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[Illustration: The Great Cloth Hall: Ypres]
[Illustration:
VANISHED TOWERS and CHIMES of FLANDERS
_Written and Pictured by_ George Wharton Edwards
The Penn Publishing Company 1916
_PHILADELPHIA_]
COPYRIGHT
1916 BY
GEORGE
WHARTON
EDWARDS
Vanished Towers and Chimes of Flanders
FOREWORD
The unhappy Flemish people, who are at present much in the lime-light,
because of the invasion and destruction of their once smiling and happy
little country, were of a character but little known or understood by
the great outside world. The very names of their cities and towns
sounded strangely in foreign ears.
Towns named Ypres, Courtrai, Alost, Furnes, Tournai, were in the
beginning of the invasion unpronounceable by most people, but little by
little they have become familiar through newspaper reports of the
barbarities said to have been practised upon the people by the invaders.
Books giving the characteristics of these heroic people are eagerly
sought. Unhappily these are few, and it would seem that these very
inadequate and random notes of mine upon some phases of the lives of
these people, particularly those related to architecture, and the music
of their renowned chimes of bells, might be useful.
That the Fleming was not of an artistic nature I found during my
residence in these towns of Flanders. The great towers and wondrous
architectural marvels throughout this smiling green flat landscape
appealed to him not at all. He was not interested in either art, music,
or literature. He was of an intense practical nature. I am of course
speaking of the ordinary or "Bourgeois" class now. Then, too, the class
of great landed proprietors was numerically very small indeed, the land
generally being parcelled or hired out in small squares or holdings by
the peasants themselves. Occasionally the commune owned the land, and
sublet portions to the farmers at prices controlled to some extent by
the demand. Rarely was a "taking" (so-called) more than five acres or so
in extent. Many of the old "Noblesse" are without landed estates, and
this, I am informed, was because their lands were forfeited when the
French Republic annexed Belgium, and were never restored to them. Thus
the whole region of the Flemish littoral was given over to small
holdings which were worked on shares by the peasants under general
conditions which would be considered intolerable by the Anglo-Saxon. A
common and rather depressing sight on the Belgian roads at dawn of day,
were the long lines of trudging peasants, men, women and boys hurrying
to the fields for the long weary hours of toil lasting often into the
dark of night. But we were told they were working for their own profit,
were their own masters, and did not grumble. This grinding toil in the
fields, as practised here where nothing was wasted, could not of course
be a happy or healthful work, nor calculated to elevate the peasant in
intelligence, so as a matter of fact the great body of the country
people, who were the laborers, were steeped in an extraordinary state of
ignorance.
If their education was neglected, they are still sound Catholics, and it
may be that it was not thought to be in the interest of the authorities
that they should be instructed in more worldly affairs. I am not
prepared to argue this question. I only know that while stolid, and
unemotional ordinarily, they are intensely patriotic. They became highly
excited during the struggle some years ago to have their Flemish tongue
preserved and taught in the schools, and I remember the crowds of people
thronging the streets of Antwerp, Ghent and Bruges, with bands of music
playing, and huge banners flying, bearing in large letters legends such
as "Flanders for the Flemings." "Hail to the Flemish Lion" and "Flanders
to the Death." All this was when the struggle between the two parties
was going on.
The Flemings won, be it recorded.
Let alone, the Fleming would have worked out his own salvation in his
own way. The country was prosperous. The King and Queen were popular,
indeed beloved; all seemed to be going well with the people. Although
Belgium was not a military power such as its great neighbors to the
north, the east, and the south, its army played an important part in the
lives of the people, and the strategical position which the country held
filled in the map the ever present question of "balance"; the never
absent possibility of the occasion arising when the army would be called
upon to defend the neutrality of the little country. But they never
dreamed that it would come so soon.... One might close with the words of
the great Flemish song of the poet Ledeganck:
"Thou art no more,
The towns of yore:
The proud-necked, world-famed towns,
The doughty lion's lair;"
(Written in 1846.)
[THE AUTHOR]
Greenwich, Conn.
April, 1916.
Contents
PAGE
MALINES, AND SOME OF THE VANISHED TOWERS 17
SOME CARILLONS OF FLANDERS 41
DIXMUDE 55
YPRES 65
COMMINES 85
BERGUES 93
NIEUPORT 99
ALOST 111
COURTRAI 119
TERMONDE (DENDERMONDE) 133
LOUVAIN 147
DOUAI 157
OUDENAARDE 163
FURNES 171
THE ARTISTS OF MALINES 181
A WORD ABOUT THE BELGIANS 199
List of Illustrations
The Great Cloth Hall: Ypres _Frontispiece_
Title page decoration
PAGE
The Tower of St. Rombauld: Malines 18
Malines: A Quaint Back Street 22
Porte de Bruxelles: Malines 26
The Beguinage: Dixmude 34
Detail of the Chimes in the Belfry of St. Nicholas: Dixmude 42
The Belfry: Bergues 46
The Old Porte Marechale: Bruges 50
The Ancient Place: Dixmude 56
The Great Jube, or Altar Screen: Dixmude 58
The Fish Market: Dixmude 60
No. 4, Rue de Dixmude: Ypres 72
Arcade of the Cloth Hall: Ypres 76
Gateway, Wall, and Old Moat: Ypres 80
The Belfry: Commines 88
The Towers of St. Winoc: Bergues 94
The Tower of the Templars: Nieuport 100
The Town Hall--Hall of the Knights Templar: Nieuport 103
Tower in the Grand' Place: Nieuport 104
The Town Hall: Alost 112
The Belfry: Courtrai 120
The Broël Towers: Courtrai 124
The Museum: Termonde 138
The Cathedral: Louvain 148
The Town Hall: Louvain 150
The Town Hall: Douai 158
The Town Hall: Oudenaarde 164
Old Square and Church: Oudenaarde 166
The Fish Market: Ypres 172
The Church of Our Lady of Hanswyk 190
Malines
[Illustration: VANISHED TOWERS _and_ CHIMES OF FLANDERS]
Malines
The immense, flat-topped, gray Gothic spire which dominated the
picturesque line of low, red-tiled roofs showing here and there above
the clustering, dark-green masses of trees in level meadows, was that of
St. Rombauld, designated by Vauban as "the Eighth Wonder of the World,"
constructed by Keldermans, of the celebrated family of architects. He it
was who designed the Bishop's Palace, and the great town halls of
Louvain, Oudenaarde, and Brussels, although some authorities allege that
Gauthier Coolman designed the Cathedral. But without denying the power
and artistry of this latter master, we may still believe in the
well-established claim of Keldermans, who showed in this great tower the
height of art culminating in exalted workmanship. Keldermans was
selected by Marguerite and Philip of Savoie to build the "Greatest
Church in Europe," and the plans, drawn with the pen on large sheets of
parchment pasted together, which were preserved in the Brussels Museum
up to the outbreak of the war, show what a wonder it was to have been.
These plans show the spire complete, but the project was never realized.
Charles the Fifth, filled with admiration for this masterpiece, showered
Keldermans with honors; made him director of construction of the towns
of Antwerp, Brussels, and Malines, putting thus the seal of artistic
perfection upon his dynasty.
[Illustration: The Tower of St. Rombauld: Malines]
Historical documents in the Brussels Library contained the following:
"The precise origin of the commencements of the Cathedral of Malines is
unknown, as the ancient records were destroyed, together with the
archives, during the troubles in the sixteenth century. The 'Nefs' and
the transepts are the most ancient, their construction dating from the
thirteenth century. It is conjectured that the first three erections of
altars in the choir and the consecration of the monument took place in
March, 1312. The great conflagration of May, 1342, which destroyed
nearly all of the town, spared the church itself, but consumed the
entire roof of heavy beams of Norway pine. The ruins remained thus for a
long period because of lack of funds for restoration, and in the
meantime services were celebrated in the church of St. Catherine. It was
not until 1366 that the cathedral was sufficiently repaired to be used
by the canons. Once begun, however, the repairs continued, although
slowly. But the tower remained uncompleted as it was at the outbreak of
the Great War, standing above the square at the great height of 97.70
metres." On each face of the tower was a large open-work clock face, or
"cadran," of gilded copper. Each face was forty-seven feet in diameter.
These clock faces were the work of Jacques Willmore, an Englishman by
birth, but a habitant of Malines, and cost the town the sum of ten
thousand francs ($2000). The citizens so appreciated his work that the
council awarded him a pension of two hundred florins, "which he enjoyed
for fourteen years."
St. Rombauld was famous for its chime of forty-five bells of remarkable
silvery quality: masterpieces of Flemish bell founding. Malines was for
many hundreds of years the headquarters of bell founding. Of the master
bell founders, the most celebrated, according to the archives, was Jean
Zeelstman, who practised his art for thirty years. He made, in 1446,
for the ancient church of Saint Michel at Louvain (destroyed by the
Vandals in 1914) a large bell, bearing the inscription: "Michael
prepositus paradisi quem nonoripicant angelorum civis fusa per Johann
Zeelstman anno dmi, m. ccc. xlvi."
The family of Waghemans furnished a great number of bell founders of
renown, who made many of the bells in the carillon of the cathedral of
St. Rombauld; and there was lastly the Van den Gheyns (or Ghein), of
which William of Bois-le-Duc became "Bourgeoisie" (Burgess) of Malines
in 1506. His son Pierre succeeded to his business in 1533, and in turn
left a son Pierre II, who carried on the great repute of his father. The
tower of the Hospice of Notre Dame contained in 1914 a remarkable old
bell of clear mellow tone--bearing the inscription: "Peeter Van den
Ghein heeft mi Ghegotten in't jaer M.D. LXXX VIII." On the lower rim
were the words: "Campana Sancti spiritus Divi Rumlodi." Pierre Van den
Ghein II had but one son, Pierre III, who died without issue in 1618.
William, however, left a second son, from whom descended the line of
later bell founders, who made many of the bells of Malines. Of these
Pierre IV, who associated himself with Pierre de Clerck (a cousin
german), made the great "bourdon" called Salvator.
During the later years of the seventeenth century, the Van den Gheyns
seem to have quitted the town, seeking their fortunes elsewhere, for the
foundry passed into other and less competent hands.
In Malines dwelt the Primate of Belgium, the now celebrated Cardinal
Mercier, whose courageous attitude in the face of the invaders has
aroused the admiration of the whole civilized world. Malines, although
near Brussels, had, up to the outbreak of the war and its subsequent
ruin, perhaps better preserved its characteristics than more remote
towns of Flanders. The market place was surrounded by purely Flemish
gabled houses of grayish stucco and stone, and these were most
charmingly here and there reflected in the sluggish water of the rather
evil-smelling river Dyle.
Catholicism was a most powerful factor here, and the struggle between
Luther and Loyola, separating the ancient from the modern in Flemish
architecture, was nowhere better exemplified than in Malines. It has
been said that the modern Jesuitism succeeded to the ancient mysticism
without displacing it, and the installation of the first in the very
sanctuary of the latter has manifested itself in the ornamentation of
the ecclesiastical edifices throughout Flanders, and indeed this fact is
very evident to the travelers in this region. The people of Malines
jealously retained the integrity of their ancient tongue, and many books
in the language were published here. Associations abounded in the town
banded together for the preservation of Flemish as a language. On fête
days these companies, headed by bands of music, paraded the streets,
bearing large silken banners on which, with the Lion of Flanders, were
inscriptions such as "Flanders for the Flemish," and "Hail to our
Flemish Lion." On these occasions, too, the chimes in St. Rombauld were
played by a celebrated bell-ringer, while the square below the tower was
black with people listening breathlessly to the songs of their
forefathers, often joining in the chorus, the sounds of the voices
carrying a long distance. On the opposite side of the square, in the
center of which was a fine statue of Margaret of Austria, adjoining the
recently restored "Halles," a fine building in the purest Renaissance
was being constructed, certainly a credit to the town, and an honor to
its architect, attesting as it did the artistic sense and prosperity of
the people. This, too, lies now in ashes--alas!
Flanders fairly bloomed, if I may use the expression, with exquisite
architecture, and this garden spot, this cradle of art, as it has well
been called, is levelled now in heaps of shapeless ruin.
[Illustration: Malines: A Quaint Back Street]
Certainly in this damp, low-lying country the Gothic style flourished
amazingly, and brought into existence talent which produced many
cathedrals, town halls, and gateways, the like of which were not to be
found elsewhere in Europe. These buildings, ornamented with lace-like
traceries and crowded with statuary, their interiors embellished with
choir screens of marvelous detail wrought in stone, preserved to the
world the art of a half-forgotten past, and these works of incomparable
art were being cared for and restored by the State for the benefit of
the whole world. Here, too, in Malines was a most quaint "Beguinage," or
asylum, in an old quarter of the town, hidden away amid a network of
narrow streets: a community of gentle-mannered, placid-faced women, who
dwelt in a semi-religious retirement after the ancient rules laid down
by Sainte Begga, in little, low, red-roofed houses ranged all about a
grass-grown square. Here, after depositing a considerable sum of money,
they were permitted to live in groups of three and four in each house,
each coming and going as she pleased, without taking any formal vow.
Their days were given up to church, hospital, parish duties and work
among the sick and needy: an order, by the way, not found outside of
Flanders.
Each day brought for them a monotonous existence, the same duties at the
same hours, waking in a gentle quietude, rhythmed by the silvery notes
of the convent bell recalling them to the duties of their pious lives,
all oblivious of the great outside world. Each Beguinage door bore the
name of some saint, and often in a moss-covered niche in the old walls
was seen a small statue of some saint, or holy personage, draped in
vines.
The heavy, barred door was nail studded, and furnished usually with an
iron-grilled wicket, where at the sound of the bell of the visitor a
panel slid back and a white-coiffed face appeared. This secluded quarter
was not exclusively inhabited by these gentle women, for there were
other dwellings for those that loved the quiet solitude of this end of
the town.
The Malines Beguinage was suppressed by the authorities in 1798, and it
was not until 1804 that the order was permitted to resume operations
under their former rights, nor were they allowed to resume their quaint
costume until the year 1814.
In the small church on my last visit I saw the portrait of the Beguine
Catherine Van Halter, the work of the painter I. Cossiers, and another
picture by him representing the dead Christ on the knees of the Virgin
surrounded by disciples. Cossiers seemed to revel in the ghastliness of
the scene, but the workmanship was certainly of a very high order. The
Beguine showed me with much pride their great treasure, a tiny, six-inch
figure of the Crucifixion, carved from one piece of ivory by Jerome due
Quesnoy. It was of very admirable workmanship, the face being remarkable
in expression. Despatches (March, 1916) report this Beguinage entirely
destroyed by the siege guns. One wonders what was the fate of the
saintly women.
On the Place de la Boucherie in Malines was the old "Palais," which was
used as a museum and contained many ill-assorted objects of the greatest
interest and value, such as medals, embroideries, weapons, and a fine
collection of ancient miniatures on ivory. There was also a great iron
"Armoire Aux Chartes," quite filled with priceless parchments, great
vellum tomes, bound in brass; large waxen seals of dead and gone rulers
and nobles; heavy volumes bound in leather, containing the archives. And
also a most curious strong box bound in iron bands, nail studded, and
with immense locks and keys, upon which reclined a strange, wooden
figure with a grinning face, clad in the moth-eaten ancient dress of
Malines, representing "Op Signorken" (the card states), but the
attendant told me it was the "Vuyle Bridegroom," and related a story of
it which cannot be set down here, Flemish ideas and speech being rather
freer than ours. But the people, or rather the peasants, are devoted to
him, and there were occasions when he was borne in triumph in
processions when the town was "en fête."
The ancient palace of Margaret of York, wife of Charles the Bold, who
after the tragic death of her consort retired to Malines, was in the Rue
de l'Empereur. It was used latterly as the hospital, and was utterly
destroyed in the bombardment of 1914.
The only remnant of the ancient fortifications, I found on my last visit
in 1910, was the fine gate, the "Porte de Bruxelles," with a small
section of the walls, all reflected in an old moat now overgrown with
moss and sedge grass. There were, too, quaint vistas of the old tower of
Our Lady of Hanswyk and a number of arched bridges along the banks of
the yellow Dyle, which flows sluggishly through the old town.
On the "Quai-au-sel," I saw in 1910, a number of ancient façades, most
picturesque and quaintly pinnacled. There also a small botanical garden
floriated most luxuriantly, and here again the Dyle reflected the mossy
walls of ancient stone palaces, and there were rows of tall, wooden,
carved posts standing in the stream, to which boats were moored as in
Venice.
[Illustration: Porte de Bruxelles: Malines]
Throughout the town, up to the time of the bombardment, were many quaint
market-places, all grass grown, wherein on market days were
tall-wheeled, peasant carts, and lines of huge, hollow-backed,
thick-legged, hairy horses, which were being offered for sale. And there
were innumerable fountains and tall iron pumps of knights in armor;
forgotten heroes of bygone ages, all of great artistic merit and value;
and over all was the dominating tower of St. Rombauld, vast, gray, and
mysterious, limned against the pearly, luminous sky, the more
impressive perhaps because of its unfinished state. And so, however
interesting the other architectural attractions of Malines might be, and
they were many, it was always to the great cathedral that one turned,
for the townspeople were so proud of the great gray tower, venerated
throughout the whole region, that they were insistent that we should
explore it to the last detail. "The bells," they would exclaim, "the
great bells of Saint Rombauld! You have not yet seen them?"
St. Rombauld simply compelled one's attention, and ended by laying so
firm a hold upon the imagination that at no moment of the day or night
was one wholly unconscious of its unique presence. By day and night its
chimes floated through the air "like the music of fairy bells," weird
and soft, noting the passing hours in this ancient Flemish town. For
four hundred years it had watched over the varying fortunes of this
region, gaining that precious quality which appealed to Ruskin, who
said, "Its glory is in its age and in that deep sense of voicefulness,
of stern watching, of mysterious sympathy, nay, even of approval or
condemnation, which we feel in walls that have long been washed by the
passing waves of humanity."
From below the eye was carried upward by range upon range of exquisite
Gothic detail to the four great open-work, gilded, clock discs, through
which one could dimly see the beautiful, open-pointed lancets behind
which on great beams hung the carillon bells, row upon row.
No words of mine can give any idea of the rich grayish brown of this old
tower against the pale luminous sky, or the pathetic charm of its wild
bell music, shattering down through the silent watches of the night,
over the sleeping town, as I have heard it, standing by some silent,
dark, palace-bordered canal, watching the tall tower melting into the
immensity of the dusk, or by day in varying light and shade, in storm
and sunshine, with wind-driven clouds chasing each other across the sky.
The ascent of the tower was a formidable task, and really it seemed as
if it must have been far more than three hundred and fifty feet to the
topmost gallery, when I essayed it on that stormy August day. It was not
an easy task to gain admittance to the tower; on two former occasions,
when I made the attempt, the _custode_ was not to be found. "He had gone
to market and taken the key to the tower door with him," said the
withered old dame who at length understood my wish. On this day,
however, she produced the key, a huge iron one, weighing, I should say,
half a pound, from a nail behind the green door of the entry. She
unlocked a heavy, white-washed door into a dusty, dim vestibule, and
then proceeded to lock me in, pointing to another door at the farther
end, saying, as she returned to her savory stew pot on the iron stove,
"Montez, Montez, vous trouverez l'escalier." The heavy door swung to by
a weight on a cord, and I was at the bottom step of the winding stairway
of the tower. For a few steps upward the way was in darkness, up the
narrow stone steps, clinging to a waxy, slippery rope attached to the
wall, which was grimy with dust, the steps sloping worn and uneven.
Quaint, gloomy openings in the wall revealed themselves from time to
time as I toiled upwards, openings into deep gulfs of mysterious gloom,
spanned at times by huge oaken beams. Here and there at dim landings,
lighted by narrow Gothic slits in the walls, were blackened, low
doorways heavily bolted and studded with iron nails. The narrow slits of
windows served only to let in dim, dusty beams of violet light. Through
one dark slit in the wall I caught sight of the huge bulk of a bronze
bell, green with the precious patina of age, and I fancied I heard
footsteps on the stairway that wound its way above.
It was the watchman, a great hairy, oily Fleming, clad in a red sort of
jersey, and blue patched trousers. On the back of his shock of pale,
rope-colored hair sat jauntily a diminutive cap with a glazed peak. In
the lobes of his huge ears were small gold rings.
I was glad to see him and to have his company in that place of cobwebs
and dangling hand rope. I gave him a thick black cigar which I had
bought in the market-place that morning, and struck a match from which
we both had a light. He expressed wonder at my matches, those paper
cartons common in America, but which he had never before seen. I gave
them to him, to his delight. He brought me upwards into a room crammed
with strange machinery, all cranks and levers and wires and pulleys, and
before us two great cylinders like unto a "Brobdingnagian" music box. He
drew out a stool for me and courteously bade me be seated, speaking in
French with a strong Flemish accent. He was, he said, a mechanic, whose
duty it was to care for the bells and the machinery. He had an assistant
who went on duty at six o'clock. He served watches of eight hours. There
came a "whir" from a fan above, and a tinkle from a small bell somewhere
near at hand. He said that the half hour would strike in three minutes.
Had I ever been in a bell tower when the chimes played? Yes? Then
M'sieur knew what to expect.
I took out my watch, and from the tail of my eye I fancied that I saw a
gleam in his as he appraised the watch I held in my hand. He drew his
bench nearer to me and held out his great hairy, oily paw, saying, "Let
me see the pretty watch." "Not necessary," I replied, putting it back in
my pocket and calmly eying him, although my heart began to beat fast. I
was alone in the tower with this hairy Cerberus, who, for all I knew,
might be contemplating doing me mischief.
If I was in danger, as I might be, then I resolved to defend myself as
well as I was able. I had an ammonia gun in my pocket which I carried to
fend off ugly dogs by the roadside, which infest the country. And this I
carried in my hip pocket. It resembled somewhat a forty-four caliber
revolver. I put my hand behind me, drew it forth, eying him the while,
and ostentatiously toyed with it before placing it in my blouse side
pocket. It had, I thought, an instantaneous effect, for he drew back,
opening his great mouth to say something, I know not what nor shall I
ever know, for at that instant came a clang from the machinery, a
warning whir of wheels, the rattle of chains, and one of the great
barrels began to revolve slowly; up and down rattled the chains and
levers, then, faint, sweet and far off, I heard a melodious jangle
followed by the first notes of the "Mirleton" I had so often heard below
in the town, but now subdued, etherealized, and softened like unto the
dream music one fancies in the night. The watchman now grinned
reassuringly at me, and, rising, beckoned me with his huge grimy hand to
follow him. Grasping my good ammonia gun I followed him up a wooden
stairway to a green baize covered door. This he opened to an inferno of
crash and din. The air was alive with tumult and the booming of heavy
metal. We were among the great bells of the bottom tier. Before us was
the "bourdon," so called, weighing 2,200 pounds, the bronze monster upon
which the bass note was sounded, and which sounded the hour over the
level fields of Flanders. Dimly above I could see other bells of various
size, hanging tier upon tier from great, red-painted, wooden beams
clamped with iron bands.
I contrived to keep the watchman ever before me, not trusting him,
although his frank smile somewhat disarmed my suspicion. It may be I did
him an injustice, but I liked not the avaricious gleam in his little
slits of eyes.
The bells clanged and clashed as they would break from their fastenings
and drop upon us, and my brain reeled with the discord. On they beat and
boomed, as if they would never stop. No melody was now apparent, though
down below it had seemed as if their sweetness was all too brief. Up
here in the tower they were not at all melodious; they were rough,
discordant, and uneven, some sounding as though out of tune and cracked.
All of the mystery and glamour of sweet tenderness, all their pathos and
weirdness, had quite vanished, and here amid the smell of lubricating
oil and the heavy, noisy grinding of the cog wheels, and the rattle of
iron chains, all the poetry and elusiveness of the bells was certainly
wanting.
All at once just before me a great hammer raised its head, and then
fell with a sounding clang upon the rim of a big bell; the half hour had
struck. All about us the air resounded and vibrated with the mighty
waves of sound. From the bells above finally came the hum of faint
harmonics, and then followed silence like the stillness that ensues
after a heavy clap of thunder.
Cerberus now beckoned me to accompany him amongst the bells, and showed
me the machinery that sets this great marvel of sound in motion. He
showed me the huge "tambour-carillon," with barrels all bestudded with
little brass pegs which pull the wires connected with the great hammers,
which in their turn strike the forty-six bells, that unrivaled chime
known throughout Flanders as the master work of the Van den Gheyns of
Louvain, who were, as already told, the greatest bell founders of the
age.
The great hour bell weighing, as already noted, nearly a ton, required
the united strength of eight men to ring him. Cerberus pointed out to me
the narrow plank runway between the huge dusty beams, whereon these
eight men stood to their task. The carillon tunes, he told me, were
altered every year or so, and to do this required the entire changing of
the small brass pegs in the cylinders, a most formidable task, I
thought. He explained that the cutting of each hole costs sixty
_centimes_ (twelve cents) and that there were about 30,000 holes, so
that the change must be quite expensive, but I did not figure it out
for myself.
The musical range of this carillon chime of Malines may be judged by the
fact that it was possible to play, following on the hour, a selection
from "Don Pasquale," and on the half and quarter hours a few bars from
the "Pre aux Clercs." Every seven and a half minutes sounded a few
jangling sweet notes, and thus the air over the old town of Malines and
the small hamlets surrounding it both day and night was musical with the
bells of the carillon.
On fête days a certain famous bell ringer was engaged by the authorities
to play the bells from the _clavecin_. This is a sort of keyboard with
pedals played by hand and foot, fashioned like a rude piano. The work is
very hard, one would think, but I have heard some remarkable results
from it. In former times the office of "carilloneur" was a most
important position, and, as in the case of the Van den Gheyn family of
Louvain, it was hereditary. The music played by these men, those
"morceaux fugues," once the pride and pleasure of the Netherlands, is
now the wonder and despair of the modern bell ringer, however skillful
he may be.
[Illustration: The Beguinage: Dixmude]
Cerberus informed me that sometimes months pass without a visit from a
stranger to his tower room, and that he had to wind up the mechanism
of the immense clock twice each day, and that of the carillon separately
three times each twenty-four hours, and that it was required of him that
he should sound two strokes upon the "do" bell after each quarter, to
show that he was "on the job," so to speak.
I told him I thought his task a hard and lonely one, and I offered him
another of the black cigars, which he accepted with civility, but I kept
my hand ostentatiously in my blouse pocket, where lay the ammonia gun,
and he saw plainly that I did so. I am inclined now to think that my
fears, as far as he was concerned, were groundless, but nevertheless
they were very real that day in the old tower of Saint Rombauld.
He began his task of winding up the mechanism, while I mounted the steep
steps leading upwards to the top gallery. Here on the open gallery I
gazed north, east, south, and west over the placid, flat, green-embossed
meadows threaded with silver, ribbon-like waterways, upon which floated
red-sailed barges. Below, as in the bottom of a bowl, lay Malines, its
small red-roofed houses stretching away in all directions to the remains
of the ancient walls, topped here and there with a red-sailed windmill,
in the midst of verdant fresh fields wooded here and there with clumps
of willows, where the armies of the counts of Flanders, and the Van
Arteveldes, fought in the olden days.
I could see the square below where, in the Grand' Place, those doughty
Knights of the Golden Fleece had gathered before the pilgrimage to the
Holy Land. Now a few dwarfed, black figures of peasants crawled like
insects across the wide emptiness of it. Here among the startled
jackdaws I lounged smoking and ruminating upon the bells, oily Cerberus,
and his lonely task, and inhaling the misty air from the winding canals
in the fertile green fields below--appraising the values of the pale
diaphanous sky of misty blue, harmonizing so exquisitely with the tender
greens of the landscape which had charmed Cuyp and Memling, until the
blue was suffused with molten gold, and over all the landscape spread a
tender and lovely radiance, which in turn became changed to ruddy flames
in the west, and then the radiance began to fade.
Then I bethought me that it was time I sought out the terrible Cerberus,
the guardian of the tower, and induce him peaceably to permit me to go
forth unharmed. I confess that I was coward enough to give him two
francs as a fee instead of the single one which was his due, and then I
stumbled down the long winding stairway, grasping the slippery hand rope
timorously until I gained the street level, glad to be among fellow
beings once more, but not sorry I had spent the afternoon among the
bells of the Carillon of Saint Rombauld--those bells which now lie
broken among the ashes of the tower in the Grand' Place of the ruined
town of Malines.
Some Carillons of Flanders
Some Carillons of Flanders
It is worth noting that nearly all of the noble Flemish towers with
their wealth of bells are almost within sight (and I had nearly written,
sound) of each other. From the summit of the tower in Antwerp one could
see dimly the cathedrals of Malines and Brussels, perhaps even those of
Bruges and Ghent in clear weather. Haweis ("Music and Morals") says that
"one hundred and twenty-six towers can be seen from the Antwerp
Cathedral on a fair morning," and he was a most careful observer. "So
these mighty spires, gray and changeless in the high air, seem to hold
converse together over the heads of puny mortals, and their language is
rolled from tower to tower by the music of the bells."
"Non sunt loquellae neque sermones, audiantur voces eorum," (there is
neither speech nor language, but their voices are heard among men).
This is an inscription copied by Haweis in the tower at Antwerp, from a
great bell signed, "F. Hemony Amstelo-damia, 1658."
Speaking of the rich decorations which the Van den Gheyns and Hemony
lavished on their bells, he says, "The decorations worked in bas relief
around some of the old bells are extremely beautiful, while the
inscriptions are often highly suggestive, and even touching." These
decorations are usually confined to the top and bottom rims of the bell,
and are in low relief, so as to impede the vibration as little as
possible. At Malines on a bell bearing date "1697, Antwerp" (now
destroyed) there is an amazingly vigorous hunt through a forest with
dogs and all kinds of animals. I did not see this bell when I was in the
tower of St. Rombauld, as the light in the bell chamber was very dim.
The inscription was carried right around the bell, and had all the grace
and freedom of a spirited sketch.
[Illustration: Detail of the Chimes in Belfry of St Nicholas: Dixmude]
On one of Hemony's bells dated 1674 and bearing the inscription,
"Laudate Domini omnes Gentes," we noticed a long procession of cherub
boys dancing and ringing flat hand bells such as are even now rung
before the Host in street processions.
Some of the inscriptions are barely legible because of the peculiarity
of the Gothic letters. Haweis mentions seeing the initials J.R. ("John
Ruskin") in the deep sill of the staircase window; underneath a slight
design of a rose window apparently sketched with the point of a compass.
Ruskin loved the Malines Cathedral well, and made many sketches of
detail while there. I looked carefully for these initials, but I could
not find them, I am sorry to say.
Bells have been strangely neglected by antiquaries and historians, and
but few facts concerning them are to be found in the libraries. Haweis
speaks of the difficulty he encountered in finding data about the chimes
of the Low Countries, alleging that the published accounts and rumors
about their size, weight, and age are seldom accurate or reliable. Even
in the great libraries and archives of the Netherlands at Louvain,
Bruges, or Brussels the librarians were unable to furnish him with
accurate information.
He says: "The great folios of Louvain, Antwerp, and Mechlin (Malines)
containing what is generally supposed to be an exhaustive transcript of
all the monumental and funereal inscriptions in Belgium, will often
bestow but a couple of dates and one inscription upon a richly decorated
and inscribed carillon of thirty or forty bells. The reason of this is
not far to seek. The fact is, it is no easy matter to get at the bells
when once they are hung, and many an antiquarian who will haunt tombs
and pore over illegible brasses with commendable patience will decline
to risk his neck in the most interesting of belfries. The pursuit, too,
is often a disappointing one. Perhaps it is possible to get half way
around a bell and then be prevented by a thick beam, or the bell's own
wheel from seeing the outer half, which, by perverse chance, generally
contains the date and the name of the founder.
"Perhaps the oldest bell is quite inaccessible, or, after a half hour's
climbing amid the utmost dust and difficulty, we reach a perfectly blank
or commonplace bell."
He gives the date of 1620, as that when the family of Van den Gheyns
were bringing the art of bell founding to perfection in Louvain, and
notes that the tower and bells of each fortified town were half civic
property. Thus the curfew, the carolus, and the St. Mary bells in
Antwerp Cathedral belong to the town.
"Let us," he says, "enter the town of Mechlin (Malines) in the year
1638. The old wooden bridge (over the river Dyle) has since been
replaced by a stone one. To this day the elaborately carved façades of
the old houses close on the water are of incomparable richness of
design. The peculiar ascent of steps leading up to the angle of the
roof, in a style borrowed from the Spaniards, is a style everywhere to
be met with. The noblest of square florid Gothic towers, the tower of
St. Rombauld (variously spelled St. Rombaud, St. Rombaut, or St. Rombod)
finished up to three hundred and forty-eight feet, guides us to what is
now called the Grand' Place, where in an obscure building are the
workshops and furnaces adjoining the abode of Peter Van den Gheyn, the
most renowned bell founder of the seventeenth century, born in 1605. In
company with his associate, Deklerk, arrangements are being made for the
founding of a big bell.
"Before the cast was made there was no doubt great controversy between
the mighty smiths, Deklerk and Van den Gheyn: plans had to be drawn out
on parchment, measurements and calculations made, little proportions
weighed by fine instinct, and the defects and merits of ever so many
bells canvassed. The ordinary measurements, which now hold good for a
large bell, are, roughly, one-fifteenth of the diameter in thickness,
and twelve times the thickness in height. Describing the foundry
buildings: The first is for the furnaces, containing the vast caldron
for the fusing of the metal; in the second is a kind of shallow well,
where the bell would have to be modeled in clay.
"The object to be first attained is a hollow mold of the exact size and
shape of the intended bell, into which the liquid metal is poured
through a tube from the furnace, and this mold is constructed in the
following simple but ingenious manner:
"Suppose the bell to be six feet high, a brick column of about that
height is built something in the shape of the outside of a bell. Upon
the smooth surface of this solid bell-shaped mass can now be laid
figures, decorations, and inscriptions in wax; a large quantity of the
most delicately prepared clay is then produced, the model is slightly
washed with some kind of oil to prevent the fine clay from sticking to
it, and three or four coats of the fine clay in an almost liquid state
are daubed carefully all over the model. Next, a coating of common clay
is added to strengthen the mold to the thickness of some inches. And
thus the model stands with its great bell-shaped cover closely fitting
over it.
"A fire is now lighted underneath, the brick work in the interior is
heated, through the clay, through the wax ornaments and oils, which
steam out in vapor through two holes at the top, leaving their
impressions on the inside of the cover (of clay).
[Illustration: The Belfry: Bergues]
"When everything is baked thoroughly hard, the cover is raised bodily
into the air by a rope, and held suspended some feet exactly above the
model. In the interior of the cover thus raised will, of course, be
found the exact impression in hollow of the outside of the bell. The
model of clay and masonry is then broken up, and its place is taken by
another perfectly smooth model, only smaller--exactly the size of the
inside of the bell, in fact. On this the great cover now descends, and
is stopped in time to leave a hollow space between the new model and
itself. This is effected simply by the bottom rim of the new model
forming a base, at the proper distance upon which the rim of the clay
cover may rest in its descent.
"The hollow space between the clay cover and second clay mold is now the
exact shape of the required bell, and only waits to be filled with
metal.
"So far all has been comparatively easy; but the critical moment has now
arrived. The furnaces have long been smoking; the brick work containing
the caldron is almost glowing with red heat; a vast draft passage
underneath the floor keeps the fire rapid; from time to time it leaps up
with a hundred angry tongues, or in one sheet of flame, over the
furnace-imbedded caldron. Then the cunning artificer brings forth his
heaps of choice metal, large cakes of red coruscated copper from
Drontheim, called 'Rosette,' owing to a certain rare pink bloom that
seems to lie all over it like the purple on a plum; then a quantity of
tin, so highly refined that it shines and glistens like pure silver;
these are thrown into the caldron and melted down together. Kings and
nobles have stood beside those famous caldrons, and looked with
reverence upon the making of these old bells. Nay, they have brought
gold and silver and, pronouncing the name of some holy saint or apostle
which the bell was thereafter to bear, they have flung in precious
metals, rings, bracelets, and even bullion.
"But for a moment or two before the pipe which is to convey the metal
to the mold is opened, the smith stands and stirs the molten mass to see
if all is melted. Then he casts in certain proportions of zinc and other
metals which belong to the secrets of the trade; he knows how much
depends upon these little refinements, which he has acquired by
experience, and which perhaps he could not impart even if he would, so
true is it that in every art that which constitutes success is a matter
of instinct, and not of rule, or even science.
"He knows, too, that almost everything depends upon the moment chosen
for flooding the mold. Standing in the intense heat, and calling loudly
for a still more raging fire, he stirs the metal once more. At a given
signal the pipe is opened, and with a long smothered rush the molten
metal fills the mold to the brim. Nothing now remains but to let the
metal cool, and then to break up the clay and brick work and extract the
bell, which is then finished for better or for worse."
We learn much of the difficulties encountered even by these great
masters in successfully casting the bells, and that even they were not
exempt from failure. "The Great Salvator" bell at Malines, made by Peter
Van den Gheyn, cracked eight years after it was hung in the tower
(1696). It was recast by De Haze of Antwerp, and existed up to a few
years ago--surely a good long life for any active bell.
In the belfry of St. Peter's at Louvain, which is now in ruins and level
with the street, was a great bell of splendid tone, bearing the
following inscription: "Claes Noorden Johan Albert de Grave me fecerunt
Amstel--odamia, MDCCXIV."
Haweis mentions also the names of Bartholomews Goethale, 1680, who made
a bell now in St. Stephen's belfry at Ghent; and another, Andrew
Steilert, 1563, at Malines (Mechlin). The great carillon in the belfry
at Bruges, thus far spared by the iconoclasts of 1914, consisting of
forty bells and one large Bourdon, or triumphal bell, is from the
foundry of the great Dumery, who also made the carillon at Antwerp.
Haweis credits Petrus Hemony, 1658, with being the most prolific of all
the bell founders. He was a good musician and took to bell founding only
late in life. "His small bells are exceedingly fine, but his larger ones
are seldom true."
To the ear of so eminent an authority this may be true, but, to my own,
the bells seem quite perfect, and I have repeatedly and most attentively
listened to them from below in the Grand' Place, trying to discover the
inharmonious note that troubled him. I ventured to ask one of the
priests if he had noticed any flatness in the notes, and he scorned the
idea, saying that the bells, "all of them," were perfect.
Nevertheless, I must accept the statement of Haweis, who for years made
a study of these bells and their individualities and than whom perhaps
never has lived a more eminent authority.
From my room in the small hotel de Buda, just beneath the old gray tower
of St. Rombauld in this ancient town of Malines, I have listened by day
and night to the music of these bells, which sounded so exquisite to me
that I can still recall them. The poet has beautifully expressed the
idea of the bell music of Flanders thus, "The Wind that sweeps over her
campagnas and fertile levels is full of broken melodious whispers"
(Haweis).
Certainly these chimes of bells playing thus by day and night, day in,
day out, year after year, must exercise a most potent influence upon the
imagination and life of the people.
The Flemish peasant is born, grows up, lives his life out, and finally
is laid away to the music of these ancient bells.
[Illustration: The Old Porte Marechale: Bruges]
When I came away from Malines and reached Antwerp, I lodged in the Place
Verte, as near to the chimes as I could get. My student days being over,
I found that I had a strange sense of loss, as if I had lost a dear
and valued friend, for the sound of the bells had become really a part
of my daily existence.
Victor Hugo, who traveled through Flanders in 1837, stopped for a time
in Malines, and was so impressed with the carillon that he is said to
have written there the following lines by moonlight with a diamond upon
the window-pane in his room:
"J'aime le carillon dans tes cités Antiques,
O vieux pays, gardien de tes moeurs domestiques,
Noble Flandre, où le Nord se réchauffe engourdi
Au soleil de Castille et s'accouple au Midi.
Le carillon, c'est l'heure inattendue et folle
Que l'oeil croit voir, vêtue en danseuse espagnole
Apparaître soudain par le trou vif et clair
Que ferait, en s'ouvrant, une porte de l'air."
It was not until the seventeenth century that Flanders began to place
these wondrous collections of bells in her great towers, which seem to
have been built for them. Thus came the carillons of Malines, Bruges,
Ghent, Antwerp, Louvain, and Tournai. Of these, Antwerp possessed the
greatest in number, sixty-five bells. Malines came next with forty-four,
then Bruges with forty, and a great bourdon or bass bell; then Tournai
and Louvain with forty, and finally Ghent with thirty-nine.
In ancient times these carillons were played by hand on a keyboard,
called a _clavecin_. In the belfry at Bruges, in a dusty old chamber
with a leaden floor, I found a very old _clavecin_. It was simply a
rude keyboard much like that of a primitive kind of organ, presenting a
number of jutting handles, something like rolling pins, each of which
was attached to a wire operating the hammer, in the bell chamber
overhead, which strikes the rim of the bells. There was an old red,
leather-covered bench before this machine on which the performer sat,
and it must have been a task requiring considerable strength and agility
so to smite each of these pins with his gloved fist, his knees and each
of his feet (on the foot board) that the hammers above would fall on the
rims of the different bells.