It was through no veneration for the memory of Van Hoogen-dorp’s
adventure, that I found myself one morning at Antwerp. I like the old
town: I like its quaint, irregular streets, its glorious cathedral, the
old “Place,” with its alleys of trees; I like the Flemish women, and
their long-eared caps; and I like the _table d’hôte_ at the “St.
Antoine”--among other reasons, because, being at one o’clock, it affords
a capital argument for a hot supper, at nine.
I do not know how other people may feel, but to me, I must confess, much
of the pleasure the Continent affords me, is destroyed by the jargon of
the “_Commissionnaires_,” and the cant of guidebooks. Why is not a man
permitted to sit down before that great picture, “The Descent from the
Cross,” and “gaze his fill” on it? Why may he not look till the whole
scene becomes, as it were, acting before him, and all those faces of
grief, of care, of horror, and despair, are graven in his memory, never
to be erased again? Why, I say, may he not study this in tranquillity
and peace, without some coarse, tobacco-reeking fellow, at his elbow, in
a dirty blouse and wooden shoes, explaining, in _patois_ French, the
merits of a work, which he is as well fitted to paint, as to appreciate.
But I must not myself commit the very error I am reprobating. I will not
attempt any description of a picture, which, to those who have seen it,
could realize not one of the impressions the work itself afforded, and
to those who have not, would convey nothing at all. I will not bore my
reader with the tiresome cant of “effect.” “expression,” “force,”
“depth,” and “relief,” but, instead of all this, will tell him a short
story about the painting, which, if it has no other merit, has at least
that of authenticity.
Rubens--who, among his other tastes, was a great florist--was very
desirous to enlarge his garden, by adding to it a patch of ground
adjoining. It chanced unfortunately, that this piece of land did not
belong to an individual who could be tempted by a large price, but to a
society or club called the “Arquebussiers,” one of those old Flemish
guilds, which date their origin several centuries back. Insensible to
every temptation of money, they resisted all the painter’s offers, and
at length only consented to relinquish the land on condition that he
would paint a picture for them, representing their patron saint, St.
Christopher. To this, Rubens readily acceded, his only difficulty being
to find out some incident in the good saint’s life, which might serve as
a subject. What St. Christopher had to do with cross-bows or sharp-
shooters, no one could tell him; and for many a long day he puzzled his
mind, without ever being able to hit upon a solution of the difficulty.
At last, in despair, the etymology of the word suggested a plan; and
“christopheros,” or cross-bearer, afforded the hint on which he began
his great picture of “The Descent.” For months long, he worked
industriously at the painting, taking an interest in its details, such
as he confesses never to have felt in any of his previous works. He knew
it to be his _chef-d’oeuvre_, and looked forward, with a natural
eagerness, to the moment when he should display it before its future
possessors, and receive their congratulations on his success.
The day came; the “Arquebuss” men assembled, and repaired in a body to
Rubens’ house; the large folding shutters which concealed the painting
were opened, and the triumph of the painter’s genius was displayed
before them: but not a word was spoken; no exclamation of admiration, or
wonder, broke from the assembled throng; not a murmur of pleasure, or
even surprise was there: on the contrary, the artist beheld nothing but
faces expressive of disappointment, and dissatisfaction; and at length,
after a considerable-pause, one question burst from every lip--“Where is
St. Christopher?”
It was to no purpose he explained the object of his work: in vain he
assured them, that the picture was the greatest he had ever painted, and
far superior to what he had contracted to give them. They stood
obdurate, and motionless: it was St. Christopher they wished for; it was
for him they bargained, and him, they would have.
The altercation continued long, and earnest. Some of them, more
moderate, hoping to conciliate both parties, suggested that, as there
was a small space unemployed in the left of the painting, St.
Christopher could be introduced, there, by making him somewhat
diminutive. Rubens rejected the proposal with disgust: his great work
was not to be destroyed by such an anomaly as this: and so, breaking off
the negotiation at once, he dismissed the “Arquebuss” men, and
relinquished all pretension to the “promised land.”
Matters remained for some months thus, when the burgomaster, who was an
ardent admirer of Rubens’ genius, came to hear the entire transaction;
and, waiting on the painter, suggested an expedient by which every
difficulty might be avoided, and both parties rest content. “Why not,”
said he, “make a St. Christopher on the outside of the shutter? You have
surely space enough there, and can make him of any size you like.” The
artist caught at the proposal, seized his chalk, and in a few minutes
sketched out, a gigantic saint, which the burgomaster at once pronounced
suited to the occasion.
The “Arquebuss” men were again introduced; and, immediately on beholding
their patron, professed themselves perfectly satisfied. The bargain was
concluded, the land ceded, and the picture hung up in the great
cathedral of Antwerp, where, with the exception of the short period that
French spoliation carried it to the Louvre, it has remained ever since,
a monument of the artist’s genius, the greatest and most finished of all
his works. And now that I have done my story, I’ll try and find out that
little quaint hotel they call the “Fischer’s Haus.”
Fifteen years ago, I remember losing my way one night in the streets of
Antwerp. I couldn’t speak a word of Flemish: the few people I met
couldn’t understand a word of French. I wandered about, for full two
hours, and heard the old cathedral clock play a psalm tune, and the St.
Joseph tried its hand on another. A watchman cried the hour through a
cow’s horn, and set all the dogs a-barking; and then all was still
again, and I plodded along, without the faintest idea of the points of
the compass.
In this moody frame of mind I was, when the heavy clank of a pair of
sabots, behind, apprised me that some one was following. I turned
sharply about, and accosted him in French.
“English?” said he, in a thick, guttural tone.
“Yes, thank heaven” said I, “do you speak English?”
“Ja, Mynheer,” answered he. Though this reply didn’t promise very
favourably, I immediately asked him to guide me to my hotel, upon which
he shook his head gravely, and said nothing.
“Don’t you speak English?” said I.
“Ja!” said he once more.
“I’ve lost my way,” cried I; “I am a stranger.”
He looked at me doggedly for a minute or two, and then, with a stern
gravity of manner, and a phlegm, I cannot attempt to convey, he said--
“D----n _my_ eyes!”
“What!” said I, “do you mean?”
“Ja!” was the only reply.
“If you know English, why won’t you speak it?”
“D----n _his_ eyes!” said he with a deep solemn tone.
“Is that all you know of the language?” cried I, stamping with
impatience. “Can you say no more than that?”
“D----n _your_ eyes!” ejaculated he, with as much composure, as though
he were maintaining an earnest conversation.
When I had sufficiently recovered from the hearty fit of laughter this
colloquy occasioned me, I began by signs, such as melodramatic people
make to express sleep, placing my head in the hollow of my hand, snoring
and yawning, to represent, that I stood in need of a bed.
“Ja!” cried my companion with more energy than before, and led the way
down one narrow street and up another, traversing lanes, where two men
could scarcely go abreast, until at length we reached a branch of the
Scheldt, along which, we continued for above twenty minutes. Suddenly
the sound of voices shouting a species of Dutch tune---for so its
unspeakable words, and wooden turns, bespoke it--apprised me, that we
were near a house where the people were yet astir.
“Ha!” said I, “this a hotel then.”
Another “Ja!”
“What do they call it?”
A shake of the head.
“That will do, good night,” said I, as I saw the bright lights gleaming
from the small diamond panes of an old Flemish window; “I am much
obliged to you.”
“D----n _your_ eyes!” said my friend, taking off his hat politely, and
making me a low bow, while he added something in Flemish, which I
sincerely trust was of a more polite and complimentary import, than his
parting benediction in English.
As I turned from the Fleming, I entered a narrow hall, which led by a
low-arched door into a large room, along which, a number of tables were
placed, each, crowded by its own party who clinked their cans and
vociferated a chorus, which, from constant repetition, rings still in my
memory--
“Wenn die wein ist in die maun, Der weisdheid den iut in die kan.”
or in the vernacular--
“When the wine is in the man, Then is the wisdom in the can.”
A sentiment, which a very brief observation of their faces, induced me
perfectly to concur in. Over the chimney-piece, an inscription was
painted in letters of about a foot long, “Hier verkoopt man Bier,”
implying, what a very cursory observation might have conveyed to any
one, even on the evidence of his nose,--that beer was a very attainable
fluid in the establishment. The floor was sanded, and the walls white-
washed, save where some pictorial illustrations of Flemish habits were
displayed in black chalk, or the smoke of a candle.
As I stood, uncertain whether to advance or retreat, a large portly
Fleming, with a great waistcoat, made of the skin of some beast, eyed me
steadfastly from head to foot, and then, as if divining my
embarrassment, beckoned me to approach, and pointed to a seat on the
bench beside him. I was not long in availing myself of his politeness,
and before a half an hour elapsed, found myself with a brass can of
beer, about eighteen inches in height, before me; while I was smoking
away as though I had been born within the “dykes,” and never knew the
luxury of dry land.
Around the table sat some seven or eight others, whose phlegmatic look
and sententious aspect, convinced me, they were Flemings. At the far
end, however, was one, whose dark eyes, flashing beneath heavy shaggy
eyebrows, huge whiskers, and bronzed complexion, distinguished him
sufficiently from the rest. He appeared, too, to have something of
respect paid him, inasmuch as the others invariably nodded to him,
whenever they lifted their cans to their mouths. He wore a low fur cap
on his head, and his dark blue frock was trimmed also with fur, and
slashed with a species of braiding, like an undress uniform.
Unlike the rest, he spoke a great deal, not only to his own party, but
maintaining a conversation with various others through the room--
sometimes speaking French, then Dutch, and occasionally changing to
German, or Italian, with all which tongues he appeared so familiar, that
I was fairly puzzled to what country to attribute him.
I could mark at times that he stole a sly glance over, towards where I
was sitting, and, more than once, I thought I observed him watching what
effect his voluble powers as a linguist, was producing upon me. At last
our eyes met, he smiled politely, and taking up the can before him, he
bowed, saying, “A votre santé, monsieur.”
I acknowledged the compliment at once, and seizing the opportunity,
begged to know, of what land so accomplished a linguist was a native.
His face brightened up at once, a certain smile of self-satisfied
triumph passed over his features, he smacked his lips, and then poured
out a torrent of strange sounds, which, from their accent, I guessed to
be Russian.
“Do you speak Sclavonic?” said he in French; and as I nodded a negative,
he added--“Spanish,--Portuguese?”
“Neither,” said I.
“Where do you come from then?” asked he, retorting my question.
“Ireland, if you may have heard of such a place.”
“Hurroo!” cried he, with a yell that made the room start with amazement.
“By the powers! I thought so; come up my hearty, and give me a shake of
your hand.”
If I were astonished before, need I say how I felt now.
“And are you really a countryman of mine?” said I, as I took my seat
beside him.
“Faith, I believe so. Con O’Kelly, does not sound very like Italian, and
that’s my name, any how; but wait a bit, they’re calling on me for a
Dutch song, and when I’ve done, we’ll have a chat together.”
A very uproarious clattering of brass and pewter cans on the tables,
announced that the company was becoming impatient for Mynheer O’Kelly’s
performance, which he immediately began; but of either the words or air,
I can render no possible account, I only know, there was a kind of
_refrain_ or chorus, in which, all, round each table, took hands, and
danced a “grand round,” making the most diabolical clatter with wooden
shoes, I ever listened to.
After which, the song seemed to subside into a low droning sound,
implying sleep. The singer nodded his head, the company followed the
example, and a long heavy note, like snoring, was heard through the
room, when suddenly, with a hiccup, he awoke, the others also, and then
the song broke out once more, in all its vigour, to end as before, in
another dance, an exercise in which I certainly fared worse than my
neighbours, who tramped on my corns without mercy, leaving it a very
questionable fact how far his “pious, glorious, and immortal memory” was
to be respected, who had despoiled my country of “wooden shoes” when
walking off with its brass money.
The melody over, Mr. O’Kelly proceeded to question me somewhat minutely,
as to how I had chanced upon this house, which was not known to many,
even of the residents of Antwerp.
I briefly explained to him the circumstances which led me to my present
asylum, at which he laughed heartily.
“You don’t know, then, where you are?” said he, looking at me, with a
droll half-suspicious smile.
“No; it’s a Schenk Haus, I suppose,” replied I.
“Yes, to be sure, it is a Schenk Haus, but it’s the resort only of
smugglers, and those connected with their traffic. Every man about you,
and there are, as you see, some seventy or eighty, are all, either sea-
faring folks, or landsmen associated with them, in contraband trade.”
“But how is this done so openly? the house is surely known to the
police.”
“Of course, and they are well paid for taking no notice of it.”
“And you?”
“Me! Well, _I_ do a little that way too, though it’s only a branch of my
business. I’m only Dirk Hatteraik, when I come down to the coast: then
you know a man doesn’t like to be idle; so that when I’m here, or on the
Bretagny shore, I generally mount the red cap, and buckle on the
cutlass, just to keep moving; as when I go inland, I take an occasional
turn with the gypsy folk in Bohemia, or their brethren, in the Basque
provinces. There’s nothing like being up to every thing--that’s _my_
way.”
I confess I was a good deal surprised at my companion’s account of
himself, and not over impressed with the rigour of his principles; but
my curiosity to know more of him, became so much the stronger.
“Well,” said I, “you seem to have a jolly life of it; and, certainly a
healthful one.”
“Aye, that it is,” replied he quickly. “I’ve more than once thought of
going back to Kerry, and living quietly for the rest of my days, for I
could afford it well enough; but, somehow, the thought of staying in one
place, talking always to the same set of people, seeing every day the
same sights, and hearing the same eternal little gossip about little
things, and little folk, was too much for me, and so I stuck to the old
trade, which I suppose I’ll not give up now as long as I live.”
“And what may that be?” asked I, curious to know how he filled up
moments snatched from the agreeable pursuits he had already mentioned.
He eyed me with a shrewd, suspicious look, for above a minute, and then,
laying his hand on my arm, said--
“Where do you put up at, here in Antwerp?”
“The St. Antoine.’”
“Well, I’ll come over for you to-morrow evening about nine o’clock;
you’re not engaged, are you?”
“No, I’ve no acquaintance here.”
“At nine, then, be ready, and you’ll come and take a bit of supper with
me; and, in exchange for your news of the old country, I’ll tell you
something of my career.”
I readily assented to a proposal which promised to make me better
acquainted with one evidently a character; and after half an hour’s
chatting, I arose.
“You’re not going away, are you?” said he. “Well, I can’t leave this
yet; so I’ll just send a boy, to show you the way to the ‘St. Antoine.’”
With that, he beckoned to a lad at one of the tables, and addressing a
few words in Flemish to him, he shook me warmly by the hand: the whole
room rose respectfully as I took my leave, and I could see, that “Mr.
O’Kelly’s friend,” stood in no small estimation with the company.
The day was just breaking when I reached my hotel; but I knew I could
poach on the daylight for what the dark had robbed me; and, besides, my
new acquaintance promised to repay the loss of a night’s sleep, should
it even come to that.
Punctual to his appointment, my newly-made friend knocked at my door
exactly as the cathedral was chiming for nine o’clock.
His dress was considerably smarter than on the preceding evening, and
his whole air and bearing bespoke a degree of quiet decorum and reserve,
very different from his free-and-easy carriage in the “Fischer’s Haus.”
As I accompanied him through the _parte-cochère_, we passed the
landlord, who saluted us with much politeness, shaking my companion, by
the hand, like an old friend.
“You are acquainted here, I see,” said I.
“There are few landlords from Lubeck to Leghorn I don’t know by this
time,” was the reply, and he smiled as he spoke.
A calèche with one horse, was waiting for us without, and into this we
stepped. The driver had got his directions, and plying his whip briskly,
we rattled over the paved streets, and passing through a considerable
part of the town, arrived at last at one of the gates. Slowly crossing
the draw-bridge at a walk, we set out again at a trot, and soon I could
perceive, through the half light, that we had traversed the suburbs, and
were entering the open country.
“We’ve not far to go now,” said my companion, who seemed to suspect that
I was meditating over the length of the way; “where you see the lights
yonder--that’s our ground.”
The noise of the wheels over the _pavé_ soon after ceased, and I found
we were passing across a grassy lawn in front of a large house, which,
even by the twilight, I could detect was built in the old Flemish taste.
A square tower flanked one extremity, and from the upper part of this,
the light gleamed, to which my companion pointed.
We descended from the carriage, at the foot of a long terrace, which,
though dilapidated and neglected, bore still some token of its ancient
splendour. A stray statue here and there, remained, to mark its former
beauty, while, close by, the hissing splash of water told that a _jet
d’eau_ was playing away, unconscious that its river gods, dolphins, and
tritons, had long since departed.
“A fine old place once,” said my new friend; “the old chateau of
Overghem--one of the richest seignories of Flanders in its day--sadly
changed now; but come, follow me.”
So saying, he led the way into the hall, where detaching a rude lantern
that was hung against the wall, he ascended the broad oak stairs.
I could trace, by the fitful gleam of the light, that the walls had been
painted in fresco, the architraves of the windows and doors being richly
carved, in all the grotesque extravagance of old Flemish art; a gallery,
which traversed the building, was hung with old pictures, apparently
family portraits, but they were all either destroyed by damp or rotting
with neglect; at the extremity of this, a narrow stair conducted us by a
winding ascent to the upper story of the tower, where, for the first
time, my companion had recourse to a key; with this, he opened a low,
pointed door, and ushered me into an apartment, at which, I could
scarcely help expressing my surprise, aloud, as I entered.
The room was of small dimensions, but seemed actually, the boudoir of a
palace. Rich cabinets in buhl, graced the walls, brilliant in all the
splendid costliness of tortoise-shell and silver inlaying; bronzes of
the rarest kind; pictures; vases; curtains of gorgeous damask covered
the windows; and a chimney-piece of carved black oak, representing a
pilgrimage, presented a depth of perspective, and a beauty of design,
beyond any thing I had ever witnessed. The floor was covered with an old
tapestry of Ouden-arde, spread over a heavy Persian rug, into which the
feet sank at every step, while a silver lamp, of antique mould, threw a
soft, mellow light, around, revolving on an axis, whose machinery played
a slow but soothing melody, delightfully in harmony with all about.
“You like this kind of thing,” said my companion, who watched, with
evident satisfaction, the astonishment and admiration, with which I
regarded every object around me. “That’s a pretty bit of carving there--
that was done by Van Zoost, from a design of Schneider’s; see how the
lobsters are crawling over the tangled sea-weed there, and look how the
leaves seem to fall heavy and flaccid, as if wet with spray. This is
good, too; it was painted by Gherard Dow: it is a portrait of himself;
he is making a study of that little boy who stands there on the table;
see how he has disposed the light, so as to fall on the little fellow’s
side, tipping him from the yellow curls of his round bullet head, to the
angle of his white sabot.
“Yes, you’re right, that is by Van Dyck; only a sketch to be sure, but
has all his manner. I like the Velasquez yonder better, but they both
possess the same excellence. _They_, could represent _birth_. Just see
that dark fellow there, he’s no beauty you’ll say, but regard him
closely, and tell me, if he’s one to take a liberty with; look at his
thin, clenched lip, and that long thin, pointed chin, with its straight
stiff beard--can there be a doubt he was a gentleman? Take care, gently,
your elbow grazed it. That, is a specimen of the old Japan china--a lost
art now, they cannot produce the blue colour, you see there, running
into green. See, the flowers are laid on after the cup is baked, and the
birds are a separate thing after all; but come, this is, perhaps,
tiresome work to you, follow me.”
Notwithstanding my earnest entreaty to remain, he took me by the arm,
and opening a small door, covered by a mirror, led me into another room,
the walls and ceiling of which were in dark oak wainscot; a single
picture occupied the space above the chimney, to which, however, I gave
little attention, my eyes being fixed upon a most appetizing supper,
which figured on a small table in the middle of the room. Not even the
savoury odour of the good dishes, or my host’s entreaty to begin, could
turn me from the contemplation of the antique silver covers, carved in
the richest fashion. The handles of the knives were fashioned into
representations of saints and angels, and the costly ruby glasses, of
Venetian origin, were surrounded with cases of gold filagree, of the
most delicate and beautiful character.
“We must be our own attendants,” said the host. “What have you there?
Here are some Ostende oysters, _en matelot;_ that is a small capon
_truffé_; and, here are some cutlets _aux points d’asperge_, But let us
begin, and explore as we proceed; a glass of Chablis, with your oysters;
what a pity these Burgundy wines are inaccessible to you in England!
Chablis, scarcely bears the sea, of half a dozen bottles, one, is
drinkable; the same of the red wines; and what is there so generous? not
that we are to despise our old friend, Champagne; and now that you’ve
helped yourself to _paté_, let’s us have a bumper. By-the-bye, have they
abandoned that absurd notion they used to have in England about
Champagne? when I was there, they never served it during the first
course. Now Champagne should come, immediately after your soup--your
glass of Sherry or Madeira, is a holocaust offered up to bad cookery;
for if the soup were safe, Chablis or Sauterne is your fluid. How is the
capon? good, I’m glad of it. These countries excel in their
_poulardes_.”
In this fashion my companion ran on, accompanying each plate with some
commentary on its history, or concoction; a kind of dissertation, I must
confess, I have no manner of objection to, especially, when delivered by
a host who illustrates his theorem, not by “plates” but “dishes.”
Supper over, we wheeled the table to the wall; and drawing forward
another, on which the wine and desert were already laid out, prepared to
pass a pleasant and happy evening, in all form.
“Worse countries than Holland, Mr. O’Leary,” said my companion, as he
sipped his Burgundy, and looked with ecstasy at the rich colour of the
wine through the candle.
“When seen thus,” said I, “I don’t know its equal.”
“Why, perhaps this is rather a favourable specimen of a smuggler’s
cave,” replied he, laughing. “Better than old Dirk’s, eh? By-the-bye, do
you know, Scott?”
“No; I am sorry to say that I am not acquainted with him.”
“What the devil could have led him into such a blunder as to make
Hatteraik, a regular Dutchman, sing a German song? Why, ‘Ich Bin
liederlich’ is good Hoch-Deutsch, and Saxon to boot. A Hollander, might
just as well have chanted modern Greek, or Coptic. I’ll wager you that
Rubens there, over the chimney, against a crown-piece, you’ll not find a
Dutchman, from Dort to Nimegen, could repeat the lines, that he has made
a regular national song of; and again, in Quentin Durward, he has made
all the Liege folk speak German, That, was even, a worse mistake. Some
of them speak French; but the nation, the people, are Walloons, and have
as much idea of German as a Hottentot has, of the queen of hearts. Never
mind, he’s a glorious fellow for all that, and here’s his health. When
will Ireland have his equal, to chronicle her feats of field and flood,
and make her land as classic, as Scott has done his own!”
While we rambled on, chatting of all that came uppermost, the wine
passed freely across the narrow table, and the evening wore on. My
curiosity to know more of one, who, on whatever he talked, seemed
thoroughly informed, grew gradually more and more; and at last I
ventured to remind him, that he had half promised me the previous
evening, to let me hear something of his own history.
“No, no,” said he laughing; “story telling is poor work for the teller
and the listener too; and when a man’s tale has not even brought a moral
to himself, it’s scarcely likely, to be more generous towards his
neighbour.”
“Of course,” said I, “I have no claim, as a stranger----”
“Oh, as to that,” interrupted he, “somehow I feel as though we were
longer acquainted. I’ve seen much of the world, and know by this time
that some men begin to know each other from the starting post--others
never do, though they travel a life long together;--so that on that
score, no modesty. If you care for my story, fill your glass, and let’s
open another flask, and here it’s for you, though I warn you beforehand
the narrative is somewhat of the longest.”