The Spell of Belgium. Isabel Anderson
as gold.” But when Burgomaster Max offered it to the German general as payment of the huge indemnity required of Brussels it was refused, and gold demanded instead. Max later had trouble with the authorities, and as he had made several speeches to the populace he was sent to a prison in Germany. The last I heard of him he was still there.
Not long after my husband’s presentation at Court came the King’s name-day, an occasion for fêtes and gala. The streets were gay with marching soldiers and people in their best clothes. There was a Te Deum at the church of St. Gudule, and of course the Diplomatic Corps went in full dress uniform to do honour to the King. Their carriages joined in the procession, while the cavalry deployed about and escorted the state officials. At the church doors officers received the arrivals, and as each Minister passed inside the portal the orders rang out in the quiet church. There was a clank of arms as a guard of honour, standing on each side of the transept aisle, came to “present arms,” and a ruffle of drums.
When the Queen came—the King did not attend—she was met by the Papal Nuncio and prelates and escorted by priests, while the band played a solemn march with slow beat of drums. So she passed up into the chancel, bowing to the altar and to the diplomats and the Ministers of State. Then she passed beneath the baldachino with the King’s mother, the Comtesse de Flandre, and the little Crown Prince, the Duc de Brabant, who was all in white. About them knelt the gentlemen- and ladies-in-waiting.
The priests intoned before the altar, and the music took up the beautiful and impressive service, part of which dates back eight hundred years. High at one end a choir and orchestra were in a gallery, and joined the great organ in filling the vaults with lovely harmonies as the mass proceeded, while the scent of incense rose through the soft haze of the interior to the famous stained-glass windows above.
The Queen sat beneath her canopy at the side of the high altar with her little court surrounding her, the diplomats in their full regalia were in a group at one side, the Ministers of State in their uniforms in a group at the other, with the judges of the court in their scarlet robes which made bright splashes of colour. The military music resounded in slow marches and re-echoed through the spaces where candles only dimly lighted the shadows.
When they came out of church they noticed above them, floating in the sky, a great dirigible balloon, manœuvering majestically over the city, silent and impressive. How little did they think that similar balloons would so soon be dropping bombs upon their peaceful country!
That evening the Minister of Foreign Affairs gave a gala dinner in honour of the King’s fête-day, and all the Chiefs of Mission and some of the court dignitaries attended. Madame Davignon, wife of the Minister, a handsome and distinguished woman, received with His Excellency. The gathering was impressive, and the diplomatic uniforms were rich with gold lace and decorations. Madame Davignon presided at this dinner of men only, the Minister sitting opposite her at the U-shaped table. Some plenipotentiaries were accredited to Paris as well as to Brussels, and came on for special functions. Although these were mostly South Americans, they were very fine in their regalia, as were also the Turks in their fezzes and the Persians in their astrakhan hats. After dinner there was a real “recivimento,” when distinguished people came in to pay their respects to the Minister of Foreign Affairs without invitation, as used to be the custom in Rome.
A few days after that L. made up a little party and ran out to Termeire, the de Buisseret château. The motor trip took about an hour and a half, the car running smoothly and swiftly between villages and jiggling over the famous Belgian blocks that pave the towns. The country was like France, with the ditches on either side of the road and the rows of trees, and like Holland, too, with its canals. About the château there was an extensive park with game, where they hunted in the autumn, and étangs and bridges and fine old trees.[1]
After luncheon they visited the lovely château of the Duc d’Ursel, where they met the Duchess, who has been in Paris since the war began, having established there the Franco-American Œuvre des Soldats Belges. They also met the charming, old-world Duchess Dowager. From there they ran along the banks of the Scheldt to the Pavillon, a most interesting little building, both in architecture and decoration.
It may be that there were more châteaux in the south, in the Walloon provinces, but Flanders was by no means lacking in fine old houses. Melis, the Edmond de Beughems’ place, was quite enchanting. A long avenue of deep trees brought one to a stone gateway with the family arms sculptured above it, and fortified walled buildings stretching away on either side. Crossing a garden and a moat, one came to the entrance of the quaintest little old château imaginable.
On one side its gray walls dipped straight down into the moat, while on the other were green lawns and bright-coloured gardens, with splendid overhanging trees and a still lagoon with white floating swans. Beyond the deep, protecting waters were the forests of the park, with long alleys leading the eye to far-away vistas.
From the bridge above the moat one passed beneath the old portcullis and the bastion with its loopholes into a little lop-sided courtyard. Here the walls were all pinkish and yellow, the old brickwork breaking through the ochre plaster placed on it in a different generation and overgrown with ivies and climbing roses. Indoors the rooms were low and tiny and filled with old-fashioned furniture.
Melis was not a great and battlemented fortress, but a small and homelike place, so miniature that it seemed as if one might put it in a pocket. No doubt it really was, as the family admitted, very cold and damp and uncomfortable, but on a warm sunny day it appeared quite one’s ideal of what a château in Flanders ought to be.
While I was still staying quietly in Paris, I found much pleasure in reading about the historic old city which I was so soon to see.
Its legends attracted me especially. There was one, for instance, about Guy, the poor man of Anderlecht. His parents were serfs, and he began his career as a labourer in the fields of a nobleman who lived near the castle of Brussels. It happened one day that Guy’s fellow-workmen complained to their master, who provided them all with their midday meals, that Guy always took part of his share of the food home to his parents and consequently was late in beginning the afternoon work. The master was very indignant and went to the fields himself the next day to see if it were true, and to thrash the young man soundly if he did not return on time. Sure enough, when the moment came to begin work again, Guy failed to appear. But—in his place at the plow stood an angel!
It was said that the devil never tried but once to tempt Guy. That was when a rich Brussels merchant entered into partnership with him, promising to make his fortune. On his first journey down the river Senne after this his boat ran upon a sand-bank. When Guy seized a pole to push off, his fingers became fastened to it and he could not release them till he had made a solemn vow that he would give up forever the search for wealth. Even during his lifetime he was regarded as a saint, and pilgrims fell on their knees before him. When he lay dying it was said that a heavenly light filled the room. The oldest church in Brussels, where he used to pray as a child, was afterwards dedicated to him, its name being changed from St. Peter to St. Peter and St. Guy.
It is Michael the Archangel, however, and not Guy, who is the patron saint of Brussels. A statue representing him with his foot upon a dragon was placed on the spire of the Hôtel de Ville by Philip the Good about 1450, and has stood there resplendent ever since. He survived even the religious wars of the sixteenth century, although the mob did not look upon him with a very indulgent eye.
The castle of Brussels, mentioned in connection with the legend of Guy of Anderlecht, was doubtless that built by Duke Charles of Lorraine, the grandson of Charlemagne, in 981. It stood on an island in the river, next to the church of St. Géry, and is supposed to have been the first dwelling in this region. The city’s name, “Bruk Sel,” means the “manor in the marsh.” One of Duke Charles’s daughters married Count Lambert of Lorraine, who built a wall about the little town to keep out robber knights. Seven noble families, of whom the de Lignes show quarterings today, built houses of stone near the seven gates, which were guarded by their retainers. For that reason seven is considered Brussels’ lucky number.
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