The Spell of Belgium

by Isabel Anderson

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.