The Spell of Belgium. Isabel Anderson
a friend to act as secretary courtesied very prettily on being presented, but wasn’t at all sure whether we were South Americans or not, and inquired rather anxiously whether I had ever before been away from my native land. She thought that I should always be accompanied when out walking.
I once asked an American lady who had married a Belgian what her adopted countrymen thought of Americans. She laughed and told me what happened when her husband took her home to his château as a bride, many years before. All the peasants and tradespeople of the village had turned out to greet them, and while they were evidently pleased, something in her appearance seemed to surprise them. Finally her husband asked some one if there was anything the matter. Very politely the man explained that since they had heard that their new countess came from America, they had all expected her to be black. The Count paused a moment, glancing at his wife, who was not only very beautiful but very blonde, and then answered gravely, “Oh, but you must not forget—it is winter now. My wife, she only turns black in summer!”
Before the war broke down the barriers between them, the Belgians and Dutch were much inclined to make fun of each other. The former said their neighbours were heavy, stupid and stiff. The Dutch retorted that the Belgians were so weak they could simply eat them up if they wished.
Quite the most important social event of the Brussels year was the Fancy Fair, which was given for the benefit of some charity. It came off in February and lasted four days. I had been asked to help on the flower table, where we sold not only flowers, real and artificial, but flower stands, vases, and perfumes. The shelves and tables were covered with mauve paper and velvet, and the effect was quite pretty. The fair was much like ours at home, and most of the men were afraid to attend. Some of the diplomats discreetly sent donations with their cards. The Queen was expected, but was ill at the last moment and the Comtesse de Flandre took her place, spending ten dollars at each table.
During the winter months Belgium sees little of the sun. All through April, too, they tell you, as a matter of course, “It is to rain.” The weather is undoubtedly bad. In most countries the people stand up for their climate to some extent, but there they have to acknowledge that it is wretched. May can be delightful, as I discovered, with floods of sunshine everywhere. But even then there were cold, dreary days, and later in the month the chestnut trees turned brown and the flowers began to fade, so the spring is short enough at best.
I found the streets of Brussels always amusing, whether the sun was in or out. There were sturdy dogs pulling carts laden with shining brass and copper milk-cans, the occasional trumpet-call and tramp of soldiers, and the women selling baskets of flowers, as they do in Rome. The church bells rang at all hours, for the clocks did not any two of them agree, and were forever contradicting each other with their musical chimes.
As I have said before, Brussels was a model city, beautiful and well kept. In the center of the town was the superb Grande Place, second to none in Europe, with the Hôtel de Ville, which was second only to that in Louvain, the galleried and much-gilded Maison du Roi, and the many guild-houses of the archers and skippers and printers and merchants. I am told that this historic square has been mined by the Germans, so that all its treasures of mediæval architecture can be blown up at a moment’s notice.
A Flemish Kermesse
The Grande Place was at its best when there was a kermesse. Then the windows of the guild-halls and the long galleries of the Hôtel de Ville—the glory of Brussels—were lined with people looking down into the square. Flags streamed from the buildings, and there was good music, and groups of happy burghers were drinking their beer at little tables. After dark there was continuous illumination of the lovely spire of the Hôtel de Ville, with varying coloured lights that showed its tracery and design in beautiful, mysterious relief—an entrancing sight.
Not far from the corner of the Hôtel stood the famous little fountain figure of the Mannikin, the “First Citizen of Brussels.” He was dressed for the kermesse in his best Sun-day-go-to-meeting suit, as was proper for the occasion—a plum-coloured velvet with ruffles and embroidery, a three-cornered hat with feathers and cockade, buckled shoes, and white stockings and gloves.
The Grande Place was the civic center of Brussels. The Government buildings were grouped about a park half a mile away, with the royal palace at one end and the Palais de la Nation, the House of Parliament, at the other. Close by, on either side, were grouped the various departments and the fine houses provided for the Ministers by the Government.
The Palais de la Nation was only moderately impressive. The senate chamber was decorated with frescos, while the “deputies” was bare and plain. Like our two houses in Washington, the upper was rather dignified, while the lower was in apparent disorder all the time. While Parliament was in session huissiers with their chains of office about their necks were on guard throughout the building.
One of the points in Brussels most familiar to me was the Gare du Nord, near the long public greenhouse and park, where the narrow shopping street began, in the lower part of the town. This led to the Bourse, the Place de la Monnaie, and the Grand Théâtre. Then there was the upper Boulevard with its tram that climbed the hill from the Gare du Nord, and a foot and bridle path which led through the Quartier Leopold—and on for miles to the Gare du Midi, changing its name with every block.
There were three good motor roads leading out of town: one from this boulevard to the avenue Louise continued on through the Bois; another extended from the Quartier Leopold to the Musée Congo, while a third led in the opposite direction, through the lower town and on to Laeken, where the Summer Palace of the King was located.
A favourite stroll of mine from the Legation was through the park near by, between the palace and the government houses, past the palace of the Comtesse de Flandre and the Museum, to the American Club for a cup of afternoon tea. I sometimes stopped and took a look at the interesting paintings in the Museum—a jumble of religious pictures, butchers’ shops, and fat women. The street known as the Montagne de la Cour, in this part of the town, was widened a few years ago by the old King, and no doubt is more healthy, but its picturesqueness was much marred by the tearing down of some quaint old houses which had stood there for generations.
Before the war Brussels was one of the first musical cities of Europe. This was not a new honour for it, however, for as far back as the fifteenth century the Low Countries led the world in the art of music. They furnished choirmasters for the churches of the continent, and singers for the royal courts. Besides all this, they founded schools of music and supplied the instruction as well. One of their most famous composers, Grétry, who lived in the eighteenth century, wrote many operas which were very popular in Paris. Much of his life was spent in the French capital, but when he died his heart was taken to his native Liège for burial. One of his songs is supposed to have inspired the Marseillaise by its vigorous expression of loyalty to the French king.
Few people, I believe, know that Beethoven’s father was a Belgian. Since the tragedy of Belgium, the great composer has been taken out of the German Hall of Fame. His ancestral town was Louvain.
“Beethoven? From Louvain his fathers spring,
Hence came the exile’s dolor in his mien.
Rebukes prophetic in his numbers ring;
And when wild clangors smite his sealed ears,
And loud alarums rung by hands unseen,
It is the tocsin of his town he hears.”
Because of their long inheritance of good musical taste, the public of modern Brussels had the reputation of being the most difficult to please of any. Even London and Paris audiences seemed less critical, and a triumph in Brussels was a triumph indeed. The audience was usually made up of thoroughly educated musicians who went to concerts seriously. Both Calvé and Melba made their débuts there.
EUGENE YSAYE.
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