THE social life of Brussels we found very interesting. That of the Court was simple but elegant, while that of the aristocracy was old-world and conservative to a degree. Indeed, it was much like that of the Faubourg in Paris. Outside of royalty and serene highnesses, every one “in society” was either a count or a baron. It certainly seemed strange to an American that not one was without a title.

Another custom which struck one as odd was that of using titles in letters—they would often sign themselves “Countess So-and-So,” or “Princess X.” If a woman belonged to a fine family she would put “nÉe” with her maiden name on her card.

An amusing travesty on titles occurred when our footman received letters addressed to the “Chief Cleaner of the Silver.” I saw two cards which were even funnier than this, though. One bore the man’s name and the title, “The Secretary of the Secretary of the Minister of”—such a department. The other was a card of a Doctor A——, who had inscribed beneath his name, “Doctor for the Countess of B——’s stomach.”

Hospitality generally took the form of afternoon teas. I have often been to as many as three or four in a day. They were always very ceremonial affairs, with all the servants turned out in style to receive me alone or perhaps two or three other guests.

During Lent people often received in the evening. Tea and cake and orangeade were served, while the guests sat and gossiped. At this season, we discovered, all the dinners had to have either fish or meat—not both—as it was a Roman Catholic country. Sundays, which are not Lenten days, gave them an opportunity for varying the festivities.

Dinners were given occasionally, and were always very formal and very long—really banquets—made up of a succession of rich dishes with a small glass of red or white wine with every course. The placing of guests at table was an extremely important matter, for every one must be seated strictly according to rank. One does not wonder that there were so few dinners, considering the difficulty of finding a group of congenial people who could dine together without dissatisfaction. Each was likely to think that he should have been given a higher place, and to go home feeling insulted instead of happy.

The favourite subjects among the women were children and the rainy weather; aside from gossip there was talk of little else. The men had no objection to sitting in silence, and were inclined to consider women who talked as chatterboxes. But for all that, they were very charming and high-bred and delightful to meet.

I should judge the Belgian sense of humour was not like ours. Many of them had a Latin wit, but as a race they were rather serious and conventional. They seemed to consider it bad form to have what we call a good time; all their entertainments were formal and dignified.

There was much in their character that was delightfully mediÆval. People in the highest position socially would say with perfect simplicity things that sounded very strange to our ears. A man of high rank and intelligence explained to me one day that the reason why the Belgians slept with their windows closed was that the early morning air was bad for the eyes! He was quite serious about it and seemed to think the excuse sufficient.

I believe some of them still imagined that our country had not reached even the first stages of civilization. A little gentlewoman whom I had engaged through 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.

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.

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.

But much of Brussels’ musical renown was due to the presence there of the two great masters of the violin—Thompson and Ysaye. The former is less known in this country than Ysaye, who has had great success here and is a popular favourite in England as well. But he himself considers Thompson his superior, and certainly the latter is acknowledged to be the greatest living master of technique.

Both men came from LiÈge, in the Walloon country, and both have been head of the violin department in the Conservatoire in Brussels. When Ysaye resigned a few years ago, Thompson took his place. (The Conservatoire, by the way, was subsidized by the Government and was entirely for the service of the people. The aristocracy did not send their children there, employing members of the faculty to come to their homes instead.) Unlike so many great men, Ysaye was honoured in his own country, and appreciated and adored by his own people. He was especially adored by his pupils, who considered him a sort of god.

When Thompson played in Boston he was not appreciated. He admits that he has stage fright, and when appearing before a large audience becomes frozen and fails to play at his best. He is a master of counterpoint, and an authority on ancient music. Although a fine teacher, he sometimes becomes sarcastic, and his pupils do not worship him as Ysaye’s do. His son served in the Belgian army and at last accounts was convalescing from a wound, in an English hospital.

We attended a wonderful performance of “GÖtterdÄmmerung,” which began at half-past five and lasted all the evening. An American woman, Madame Walker, sang remarkably well. The opera was very good, and Friday night was the fashionable time to attend, when it was generally crowded.

One morning we went to the “Concours de Violons” at the Conservatoire. The playing was of a high order and the enthusiasm of the crowded audience tremendous. The judges sat in one of the stage boxes and the competitions began at nine, all the pupils playing the same piece in succession. Each competitor came out and stood on the stage alone, save for her accompanist and her teacher, and played for some fifteen minutes, facing the jury and the critical crowd.

Quite the nicest looking of all the contestants was a little American girl of sixteen, Miss Hildegarde Nash, who seemed very self-possessed. Her method was so perfect that, while she had to compete with men, as well as with other clever little half-grown girls like herself, she gained a “premier prix avec grand distinction.” We felt quite proud of her.

Besides the music, there were confÉrences—talks by various people on various subjects. One went to them either by invitation, or by purchasing tickets; some were given for charity, others for mutual benefit.

Before the war broke out there were about two hundred of our compatriots in the American colony in Brussels. Most of the older ones had brought their children there because the schools were good and quite inexpensive, and both rents and servants’ wages were low. Many of the younger people were there for the purpose of studying music.

The life of an American girl studying in any Continental city is always beset with difficulties. This was no less true in Brussels, the “Little Paris” of the Low Countries, than elsewhere. So that winter I started an American Students’ Club. It occupied so much of my time that it is worth a passing mention here. We had some difficulty in finding suitable rooms; my husband was much amused because I found some excellent ones over what he insisted was a bar, though it was really a restaurant. However, we didn’t take them, but a lower suite in a respectable pension with a small writing room, reading room, tea and music rooms, bath, bedroom and kitchen.

The club had its opening the first of February, and during Lent it was crowded. Different ladies poured tea, and the students sang or recited. The little Boston girl who had won the prize at the Conservatoire played for us delightfully, as did also Miss Zoellner and others. Including the students and their friends we sometimes had a hundred present. In the spring it was suggested that we should give the most prominent member of the club an introduction, so it was voted that Miss Donnan should have the first concert given for her. She had quite a lovely high voice, and the affair was very successful.

Later on the character of the club was somewhat altered. The membership grew and the treasury swelled, but it became more of an American woman’s club, with dances and bridge whist. The last I heard it was being restored more to its original character. I hope it has been of service to Americans during the war.

Even before this war there was much kindly feeling in Belgium toward Americans, although during our war with Spain they sympathized with the Spaniards. (During the Boer War they were anti-English.) There was an eclipse of the sun in April, and at the moment of greatest darkness Baron von der Elst of the Foreign Office came to express to L. the sympathy of the Government in the face of the catastrophe to the Titanic—a catastrophe that we, like the rest of the world, had been slow to believe possible. The Baron said that the King was much concerned, and that they intended to express their sympathy in Parliament that afternoon. Indeed, both the Senate and the Chamber of Deputies passed resolutions of condolence, and later the King sent his Grand Marshal, Comte de MÉrode, to further express his sympathy and distress.

When spring came, and sunnier weather, I had many delightful rides on horseback. A favourite one, which I took several times with the Duc and Duchesse d’Ursel, was out in the ForÊt de Soignes, which was quite wonderful with its damp young green. It covered some ten thousand acres, and had alleys of great trees with beautiful vistas.

About twelve hundred years ago, they tell you, a gay and worldly young prince lived in a castle near the edge of this forest, where he was fond of hunting. He was so devoted to the sport, in fact, that he quite neglected the fast days, and hunted on Fridays as freely as on Mondays. This impiety could not be permitted, of course. One day a white stag bearing between its antlers a cross, appeared to the prince in a forest glade. The vision so impressed the young man that he forsook his sport and turned religious. In time he became Bishop of LiÈge, converted Brabant from paganism to Christianity, and was canonized by the Church he had served so faithfully. The people still believe that the blessing of St. Hubert rests upon the ForÊt de Soignes.

A favourite sport with all classes, but also a social function, was horse-racing. There was a lovely miniature racecourse at Boitsfort, just beyond the Parc de la Cambre. We walked down among the flower beds and under the shading trees to where the horses were being paraded and the betting was going on. The dresses of the women, of whom all sorts and conditions were crowded together, were quite remarkable.

The races frequently took place on Sunday afternoon. There was one at Groenendal, out on the avenue Louise, through the Parc de la Cambre—the latter very beautiful with its wide sweeps and vistas, all crowded with the holiday-making people. We ran by the artificial waters dotted with little boats, out through the alley of the ForÊt de Soignes, where the deep, pleasant woods were all sun and shadow, and filled with promenaders. From there we went on past Groenendal ChÂteau, along a road that reminded one of Rock Creek Park in Washington, turning at length into the Grande Route, which leads to Waterloo. This was a great avenue of trees, lined with the burnish of copper beeches. At last we reached the hippodrome, the racecourse of Groenendal, and were just in time to see the great steeple-chase of the year. The course was unexpectedly pretty, small and with cozy stands. The international steeplechase, ridden by French and Belgian officers in uniform, was very exciting and well run, and the whole scene beautiful against the green background of the forest.

Afterward we walked in the Bois de la Cambre, across the wide lawns with the people sitting about in groups, and into the shade of the great trees, dipping down into the valleys where hundreds of children were playing and tumbling about, and up again across the plateau. Here in the groves of beech trees were restaurants with many little tables and crowds of people listening to the music. Later we motored back to the avenue Louise, which was the bourgeois promenade of a Sunday afternoon, and down its long length to the boulevards and home.

One week-day afternoon in early May we went to the horse show, which was the last important spring event. It was held in the great glass building back of the Palais du Cinquantenaire, the floor being laid out in a lovely parterre with banks of flowers and palms and blossoming chestnuts. In this setting the jumps and obstacles were arranged. There was a water jump in the center, and a great, terrible, grassy mound on to which the horses had to jump and from which they had to stride over a fence back on to the flat again. It was heart-breaking to watch the tumbles there—twenty-six took place; the horses seemed to fear it more than the men, and showed their nervousness. When we went again we were relieved to see that it had been removed.

As the show was a great social event, all the women were in their best, and the men wore black coats and silk hats. The officers of the Guides Regiment were very showy in their bright uniforms, and there were many French officers there, too, in the pale blue and red of the Chasseurs. The royal loge had a canopy and a garden of azaleas. It all made a very lovely scene.

The King and Queen came in full state to the Cinquantenaire for the exhibition of the cadets of the school of riding at Ypres. There was a tremendous crowd in the huge building, and the horsemanship was good, though no better than one could see at Fort Myer at home. There were various feats of jumping, of fencing on horseback, and some musical rides. One officer jumped his horse over three other horses, while others took a “burning” hedge.

The entry of the royal cortÉge was quite fine, for the gate at the end was opened and a squadron of the Guides came with fanfare of trumpets and took up their position opposite the royal loge. Then followed the five carriages, with red-coated outriders on prancing horses leading the way, each one attended by four red-coated postilions wearing gold tassels on their caps. There was much waving of handkerchiefs, and some cheering, when they came in, but when they left there was more of a demonstration, for the ladies in the audience had been provided with flowers, and as the royal carriage drove around the arena Their Majesties received a shower of blossoms.

This horse show turned out tragically, however. The great event of another day was the international military race, run by many French and Belgian officers. They were started somewhere out in the country, and after a ten-mile run entered the arena, heralded by the blare of trumpets, followed each other over a series of jumps and passed out of a second gate for another ten miles across country, returning finally for more jumps. At some bars just opposite our loge young Lieutenant Terlinden, a son-in-law of the Minister of Foreign Affairs, fell, with his horse on top of him, and never regained consciousness. His wife was there, and his mother, and the world of Brussels, looking on. He was a splendid rider, but had a poor horse.

We often ran out to Waterloo in the open motor, shooting down the avenue Louise, through the Bois de la Cambre and the ForÊt de Soignes, and finally out on the wide paved highway to St. Jean and Waterloo. From there it was a short ride through the straggling village to the rolling country which made the battlefield, its center marked by the conical hill surmounted by its lion. It is reported that the Germans have melted this lion for ammunition. Going by this roundabout way, and taking our time, the run was made in about an hour, but it was a day’s journey before motors came into use.

HOUGOMONT.