IN THE WALLOON COUNTRY
The line of the old Flemish principality ran from Antwerp southwest to
Courtrai, but today the line that divides the French and the Flemish
speaking Belgians runs due east and west, from Visé to Courtrai, with
Brussels midway in its course.
North of the line are the fertile plains and gardens, the busy cities
and the factories, of Flanders. Through them flows the Scheldt, the
river of commerce.
South of the line are the mines and the mountains, the foundries and the
forests, of Namur, Liège, Hainault, and the Ardennes. This is the
Walloon country, through which runs the Meuse, the river of romance.
In the north live the stolid, easy-going, devout Flemish peasantry,
while in the south are the lively, energetic, enterprising Walloons.
They are a larger people physically than their neighbours, more heavily
built, and of darker colouring, for there is a strain of Spanish blood
in their ancestry. Many Walloons came to America in the seventeenth
century, and we have had few immigrants of better stock. Showalter says
that the women are "famed for their industry, thrift, cleanliness,
capacity for hard work, and cheerfulness whatever their lot."
The country of the Meuse and the Sambre is by far the loveliest part of
Belgium. It abounds in myths and legends suited to the wild, romantic
scenery of its hills and valleys. It abounds also in the villas and
châteaux of the Belgian _noblesse_ and _haute bourgeoisie_. The wealthy
people of the cities delighted in their summers among the mountains of
the Ardennes, while many families of ancient lineage but lesser fortunes
lived the year round in their old-world houses.
Some of the châteaux were of exceptional beauty. Our trip to Beloeil,
the seat of the de Ligne family, will never be forgotten, for it was the
finest château in Belgium. His Highness the Prince de Ligne had asked us
out to luncheon, and we started about nine, motoring out toward Hal and
Enghien.
It was a bright, sunny day, and the country rolled away on every side,
checkered with its crops in varying stages of ripeness into fields of
green and orange and lemon and brown. The roadside was flecked with
red poppies and blue cornflowers, and quaint farmhouses dotted the
landscape. We passed deep forests, too, with glimpses of old châteaux
through the vistas.
[Illustration: _A Village in the Ardennes_]
At Hal there was a lovely old church, with a Virgin famous for miracles.
We stopped and went in; choir boys were singing antiphonally, and there
was a sweet smell of incense and a soft, religious light.
At Enghien there was a château which was favoured with a fairy
_protectrice_, no less than Melusine, so famous in song and story. Long,
long ago she married a mortal, Comte Raymond de Forêt, and raised for
him a castle which she never ceased to guard. Always before the death of
a member of the family "_la fée Melusine apparaît sur la terrasse du
château_." The Luxembourgs and other noble families changed their
pedigrees in order that they might claim descent from fairy Melusine.
Of lower degree but even greater service were the fairies who dwelt
aforetimes in a cave at Arquenne. The good folk of the neighbourhood
used to leave their soiled linen there of an evening, with some food. In
the morning they would return to find that the "little people" had done
their work and left the clothes all clean and white.
After passing numberless quaint and picturesque villages we came at
length to the gates of the park behind which stood the château of
Beloeil, with its courtyard and inclosing wings. We followed the road
lined with orange trees and crossed a bridge over the moat into the
broad court with the façade of the house on three sides. Footmen lined
the steps as we mounted into the cool vestibule, from which we passed
through various rooms into the handsome salons.
The house was a museum of valuable and historic things--_potiches_,
curios and rare furniture. On the walls were great pictures representing
scenes in the story of the de Lignes, and presentation portraits of
kings and queens.
Through the windows we could see the wide moat outside, and the English
garden opposite with its beds of brilliant flowers and its background of
trees and foliage. Soon after luncheon we went out into the sunny glare
and the great heat of the open terraces, and crossed into the cool
alleys of the French garden.
A great lagoon opposite the main terrace was continued in a vista
through the forest off to the horizon, broken by a monumental sculpture
which was reflected in the water. The wood was divided formally by
alleys leading to some architectural or natural detail, and open glades
were arranged with pools, while a little rivulet, made artificially
natural, went winding through the woods with a pretty path alongside.
The Prince permitted the greater part of the garden and park to be used
by the people of his little town, but Beloeil was so out of the way
that strangers never went there. I use the past tense, because the
château has been razed to the ground since the war began. I also learn
that two members of the de Ligne family have been killed.
In order to carry out our plans we had to leave Beloel in the heat of
the early afternoon. Motoring out again across the rolling landscape we
came to Mons, passing on the way through some of the de Croÿ properties
and forests. This region is the great coal-mining district, the
Borinage, and the beauty of the scenery is rather spoiled by the huge,
conical mountains of the detritus which is brought out of the mines, and
by the black, sooty look of things.
Mons was a dull, quiet old town, rather picturesque in its way, with its
old church and belfry crowning the hill. As we came out of the church
the chime of bells in the tower musically rang the hour, sounding
sweetly in the sleepy silence of the place. The stillness has since been
broken by other sounds than those, for Mons figured largely in the
battle of the Meuse.
From there we were off once more to visit the ruins of the old château
of Havré, once the stronghold and residence of the de Croÿ family. It
rose high out of a stagnant moat, all gray and pinkish, with irregular
architecture and a tall tower with a bulbous top. From this rose the
cross of Lorraine, for the de Croÿs quartered their arms with this great
family. The château was quite stately and magnificent, and its
courtyard, all grass-grown, must have seen fine sights in its day.
Not far from Mons is Binche, a town celebrated for its carnival held on
Mardi-Gras--the festival of the Dancing Gilles. In spite of the fact
that it has always been a source of much pride to the Belgians, its only
unique feature was that of the Gilles, which distinguished it from other
carnivals.
These Gilles, or dancing men, were characterized by their headdress and
humps. The former was most striking and elaborate, resembling in shape
the old top-hat of our great-grandfathers, and surmounted with
magnificent ostrich feathers three or four feet long, giving the
wearers the stature of giants. From each hat, besides, flowed wide,
variegated ribbons. The trousers of a Gille were bedecked with trimmings
of real lace, and ribbons matching those on the hat. About the waist was
a silk belt from which hung small bells. Each Gille wore a mask.
The entire outfit cost from forty to fifty dollars, which was a large
sum for the peasant youths who were generally chosen by the carnival
committee. But the honour of being a Gille was so great, since only good
dancers could be selected, and carried with it such prestige among the
local damsels, that the young men were only too pleased to make the
necessary financial sacrifice.
On the afternoon of Mardi-Gras the Gilles, in full uniform and preceded
by the local brass bands and musical clubs, appeared in procession and
marched, two hundred strong, to the Grande Place, dancing to the music
of the band. At every few steps they stopped, bending this way and that
to make the bells at their waist ring more effectively. Their streamers
floated to and fro with every motion, enveloping them in a rainbow of
ribbon. The simultaneous ringing of bells and thumping of wooden sabots
on the cobblestones sounded like the echo of a cavalry charge.
Each Gille had a straw basket hanging from one side of his belt and
filled with oranges, with which he bombarded the spectators as he danced
along, men appointed for the purpose following close behind to see that
the baskets were kept filled. A general battle of oranges between Gilles
and carnival merrymakers ensued, lasting till the procession reached the
town hall. In front of this, on a platform, sat the mayor and his
officials, and here the Gilles terminated the day's festivities by a
sort of war dance which gave them a chance to show what they could do.
The public joined in the fun, and soon thousands of persons--men, women
and children--were gaily waltzing around the Grande Place. The sight of
an entire population in carnival costume and masked, dancing in the open
air to the music of the bands, was not one to be easily forgotten. The
sport continued till late evening, when it was brought to an end by the
mayor, who formally awarded a gold medal to the Gille who had proved
himself the most expert dancer of them all.
From Binche we motored on again, calling on Prince Henri de Croÿ's
cousins who lived in the château of Le Roeulx, where Prince Henri
himself had been born and brought up. Part of this house dates from 1100
A.D., and after its destruction in succeeding wars was rebuilt and added
to repeatedly. For six centuries the de Croÿs have lived there without a
break.
[Illustration: PRINCE HENRI DE CROŸ.]
In passing through a small town one came suddenly on its gate and saw
the wide-standing façade of the château facing across the terraces of
the park. Inside there was a Gothic vestibule, and the rooms stretching
into the wings were old-fashioned and interesting, some of them with old
Chinese paper on the walls. On the rear side, towards the park, the
ground fell away abruptly, so that the building seemed to stand very
high, and one looked out over the tops of the trees of the forest. The
living room was, strangely enough, at the top of the house, and was
approached by a great double stairway with very old carved balustrades
and paneling.
Of still a different type was Ophem, the seat of the de Grunne family.
The château was very quaint and pretty, an old monastery with a simple,
vine-covered façade surrounding a little flower-bordered and parterred
garden with a high balustraded wall at one side, shaded by overhanging
trees. The front had been added at a later time and was quite rococo in
style, with many heavy moldings. This looked out over a terrace with a
bit of park sloping down to a lagoon. Flowers in formal beds and rows
gave colour everywhere. Near by was a dear little chapel with a statue
in a niche outside; we were told that the niche had been designed by the
Comtesse de Flandre.
After tea we set off for home, scooting down towards Wavre and Perwez,
through the land of Brabant. From the broken, hilly country we dropped
gradually back among the rolling fields once more, all aglow with their
crops, through the tree-lined avenues of the Forêt de Soignes, and so
into Brussels.
The château life was not one of gaiety--in fact, I think perhaps most of
us would have considered it rather dull. There was some riding on
horseback, walking, and a little tennis, but on the whole not very much
outdoor exercise. Some one has said that "they raised the habit of doing
nothing in the open air to the level of a science."
The chief interest of the men was shooting and hunting. On many of the
properties the game was carefully preserved. When the season opened,
château life became for the time quite gay, with _déjeuners de chasse_
and _dîners_ _de chasse_, lively reunions of the fashionable set. They
hunted foxes and hares, and a few kept packs of hounds. Over the border
in the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg, where some Belgians held property, the
wild boar was occasionally hunted.
As the Belgians are nearly all musical, the children of the family were
taught to play various instruments, and the evenings were passed
pleasantly enough, some member of the group singing while others played
the piano, 'cello, or violin.
In the Ardennes country the houses were often near enough for frequent
calls and visits, made in the late afternoon when all would assemble
round the tea table. The quiet days were rarely broken by even the
smallest excitement. These families certainly passed from one extreme to
the other during the early months of the war.
* * * * *
Another motor trip took us somewhat farther afield, by Liège and Spa
into the Ardennes, and back through Dinant and Namur. This is the
Belgium of the Middle Ages, of Emperor Charlemagne and all his kin, of
wars, and of wonders without end. Even its once famous watering place we
found a thing of the past and not out of harmony with the legendary
land round about.
Liège is the capital of the Walloon district, and with its dozen strong
fortresses was, with Namur, considered the chief defense of the Meuse
valley. Namur was supposed to block the road between France and
Brussels, while Liège was to fend off Germany from the Belgian capital.
It commands all the roads from Germany, indeed it was the door to
Belgium which, once forced open, left the whole country at the mercy of
the invaders. In ten days from its fall, the government officials
removed from Brussels to Antwerp, later to Ostend, and finally to Havre.
In a fortnight the Germans had hewn their way to Charleroi. Liège as we
saw it had about two hundred thousand inhabitants, and was beautifully
placed on a high bluff overlooking the river, with hills and fertile
valleys surrounding it.
Not far from there is the ancient little town of Jupille, which they say
is haunted by the shade of Pepin the Short, who lived there long ago.
They still showed one the ruins of an old mill at the lower end of the
village where Pepin's wife, Bertha of the Big Foot, took refuge from her
irate lord on the occasion of some misunderstanding between them.
[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF LIÈGE.]
This Bertha was the mother of the great Charlemagne and lived to a ripe
old age, coming down to us as the heroine of many legends. It is claimed
that her famous son was born in this same village of Jupille, although
this is much disputed. The author of "La Meuse Beige" suggests that the
Emperor may have been born in a carriage or at some village inn, for
"Pepin his father constantly found himself on the high roads about 742,
and Bertha his mother was obliged, like the honest woman she was, to go
from one place to another to meet her lord."
At Liège we crossed the river, with its pretty embankments and bridges,
into the more hilly country, climbing up winding roads that followed the
ravines and streams, into higher places where the air was fresh and
fragrant. Some of the towns through which we passed had a really Alpine
look. Finally we turned into the long avenue which led us into Spa.
This pretty town, so famous as the first watering place in Europe, and
for a long time the most fashionable, was deadly quiet that warm summer
afternoon. On the terraces of the casino there was not a soul to be
seen, and only two or three forlorn-looking drinkers at the
spring-house. Even the promenades were empty.
We thought it might be the hour when people were resting, so later we
fared forth to see the gaieties of which we had heard so much. This time
we found half a dozen others walking aimlessly up and down the streets.
At dinner, silence reigned. In the evening we tried our best to cheer
up, and went to the casino where a few persons were scattered about the
auditorium listening to music. This seemed to be the height of the
season at Spa, whose name has come into our language as a synonym for
gaiety and relaxation.
So we got away next morning and ran up a long, steep, splendid road on
to fine rolling uplands that waved away like the Bohemian Highlands,
with lovely views in the blue distance. We were some fifteen hundred
feet up, and the air was very refreshing as we sped along. Now and then
we dipped again into valleys with wooded slopes and ravines with
palisades. We were in the real Ardennes country, the famous "Forest of
Arden" of "As You Like It," which was sung by Ariosto a century or so
before that.
In this region was the church of St. Hubert, to which peasants made
Christian pilgrimage. Under the choir was a crypt where they knelt. A
thread from the stole of the ancient saint was said to have had the
power to cure hydrophobia, if aided by cauterization. But more easily,
"one may prevent hydrophobia by carrying on the finger a ring or wearing
a medal which has touched the relics of the saint; also by eating or
making one's animals eat the blessed bread of St. Hubert." This bread is
given chiefly to dogs, I believe.
We ran by picturesque La Roches and Rochefort, with fine smooth roads
following the beds of little rivers in the valleys and climbing in
zigzags the low mountains till we came, about one o'clock, to Han. Here
we went at once, of course, to the Grottes de Han, which were very
popular with tourists. It was an experience worth having. We passed
through endless passages, grotesque and beautiful with stalactites and
stalagmites, the varied effects well lighted by electricity. The finest
thing, most terrible and impressive, was the Salle du Dome, where the
black shadows were lost in the immensity of the vault. It is a cavern
four hundred feet high and more than that in breadth, with a sort of
mountain of broken boulders up which winds a path into the dusky gloom
and blackness of the upper regions. But I must say it was more
suggestive of the lower regions than the upper, especially when a guide
with a flaring torch climbed and climbed, disappearing behind cliffs of
darkness and reappearing on precipices till he stood at last, a tiny
figure far above us, in Satan's Pulpit, and lighted a fire that seemed
to burn in another world.
Later we came to the banks of the subterranean river that flows through
the mountain, and got into boats. As we floated down, the vaults
reëchoed the singing of our fellow-travelers. But presently we saw ahead
of us the light of day, peering in through the end of the cave, and
slipped out--into the rain.
The car met us there, so we were able to get away again quickly. Off
once more over the fine roadways, we passed Ciergnon, the summer château
of the King, on its high bluff overlooking the vast landscape. Through
more broken country we came down into the valley of the Meuse at Dinant,
then one of the most picturesque places in Europe. Its palisades and
striking cliff formations were crowned with ruined castles, like a
miniature Rhine. The city has since been destroyed.
The abbey of Waulsort, which became a château, was at one bend of the
river. According to tradition, it was founded by Count Eilbert in the
reign of Louis IV--about the middle of the tenth century. The Count went
one day to a fair in Picardie, and there he saw a horse which was
much to his liking. He had no money with him, but offered the priest who
owned the animal his beautiful graven beryl as a pledge till he could
send home for funds. The priest accepted the offer and gave him the
horse, but when the Count returned with the money he denied that he had
the jewel or had so much as seen the Count before in all his life. In a
fury Eilbert collected his men-at-arms and attacked the city where dwelt
the forgetful cleric, sacking and destroying it, even to the church.
Then his anger cooled, and he regretted his hasty vengeance. As a sign
of penitence he not only rebuilt the church, but erected the abbey also.
[Illustration: _Château de Waulsort on the Meuse_]
Just down the river from Waulsort is the cave of Freya, near a château
of the same name. The cavern is not large but is very beautiful, with
shining white stalactites, pointed columns piercing lofty vaults, and
jeweled cascades. One of its chambers has an opening in the roof which
lets in the daylight. Some young men who were anxious to avoid the
conscription of the Empire are said to have let themselves down into
this cave by means of ropes. They lived there for some time, cooking by
a small fire whose smoke blackened the walls of the cave, as you can
still see. They were contented to stay quite close to this one room,
without much exploration, and it remained for a dog to really discover
what lay beyond.
The dog was a small one, and in chasing a fox he followed it through a
hole in the earth and into the farther depths of the cave. Hearing his
barks reëchoing weirdly, the hunters enlarged the opening which he had
found and followed him into the series of halls and galleries which make
up the cavern. On the walls are traces of pagan ceremonies which lead
scholars to believe that the place was used in ancient times for the
worship of the goddess Freya, who was the patron of love and liberty in
the Scandinavian mythology.
Speeding along the river toward Dinant we came to the famous Rock of
Bayard, a tall pinnacle split off from the main cliff, with the road
passing through a narrow gorge between. It has been renowned since the
days of Charlemagne, when Bayard, the enchanted horse, with the four
sons of Aymon clinging to his back, leaped across the chasm in mad
flight from the vengeance of the Emperor. As one of the brothers was no
less than sixteen feet in height, and the other three nearly as tall, it
was really something of an achievement.
But Bayard was a very remarkable animal. The sons of Aymon had received
him as a gift from their cousin Maugis, along with an excellent sword
named Flamberge, whose very wind would cut off a man's head. It seems
that this Maugis had heard of a wonderful steed reared on an island in
the Meuse and kept there by a giant named Rouart. So he went over and
called on the giant, telling him stories till he fell fast asleep. Then
he set out to find the horse, which he soon discovered in a cavern
stable guarded by a dragon. With no other weapon than a fork, Maugis
slew the monster. When Bayard came forward to see what was going on, the
young man asked politely if he might mount him. As the horse made no
objection, Maugis mounted and rode him down to his boat.
[Illustration: ROCK OF BAYARD, DINANT.]
After many adventures, Bayard and the four sons of Aymon were all
captured by Charlemagne, who pardoned the young men on condition that
the eldest should make a pilgrimage beyond the seas and free his horse
before he went.
But the older brother was hardly out of sight when the Emperor ordered
Bayard brought to a bridge across the Meuse for his inspection. "Ah,
Bayard," said he, "you have plagued me many times, but I have you now!"
With that he had a great stone fastened about the horse's neck and the
animal thrown into the river. When he saw that Bayard sank to the bottom
he cried out, "I have nothing more to ask. Finally he is destroyed!" But
Charlemagne rejoiced too soon, for the horse struck off the weight, rose
to the surface, and set out for shore. There he shook himself, gave a
loud neigh, and was off at top speed for the sheltering depths of the
forests of the Ardennes, where, they tell you, he still lives to this
day.
Of Dinant so much has been written that there is little new to be said.
In the Middle Ages it was famous for the work of its brass and copper
smiths, and for its cakes. These were made of a sort of gingerbread and
were often celebrated in song. One rime tells of the plight of the
bakers who, in their anxiety to entertain properly the governor of their
province, made in his honour a cake so large that the biggest oven in
town was a foot too small to hold it.
Because of its odd Latin inscription, the bridge of Dinant has also been
much sung. Says one of the ditties:
"Although the bridge of Dinant is a fine bridge of stone,
Its beautiful inscription is finer still, I own.
'Tis writ in perfect Latin, so read and do not jeer:
'Hic pons confectus est'--it was built, you see, right here!"
All around Dinant it is a storied land. There was, for instance, the cow
of Ciney, who made quite a stir in her day. It happened in the year of
our Lord 1274, when the counts of Luxembourg and Namur were holding
tournament at Andenne, and all the knights for leagues around had come
flocking to show their prowess in feats of arms. Into the throngs
gathered to watch the spectacle came a peasant, leading behind him the
cow of cows. "He knew that after the heroic strife the contestants were
accustomed to eat largely, and however much their glory, nothing was so
comforting as a quarter of roast beef. Consequently he brought to sell
to the butchers of Andenne a cow, superb and without faults, save for a
slight blemish which did not in the least detract from the savour of the
meat--she was not really the property of the young man, for he had
stolen her."
The cow belonged by rights to a good bourgeois of Ciney whose name was
Rigaud. As it happened, he was in the crowd and recognized his property.
Finding near him the sheriff of his town he stated his case and demanded
instant justice on the robber. Now the sheriff was out of his own
province, and had no authority to act. So he engaged the young man in
conversation and led him artfully out of Andenne till they had crossed
the boundaries of his own territory. Once there it was, of course, a
very simple matter to seize him and hang him by the neck till he was
dead.
But the matter did not end there, in spite of the good sheriff's
precautions. The peasant was not a native of either Ciney or Andenne,
but of the village of Jallet. His fellow villagers considered themselves
affronted, and complained to their overlord. He was more than
affronted--he was positively outraged. Summoning his vassals he set
forth to Ciney for the purpose of sending to its long rest the soul of
the sheriff thereof. Ciney, however, closed its gates and sent to its
brother towns for aid. Jallet likewise called upon its friends and laid
siege to Ciney. The Duke of Brabant became involved in the war that
followed, along with the counts of Flanders, Namur and Luxembourg. The
Marshal of Liège invaded the Ardennes with fire and flame.
Presumably the cow of Ciney returned to her master's home on the night
of her abductor's death. But for more than two years the war on her
behalf was waged, and fifteen or twenty thousand men were killed. At
last the King of France was called in to settle the dispute, and the
weary disputants accepted his verdict thankfully enough. It was to the
effect that each side being equally to blame, they must bear their own
losses and leave things as they were before the war--so far as they
could. Thus ended "_la guerre de la vache de Ciney_."
Beyond Dinant lies the little village of Bouvignes, whose ruined tower
of Crève-Coeur has its story, too. In the sixteenth century the French
laid siege to the place, which was an important town at that time. Among
its defenders were three men of Namur whose beautiful wives had followed
them to the front, fighting always at their sides like Amazons. When
they saw their lords fall dying before them and realized that the enemy
was making the last assault, they climbed to the top of the tower and,
joining hands, threw themselves upon the rocks below.
There have been forts in Namur since Roman days, and perhaps before
that. A year ago there were nine, for the city with its thirty thousand
inhabitants stands at the junction of the two rivers, Sambre and Meuse.
Namur was the door to France, and the nine forts were its bolts and
bars. On the 22d of August the Germans attacked it, and the next day the
French, who had come to its defense, were forced to withdraw, defeated.
Namur as we saw it was a busy and prosperous town. The Sambre is a water
route to the Borinage, and the Meuse a financial asset to any city. Its
streets were wide, with many parks. One feature made it specially
attractive--on the lamp-posts hung circular baskets just beneath the
light, filled with flowers and hanging vines.
Not far from Namur is the old hermitage of St. Hubert, clinging to a
rocky cliff. There, in the Middle Ages, it was customary to illustrate
Bible stories by the use of marionettes, small wooden figures which
moved about the stage at the will of the monks. They were capable of
acting out before the eyes of the marveling country folk the story of
the Passion, of the cock that crowed thrice, and the penitence of Peter,
stirring sluggish imaginations to renewed devotion. "At the right,
against the wall, you see a table. There, you should remember, rested
the scaffolding in the midst of which was played the Passion. From the
opening below, the man of God pulled the strings of the machine.... The
man of God was the hermit, at once the author of the actors and of the
piece, and impressario of the troop which he had made with his own
hands."
Such was the Walloon country, as we saw it in our journeyings. It was
our last trip in Belgium, for my husband received word that he had been
named Ambassador to Japan. So we packed up our things and sadly said
good-by to all the friends who had been so kind to us. Little did we
think that there was soon to be war, and that many of them we should
never see again.
[Illustration: OLD HOUSES ON THE SAMBRE, NAMUR.]
But Belgium has been through many wars before this, many sieges and
sackings and burnings, so we can feel sure that the spell of its
enchantment will survive the gray wave of soldiers which has swept
across the land during these last sad months.