oats, flax and clover. From scattered farms,little red-roofed, white-gabled buildings, withtheir green doors and shutters, their clean,warm stables, comes the cheerful noise offlails threshing the wheat, of wheels ginningthe flax.

Life is a simple and peaceful thing in thesevillages. The church is, as it were, the palaceof God. Many coloured statues of the saints,gold, silken banners are lavished on its beau-tifying. The organ plays daily for those whowish to hear. On great festivals the altarsare loaded with silver candlesticks, the finestvestments adorn the shoulders of the priests,

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THE VILLAGES OF FLANDERSthe best voices of the distrid: thunder theChristmas hymn or the Easter alleluia. Aquiet reverence rules over all. Every cere-mony has its beauty, and their joyful dignityafFedts the life of the tiniest hamlet.The beauty of Flanders is the mellow

beauty of many centuries. Everywhere maybe found firmly established traditions or his-torical masterpieces. In every little church apicture, either Gothic or Renaissance, recallsthe age of Van Eyck or of Rubens. Thesubject may be the coronation of a fairVirgin, or the ascent to heaven, surroundedby angels, of a splendid Christ. The saintsare represented, garlanded with roses. TheHoly Families are Flemish families, livingquietly prosperous lives in cool white rooms,with their bird in its cage or their parrot onits perch.Such is the decorative side of the Flemishvillage. In adlual plan it consists probably ofa single principal street, in which live thelawyer, the doftor and the brewer ; and a fewsmaller roads which branch off from the mainstreet as from the trunk of a tree. Whereversuch a side-road joins the main street, a statue

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BELGIUM'S AGONYof the Virgin Mother of Jesus stands in aniche of the wall, and it is the constant careof the ladies of the village, the wives of thelawyer, the dodlor and the brewer, to keepeach shrine in Spring well-adorned with freshflowers.

Once a week the market is held in thesquare or round about the church. Thefarmers come to sell their milk and buttertheir boys bring in young pigs, and some-times sheep ; the vendors of cloth displaytheir little stocks. The business done issmall enough, no doubt, and its basis narrow,but the markets at least create a certain weeklyexcitement and keenness of rivalry.But at the Kerniesses this excitement and

keenness becomes a kind of madness. Inevery cabaret is the sound of music. Dancing-halls open on every side. Harsh and violentorchestrasa cornet, a violin, a clarionet, atrumpetflog into swirling motion a hundredsturdy couples. Quadrilles follow polkas orwaltzes, and the dancers stamp with theirheels so violently that often the tiles of thefloor are split in two. Drunkenness andanger play their part at these times of wild

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THE VILLAGES OF FLANDERSpleasure. Knives flash out in quarrel, andoften bloody work is done. The farm-ladsfighting for wenches' favours; the loversquarrelling, the old men, feverish with drink,present, almost unchanged, the violent orgiespainted so long ago by Brouwer and Craesbeke.

Such is, or rather such was, before theGermans came, the life of the little villagesof Flanders, Brabant, Hainault and Li^ge.But anyone who might see these districtsnow would find it hard to believe in sucha past.The newspapers keep the world informed

of the fate of the towns; but they do nottrouble themselves about the tiny villages,hidden away in the heart of the country. Iknow secret corners in the Ardennes, in laHesbaye, in la Famenne, in le Borinage, inFlanders, in Brabant, where the peasants areliterally starving to death. In time of peacethey live, these poor folks, on the produceof their little farms. They kill their pig,cure it and eat it slowly, week by week,throughout the winter. They have theirlittle store of potatoes in their cellar andtheir twenty sacks of corn in their barn. For

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BELGIUM'S AGONYyears and years they have always lived thus.Their whole world is their little house, tuckedaway, over there in the distant country. Itrepresents all their treasure, all their liveli-hood. They toil all the summer so thatbread and meat shall not be wanting in thehard times of winter. They are, as it were,a Providence to themselves. They hope andare confident. They cannot conceive any law,divine or human, depriving them of whatthey have reaped and garnered, of the livingthey have amassed, lawfully and by their owntoil, for their wives and children.When the war began little groups ofUhlans began appearing in the villages. Theywould stop and ask a few questions and thengo on somewhere else. At present they be-haved mildly enough. "Well aware of thedanger of ambushes, they were gentle andgenial. They seemed to regard the peoplealmost as their friends. Fear bred in themexcellent manners.

But later on, when whole regiments passedthe way that hitherto only scattered Uhlanshad trod, the true German arrogance madeits terrible appearance. There was looting

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THE VILLAGES OF FLANDERSand worse; there was massacre. Conciliatory-fear gave way to savagery. The world knowsnow how much blood must be shed, howmany ruins must be piled one on another,before German anger can be assuaged.And now that the fires have smouldered

out, now that the little villages are once moreleft lonely, and those of their inhabitants whohave escaped flame and sword are left there toexist as best they may, it is for us to thinkfor a moment of the sinister silence of thoseabandoned lives, lingering on in the littletowns and, more tragic still, lost in the depthsof the countryside.

Here, in the fog ofLondon, I sit and pi6lureto myself the agony of one of those littlevillages of Campine or of the Ardennes, overthere, hidden among the valleys or lost in themarshes. Every one of those sources of live-lihood of the poor peasants, which I havedescribed, has been requisitioned or franklystolen. Their few poor cows have been killed.Their sow, who once like some prolific savagebeast dawdled among the manure and filth ofthe farmyard with her squealing turbulentlitter, has been snatched away these three

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BELGIUM'S AGONYmonths. In payment was given a ticket, aticket of exchange valid in a distant land. Butthis is not all. Their sacks of corn have beenbrought from their barns, their turnips havebeen taken away from the pits in which theywere kept. Their straw and hay have becomethe property of the invading cavalry, who, nosooner had they taken what they needed,hastened away. The farmsteads are strippedbare ; only their inhabitants remain, deprivedof everything. Even their bed-coverings, theirpoor mattresses, their bedsteads have beenseized. And they remain, with no possessionsin the world but the four walls of their cottageand the tiles of their roof.How are they to live henceforth? Theyhave never learnt to seek a livelihood elsewhereor otherhow than in their homes and on theirfarms. The towns are far away, and even theroads to them are often strange. While finally,did they but know it, little help can come tothem out of the towns, themselves looted andeven sacked, and their shops and housesdeserted and shuttered.At least for the towns there is hope. In

them remains such authority as still survives.62


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THE VILLAGES OF FLANDERSSome organization is slowly emerging. Neigh-bouring communes help each other. Suchprovisions as are sent in from abroad come tothe towns. Whenever there is concerted effortthere is some chance ofbeing heard and helped.Even in the little towns men will receive somesuccour, will hearten each other. Perhaps astump of railway line still connedts them withthe world. At least, carts pass through theirstreets. Some energetic citizen contrives toform a tiny store of precious food, and itsexistence sends a gleam of hope through eventhe darkest gloom. At least everything is notdead and desolate.

But the villages. They have no initiative.To them no help comes. Their cry is solitary,and dies away unechoed. The cottages arescattered about the country, barely in com-munication with one another. They are to melike little islands of starvation and distresslooming faintly through the mist.

Should not those of us, who have a realpity for the unprecedented disasters whichhave overtaken Belgium, bear in mind es-pecially the despair ofthe peasant ? His silencecovers the greatest misery of all ; for, despite

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BELGIUM'S AGONYhis desolation, he does not complain. And yethe has given his three or four sons to hiscountry, and they are far away from him, inthe midst of the horrors, but where, andwhether dead or alive, he does not know.

This Christmas night I can see him, sittingas usual before the hearth, but this year ahearth that is cold and black. Because his armsare forbidden to toil, it is his thought whichblunders to and fro, seeking hope in hisdisaster. This toil-worn, silent man, who wasa hero at the moment when his country neededheroism, is faced now with an inevitable death,here in his house, here in the house in whichhis father lived before him. He is utterlylonely, utterly helpless. Lost in the distantplains, he feels himselflost in the utter distanceof the world.Ois human pity so narrow, so hampered,that it cannot reach its hand over there into

Flanders or La Wallonie, and bring somesuccour to that silent, uncomplaining man,who, to-morrow, perhaps, may be no more ?

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CHAPTER VIPERVYSE

I LEFT England by the Folkestone cross-channel steamer to Boulogne, where amotor-car was awaiting me. We started atonce. Our speed rapidly became very great,and we flew past ammunition waggons andhospital carriages without any checking of ourcourse. Whenever we met other motor-cars,we heard the same sharp, violent clatter that iscaused by two trains that cross each other athigh speed. Already we had lost thought ofour own safety.

For the moment there is no administrativefrontier between France and Belgium. TheCustoms officers have turned soldiers. TheDouane is no more. Only the sign-post re-mains. But all the same the way is constantlybarred and controlled. Two waggons drawnup, one on each side of the road, and piledabout with objedts of every kind, leave only a

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BELGIUM'S AGONYvery narrow passage free between them. Thispassage is guarded by soldiery. We are chal-lenged, and shout the password into the wind.The car is off again on its headlong career.

Adinkerke first and then Furnes. The littletown is full of troops. They are lodged inthe churches of S. Nicholas and S. Walburga.Along the walls are beds of straw. Aboveeach bed, built into the walls themselves, risetombstones, great slabs on which one can justdecipher, blurred by time, the names of menand women long dead. Alike their manyvirtues, their titles, and even their dates, arefading into illegibility and oblivion.

But little thought of the gruesome chancethat has set their beds upon graves troublesthe soldiers who now sprawl on the straw inthe golden sunlight. They eat and are merry.The statue of S. Nicholas stands below thethrone ; a cartridge belt is slung over hispastoral staff.The little town ofFurnes throbs with move-

ment. All day long motor-cars flash throughher streets. Her former silence has utterlyvanished. In the main square little perambu-lating stall-shops dispense a poor but precious

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PERVYSEtobacco. Each morsel is weighed with theutmost care. It is raining now, and the rainmakes the tobacco heavy with damp. Thegood man therefore gives to every soldier clienta pinch of overweight.

" The bad weather, you see," he says, " andalso I am a good patriot, and I love soldiers."And now the road to Pervyse stretches in

front of us, bordered with trees either loppedoff short, or twisted as in agony. Huge pitsyawn in the meadows on either side. Perhapsthere are twenty shells at the bottom, all ofwhich have failed to explode. A gunner tellsme that when a shell falls, the cattle lumberaway in terror. But in a few moments, urgedby their insatiable curiosity, they draw timidlynear once more, and peer into the hole theshells have made. The ground is soft, andfrom time to time a cow falls in on the top ofthe shells. It struggles madly to get out ofthe pit, and the soldiers near by are alwaysafraid that, trampling on the pile of powder andbullets, its hoofs will awake the slumberinganger of the unexploded shells.Here and there, in mid-field or near atree, is a rough cross. A kepi, a handful of

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BELGIUM'S AGONYfaded flowers, mark these graves of noble men.Further on there are dead horses lying.

It is on entering Pervyse that we get thefirst sight of real horror. The main street islike a great museum of prehistoric fauna. Thehouse-roofs, denuded of tiles and the joistsleft naked, have tilted forward on to the sidewalks, so that they hang in mid air like giantvertebrae. Behind them the ruins of wallsand gables suggest huge skeletons shatteredand broken.Through the windows one can see the poor

furniture of poor households. The beds havebeen ripped open, the stoves upset, so thatthey lie with their feet in the air. Perhapsthe Christ from the chimney corner has beenhurled to the ground, while St. John andthe Virgin have remained unscathed by thefalling shells. I saw one little FirstCommunionwreath torn to pieces by bullets, so that itswhite rose petals lay scattered among the sootand the fallen plaster.One house only of the whole village of

Pervyse has been spared. Its owner has seenno reason for going away. He is a man ofmiddle age. As he watches us pass without

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PERVYSEsaying a word, he holds in his hands anenormous broom. For it was Saturday, andthis man, amidst the total ruin of his village,was pun6tually cleaning his window and thepavement before his door, because the follow-ing day was Sunday. Could there be a betterexample of the proverbial Flemish cleanliness,even in times of war and universal disaster ?We take our way towards Nieuport, passingby Coxyde. In this country of dunes, wherethe sand swept before the wind tingles in ourfaces, the Arabs and the Senegalese havepitched their encampment. Were it not forthe bitter cold they might think themselvesin their own desert. On the summit of onelittle hill a mounted sentinel stands out inprofile. Amazing the impression of this tro-pical silhouette against the stormy and cloud-laden northern sky. Indeed, a piece of Africawelded on to a piece of Flanders.On all sides the cannon is thundering. Five

yards away is a French battery. Methodicallythe charge is slipped into the gun, and timeafter time those near are deafened with thenoise of the shot that follows. Urged by prideand admiration, the spedator draws nearer to

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BELGIUM'S AGONYlook. The desire seizes him to expose him-self suddenly, without reason, high up on amound near by, in full view of the enemy.The desire for danger becomes a passion asstrong as that of love. One is intoxicated withthe smell of powder and the sense of peril.One is ashamed not to be able, like the others,forthwith to risk one's life. I believe thatheroism is learnt in a flash or never learnt ataU.We now approach the trenches themselves.They lie across a road near a station, barringthe way. Bending ourselves double, we crawlinto the kind ofdungeons in which our soldierssleep, eat and smoke away the time. Undera sort of pent-house is the gun. A lightedmatch flickers on the gleaming copper. Thesoldiers are in excellent spirits ; as we shakehands with them they laugh. Their clumsyjokes fall on the Germans like clods of earth.For two days now this trench has been left inpeace. The enemy is bombarding alternatelyDixmude and Nieuport. It seems that whimalone decides the diredtion of his fire. Sincehis disaster at the Yser, there is no sign ofordered plan in his efforts. He makes a noise,

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PERVYSEseemingly with no objecft beyond maintainingterror.We take our way back by Ramscapelle.Everywhere the same scenes of desolation thatwe saw at Pervyse. The streets are litteredwith debris of glass and tiles. Mattresses,blankets, even table-cloths, curtains, and sheets,are stuffed into the window sashes.Suddenly, from a cellar, we hear the cry ofa cat. We grope our way down towards thesound, but the animal, lean and wretched, fleesat our approach.The shells have played strange havoc at

Ramscapelle. Shots have forced their way intothe houses, and out again, where one wouldleast expedt. Their fantastic course can be fol-lowed. One door is so riddled with bullets, thatit seems a veritable colander. As at Pervyse,the church roof has collapsed, and the tower isa great skeleton of stone, through which, inthe falling evening, I can see the stars.

All this was the terrible side of the battlefront in Flanders, but my soul was indeedexalted by the calm courage of the soldiers,and the endurance of the population.One mourns, of course, to see ruins piled

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1915 - belgium's agony

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