THE BÉGUINAGE--CHURCHES--THE RELIC OF THE HOLY BLOOD
Bruges is one of the most Catholic towns in Catholic Flanders. Convents
and religious houses of all sorts have always flourished there, and
at present there are no less than forty-five of these establishments.
Probably one of the most interesting to English people is the Couvent
des Dames Anglaises, which was founded in 1629 by the English
Augustinian Nuns of Ste. Monica's Convent at Louvain. Its chapel, with
a fine dome of the eighteenth century, contains a beautiful altar built
of marbles brought from Egypt, Greece, and Persia; and amongst its
possessions is the rosary of Catherine of Braganza (Queen of Charles
II. of England), who died at Bruges.
And then there is the Béguinage. There are Béguinages at Amsterdam and
Breda, but with this exception of Holland, Belgium is now the only
country in Europe where these societies, the origin of whose name is
uncertain, are to be found. They consist of spinsters or widows, who,
though bound by a few conventual oaths during their connection with
the society, may return to the world. On entering each sister pays a
sum of money to the general funds, and at first lives for a time along
with other novices. At the end of this term of probation they are at
liberty to occupy one of the small dwellings within the precincts of
the Béguinage, and keep house for themselves. They spend their time in
sewing, making lace, educating poor children, visiting the sick, or
any form of good works for which they may have a taste. They are under
a Mother Superior, the 'Grande Dame,' appointed by the Bishop of the
diocese, and must attend the services in the church of their Béguinage.
Thus the Béguine, living generally in a house of her own, and free
to reenter the world, occupies a different position from the nuns of
the better-known Orders, though so long as she remains a member of
her society she is bound by the vows of chastity and obedience to her
ecclesiastical superiors.
[Illustration: BRUGES
The Béguinage.]
The Béguinage at Bruges, founded in the thirteenth century, is situated
near the Minnewater, or Lac d'Amour, which every visitor is taken to
see. This sheet of placid water, bordered by trees, which was a
harbour in the busy times, is one of the prettiest bits of Bruges;
and they say that if you go there at midnight, and stand upon the
bridge which crosses it on the south, any wish which you may form will
certainly come to pass. It is better to go alone, for strict silence
is necessary to insure the working of this charm. A bridge over the
water which runs from the Lac d'Amour leads through a gateway into the
Béguinage, where a circle of small houses--whitewashed, with stepped
gables, and green woodwork on the windows--surrounds a lawn planted
with tall trees. There is a view of the spire of Notre Dame beyond the
roofs, a favourite subject for the painters who come here in numbers
on summer afternoons. The Church of Ste. Elizabeth, an unpretentious
building, stands on one side of the lawn; and within it, many times a
day, the Sisters may be seen on their knees repeating the Offices of
the Church. When the service is finished they rise, remove their white
head-coverings, and return demurely to their quaint little homes.
Bruges has, needless to say, many churches, but nothing which can be
compared to the magnificent Cathedral of Antwerp, to the imposing front
of Ste. Gudule at Brussels, or to the huge mass which forms such a
conspicuous landmark for several leagues round Malines. Still, some of
the churches are not without interest: the Cathedral of St. Sauveur,
where the stalls of the Knights of the Order of the Golden Fleece,
which was founded at Bruges, are to be seen in the choir, and over one
of them the arms of Edward IV. of England; the curious little Church of
Jerusalem, with its 'Holy Sepulchre,' an exact copy of the traditionary
grave in Palestine--a dark vault, entered by a passage so low that one
must crawl through it, and where a light burns before a figure which
lies there wrapped in a linen cloth; and the Church of Notre Dame,
which contains some treasures, such as a lovely white marble statue
of the Virgin and Child, from the chisel of Michael Angelo; the tombs
of Charles the Bold of Burgundy and his daughter--the 'Gentle Mary,'
whose untimely death at Bruges in 1482, after a short married life,
saved her from witnessing the misfortunes which clouded the last years
of her husband, the Archduke Maximilian; and a portion of the Holy
Cross, which came to Bruges in the fifteenth century. The story goes
that a rich merchant, a Dutchman from Dordrecht, Schoutteeten by name,
who lived at Bruges, was travelling through Syria in the year 1380.
One day, when journeying with a caravan, he saw a man hiding something
in a wood, and, following him, discovered that it was a box, which
he suspected might contain something valuable. Mijnheer Schoutteeten
appropriated the box, and carried it home from Syria to Dordrecht,
where a series of miracles began to occur of such a nature as to make
it practically certain that the box (or some wood which it contained,
for on this point the legend is vague) was a part of the true Cross!
In course of time Schoutteeten died in the odour of sanctity, having
on his death-bed expressed a wish that the wood which he had brought
from the East should be given to the Church of Notre Dame at Bruges.
His widow consoled herself by taking a second husband, who, Uutenhove
by name, fulfilled the pious request of his predecessor, and thus
another relic was added to the large collection which is preserved in
the various churches and religious houses of Bruges. It was brought to
Flanders in the year 1473, and must have been a source of considerable
revenue to the Church since then.
The buildings of Notre Dame, with the well-known Gruthuise Mansion
which adjoins them, and the singularly graceful spire, higher than the
Belfry tower, rising from the exquisite portico called 'Het Paradijs,'
form a very beautiful group; but, with this exception, there is nothing
remarkable about the churches of Bruges. One of them, however, has a
peculiar interest--the Chapelle du Saint-Sang, which stands in the
Place du Bourg in the corner next to the Hôtel de Ville. It is built
in two stories. The lower, a dark, solemn chapel, like a crypt, was
dedicated to St. Basil at an early period, and is one of the oldest
buildings in Bruges. The greater part of the upper story does not date
further back than the fifteenth century. But it is not the fabric
itself, venerable though that is, but what it contains, that makes this
place the Holy of Holies in the religious life of Bruges; for here, in
a costly shrine of gold and silver adorned with precious stones, they
guard the wonderful relic which was brought from Palestine in the time
of the Crusaders by Thierry d'Alsace, Count of Flanders, and which is
still worshipped by thousands of devout believers every year.
Thierry d'Alsace, the old chroniclers tell us, visited the Holy Land
four times, and was the leader of the Flemish warriors who, roused by
the eloquence of St. Bernard of Clairvaux, joined the second Crusade
in the summer of 1147. He had married Sybilla, sister of Baldwin, King
of Jerusalem; and when the time came for his return to Europe, his
brother-in-law and the Patriarch of Jerusalem resolved to reward his
services by giving him a part of the most valuable relic which the
Church in Palestine possessed, which was a small quantity of a red
liquid, said to be blood and water, which, according to immemorial
tradition, Joseph of Arimathæa had preserved after he had washed the
dead body of Jesus.
The earlier history of this relic is unknown, and is as obscure as
that of the other 'Relics of the Holy Blood' which are to be found
in various places. But there can be no doubt whatever that in the
twelfth century the Christians at Jerusalem believed that it had been
in existence since the day of the Crucifixion. It was, therefore,
presented to Thierry with great solemnity in the Church of the Holy
Sepulchre during the Christmas festivals of 1148. The Patriarch, having
displayed the vessel which contained it to the people, divided the
contents into two portions, one of which he poured into a small vial,
the mouth of which was carefully sealed up and secured with gold wire.
This vessel was next enclosed in a crystal tube, shut at the ends with
golden stoppers, to which a chain of silver was attached. Then the
Patriarch gave the tube to Baldwin, from whose hands Thierry, kneeling
on the steps of the altar, received it with profound emotion.[3]
The Count, however, did not think his hands, which had shed so much
human blood, worthy to convey the relic home; and he entrusted it to
Leonius, chaplain of the Flemish Army, who hung it round his neck, and
so carried it to Bruges, where he arrived in May, 1150, along with
Thierry, who, mounted on a white horse led by two bare-footed monks,
and holding the relic in his hand, was conducted in state to the Bourg,
where he deposited the precious object in the Chapel of St. Basil,
which is commonly known as the Chapel of the Holy Blood.
After some time the relic was found to be dry, but, strange to say, it
became liquid, we are told upon the authority of Pope Clement V., every
Friday, 'usually at six o'clock.' This weekly miracle continued till
about the year 1325. Since then it has never taken place except once,
in 1388, when the vial containing the relic was being transferred to a
new crystal tube; and on this occasion William, Bishop of Ancona, was
astonished to see the relic turning redder than usual, and some drops,
as of newly-shed blood, flowing within the vial, which he was holding
in his hand. Many notable persons who were present, one of them the
Bishop of Lincoln, testified to this event!
Other miracles wrought through the agency of this relic are recorded.
A child which had been born dead was taken to the shrine, and came to
life after three days. A young girl who had suffered for twenty months
from an issue of blood, and for whom the doctors could do nothing, was
cured by the application of a piece of cloth which had been used to
cover the relic. Another girl who had been paralyzed for a long time,
being carried into the Chapel of St. Basil, was restored to complete
strength the moment she kissed the crystal tube. In December, 1689, a
fire broke out in the Bourg, and threatened to destroy the Hôtel de
Ville; but a priest brought forth the tube containing the relic, and
held it up before the flames, which were instantly extinguished. These
and many other similar miracles, confirmed by the oath of witnesses
and received by the Church at the present day as authentic, make the
relic an object of profound devotion to the people of Bruges and the
peasants of the surrounding country, who go in crowds to bow before it
twice every Friday, when it is exhibited for public worship.
It was nearly lost on several occasions in the days of almost constant
war, and during the French Revolution it was concealed for some years
in the house of a private citizen. The Chapel of St. Basil suffered
from the disturbed condition of the country, and when Napoleon came to
Bruges in 1810 it was such a complete wreck that the magistrates were
on the point of sweeping it away altogether. But Napoleon saved it,
declaring that when he looked on the ruins he fancied himself once more
amongst the antiquities of Egypt, and that to destroy them would be a
crime. Four years after the Battle of Waterloo the relic was brought
out from its hiding-place, and in 1856 the chapel was restored from the
designs of two English architects, William Brangwyn and Thomas Harper
King.[4]
On the first Monday after the 2nd of May every year the town of
Bruges is full of strangers, who have come to witness the celebrated
'Procession of the Holy Blood,' which there is good reason to believe
has taken place annually (except during the French Revolution) for the
last 755 years.
Very early in the day a Mass is celebrated in the Upper Chapel of the
Holy Blood, which is crowded to the doors. In the crypt, or lower
chapel, where many people are kneeling before the sacred images, the
gloom, the silence, the bent figures dimly seen in the faint yellow
light of a few tapers, make up a weird scene all the morning till
about nine o'clock, when the relic, in its 'châsse,' or tabernacle,
is carried to the Cathedral of St. Sauveur, and placed on the high
altar, while a pontifical Mass is celebrated by one of the Bishops.
When that is done, the procession starts on its march along the chief
thoroughfares of the town. The houses are decorated with flags, and
candles burn in almost every window. Through the narrow streets,
between crowds of people standing on the pavements or looking down from
the windows, while the church bells ring and wreaths of incense fill
the air, bands of music, squadrons of cavalry, crucifixes, shrines,
images, the banners of the parishes and the guilds, heralds in their
varied dresses, bareheaded pilgrims from England, France, and other
countries, pages, maidens in white, bearing palms, or crowns of thorn,
or garlands, priests with relics, acolytes and chanting choristers,
pass slowly along. The buffoonery of the Middle Ages, when giants,
ballet-dancers, and mythological characters figured in the scene, has
been abandoned; but Abraham and Isaac, King David and King Solomon,
Joseph and the Virgin Mary, the Magi, and many saints and martyrs,
walk in the long procession, which is closed by the Bishops and clergy
accompanying the gorgeous shrine containing the small tube of something
red like blood, before which all the people sink to the ground, and
remain kneeling till it has passed.
The proceedings of the day end with a benediction at an altar erected
in front of the Hôtel de Ville. The Bourg is filled from side to side
with those who have taken part in the procession, and by thousands
of spectators who have followed them from all parts of the town to
witness the closing scene. The crowd gathers under the trees and
along the sides of the square, the centre of which, occupied by the
processionists, is a mass of colour, above which the standards and
images which have been carried through the streets rise against the
dark background of the Hôtel de Ville and the Chapel of the Holy Blood.
The relic is taken out of the châsse, and a priest, standing on the
steps of the altar high above the crowd, holds it up to be worshipped.
Everyone bows low, and then, in dead silence, the mysterious object is
carried into the chapel, and with this the chief religious ceremony of
the year at Bruges is brought to a close.
There are sights in Bruges that night, within a stone's-throw of the
Chapel of the Holy Blood, which are worth seeing, they contrast so
strangely with all this fervour of religion.
The curtain has fallen upon the drama of the day. The flags are furled
and put aside. The vestments are in the sacristy. Shrines, canopies,
censers, all the objects carried in the procession, have disappeared
into the churches. The church doors are locked, and the images are left
to stand all night without so much as one solitary worshipper kneeling
before them. The Bourg is empty and dark, steeped in black shadows at
the door of the chapel where the relic has been laid to rest. It is all
quiet there, but a stroll through the Rue de l'Âne Aveugle and across
the canal by the bridge which leads to the purlieus of the fish-markets
brings one upon another scene. Every second house, if not every house,
is a café, 'herberg,' or 'estaminet,' with a bar and sanded floor and
some rough chairs and tables; and on the night of the Procession of the
Holy Blood they are crowded to the doors. Peasants from the country
are there in great force. For some days before and after the sacred
festival the villagers are in the habit of coming into Bruges--whole
families of them, father and mother, sons and daughters, all in their
best finery. They walk through the streets, following the route by
which the Holy Blood is carried, telling their beads and saying their
prayers, crossing themselves, and kneeling at any image of Christ, or
Madonna, or saint, which they may notice at the street corners. It is
curious to watch their sunburnt faces and uncouth ways as they slouch
along, their hands busy with their beads, and their lips never ceasing
for a moment to mutter prayer after prayer. They follow in the wake
of the Procession of the Holy Blood, or wait to fall upon their knees
when it passes and receive the blessing of the Bishop, who walks with
fingers raised, scattering benedictions from side to side. In the
evening, before starting for home, they go to the cafés.
As evening passes into night the sounds of music and dancing are heard.
At the doors people sit drinking round tables placed on the pavement
or in the rank, poisonous gutter. The hot air is heavy with the smell
of decayed fish. Inside the cafés men and women, old and young, are
dancing in the fetid atmosphere to jingling pianos or accordions.
The heat, the close, sour fumes of musty clothing, tobacco, beer,
gin, fried fish, and unwashed humanity, are overpowering. There are
disgusting sights in all directions. Fat women, with red, perspiring
faces and dirty fingers, still clutching their rosaries; tawdry girls,
field-workers, with flushed faces, dancing with country lads, most of
whom are more than half tipsy; ribald jokes and laughter and leering
eyes; reeling, drunken men; maudlin affection in one corner, and
jealous disputing in another; crying babies; beer and gin spilt on the
tables; and all sorts of indecency and hideous details which Swift
might have gloated over or Hogarth painted.
This is how the day of the Holy Blood procession is finished by
many of the countryfolk. The brutal cabaret comes after the prayers
and adoration of the morning! It is a world of contrasts. But soon
the lights are out, the shutters are put up, the last customer goes
staggering homewards, and the Belfry speaks again, as it spoke when
the sweet singer lay dreaming at the Fleur-de-Blé:
'In the ancient town of Bruges,
In the quaint old Flemish city,
As the evening shades descended,
Low and loud and sweetly blended,
Low at times and loud at times,
And changing like a poet's rhymes,
Rang the beautiful wild chimes
From the Belfry in the market
Of the ancient town of Bruges.
Then, with deep sonorous clangour,
Calmly answering their sweet anger,
When the wrangling bells had ended,
Slowly struck the clock eleven,
And, from out the silent heaven,
Silence on the town descended.
Silence, silence everywhere,
On the earth and in the air,
Save that footsteps here and there
Of some burgher home returning,
By the street lamps faintly burning,
For a moment woke the echoes
Of the ancient town of Bruges.'
[Illustration: BRUGES
Quai des Marbriers.]
FOOTNOTES
[Footnote 3: Canon van Haecke, _Le Précieux Sang à Bruges_
(fourth edition), pp. 95, 96.]
[Footnote 4: Gilliat-Smith, _The Story of Bruges_, p. 103.]