stopped beside a white-washed wall, and everyone got out, as the custom
is. There seemed no reason for stopping here, for we were at some
distance from the village, the spire of which could be seen above a belt
of heavy trees ahead. The morning was somewhat chilly, and the only
other occupant of the compartment was a young cleric with a soiled white
necktie. He puffed away comfortably at a very thin, long, and
evil-smelling "stogie" which he seemed to enjoy immensely, and which in
the Flemish manner he seemed to eat as he smoked, eyeing us the while
amicably though absent mindedly, as if we were far removed from his
vicinity. As we neared the stopping place, two very jolly young farmer
boys raced with the train in their quaint barrow-like wagon painted a
bright green, and drawn by a pair of large dogs who foamed and panted
past us "ventre à terre," with red jaws and flopping tongues.
Had we not known of this breed of dogs we might have fancied, as many
strangers do, that Flemish dogs are badly treated, but this is not the
case. These dogs are very valuable, worth sometimes as much as five
hundred francs (about $100).
Inspections of these dogs are held regularly by the authorities. The
straps and the arrangement of the girths are tested lest they should
chafe the animal, and, I am told, the law now requires that a piece of
carpet be carried for the animal to lie upon when resting, and a
drinking bowl also has been added to the equipment of each cart. The
dogs do not suffer. They are bred for the cart, and are called "_chiens
de traite_," so that the charge of cruelty upon the part of ignorant
tourists may be dismissed as untrue. There is a society for the
prevention of cruelty to animals, and it is not unusual to see its sign
displayed in the market places, with the caution "_Traitez les animaux
avec douceur_." Rarely if ever is a case brought into court by the
watchful police.
The young cleric gazed at us inquiringly, as if he expected to hear us
exclaim about the cruelty to animals, but catching his eye I smiled, and
said something about "_ces bons chiens_," at which he seemed relieved,
and nodded back grinning, but he did not remove the stogie from his
mouth.
Priests in Flanders seemed to enjoy much liberty of action, and do
things not possible elsewhere. For instance, at Blankenberghe, a
fashionable watering place on the coast, I saw a prosperous, well-fed
one (if I may so characterize him without meaning any offense) dining at
the Great Gasthof on the digue, who after finishing his _filet aux
champignons_, with a bottle of _Baune superior_, ordered his "_demi
tasse_" with _fine champagne_, and an Havana cigar which cost him not
less than three francs (sixty cents) which he smoked like a connoisseur
while he listened to the fine military band playing in the Kiosk. And
why not, if you please?
We remained for nearly twenty minutes beside this white wall at the
roadside, the animated discussions of the farmers continuing, for the
group was constantly augmented by fresh arrivals who meant to travel
with us or back to the town from which we had come. It was here that we
saw the first stork in Flanders, where indeed they are uncommon. This
one had a nest in a large tree nearby. One of the boys shied a small
stone at him as he flapped overhead, but, I think, without any idea of
hitting him. The peasants assembled here eyed us narrowly. They probed
me and my belongings with eyes of corkscrew penetration, but since this
country of theirs was a show place to me, I argued that I had no right
to object to their making in return a show of me. But such scrutiny is
not comfortable, especially if one is seated in a narrow compartment,
and the open-mouthed _vis à vis_ gazes at one with steely bluish green
unwinking eyes--somewhat red rimmed. Especially if such scrutiny is
accompanied by free comments upon one's person, delivered in a voice so
pitched as to convey the information to all the other occupants, and
mayhap the engine driver ahead.
The other train at length arrived, there was an interchange of occupants
and then we proceeded amid heavy clouds of thick black smoke which, for
a time, the wind blew with us. Across the tilled fields are narrow paths
leading to dykes and roads. There are many green ditches filled with
water and in them we could see rather heavy splashes from time to time.
These we discovered were made by large green bull frogs--really monsters
they were, too. Of course we were below the sea level here, but one
cannot credit the old story about the boy who plugged the dyke with his
thumb, thereby saving the whole country.
The dykes are many feet high and as the foundation is composed of heavy
black stones, then layers of great red bricks and tiles, and finally
turf and large willow branches interlaced most cunningly like giant
basket work, such a story is impossible.
My _vis à vis_, all the while regarding me unwinkingly, overheard me
speak to A--, in English.
Then he slowly took the stogie from his mouth and ejaculated,
"_Ach--Engelsch!--Do it well met you?_"
I replied that it certainly did.
"_And met Madame?_"
I nodded.
"_Alst' u blieft mynheer--sir,_" he said. Then he changed his seat and
thereafter related to the others that he had conversed with the
strangers, who were English, and were traveling for pleasure, being
_enormously rich_. I think thereafter he enjoyed the reputation of being
an accomplished linguist. So, pleasantly did we amble along the narrow
little steam tramway through luxurious green fields and smiling fertile
landscape of the Flemish littoral in our well rewarded search for the
quaint and the unusual.
The Gothic Town Hall, a remarkable construction on the Grand' Place, and
erected 1526, has been restored with a great amount of good taste in
recent years, and the statues on its façade have been replaced with such
skill that one is not conscious of modern work.
The great Hall of the Magistrates on the ground floor, with its
magnificent furniture, and the admirable modern mural paintings by the
Flemish artists Guffens and Severts (1875) was worth a journey to see.
The most noteworthy of these paintings represented the "Departure of
Baldwin IX," Count of Flanders, at the beginning of the Fourth Crusade
in 1202, and the "Consultation of the Flemish, before the great Battle
of the Spurs" in 1302.
In this chamber is a remarkable Renaissance mantelpiece, which is
embellished with the arms of the Allied Towns of Bruges and Ghent,
between which are the standard bearers of the doughty Knights of
Courtrai, and two statues of the Archduke Albert and his Lady, all
surrounding a statue of the Holy Virgin.
On the upper floor is the Council Chamber, in which is another
mantelpiece hardly less ornate and interesting, and executed in what may
be called the "flamboyant" manner in rich polychrome. It is dated 1527
and was designed by (one of the) Keldermans (?).
It has rows or ranges of statuary said to represent both the Vices and
the Virtues. Below are reliefs indicating the terrible punishment
inflicted upon those who transgress. Statues of Charles V, the Infanta
Isabella, and others are on _corbels_.
Very large drawn maps of the ancient town and its dependencies cover the
walls, and these are dated 1641.[1]
Termonde (Dendermonde)
Termonde (Dendermonde)
A strange half deserted little town on the right bank of the river
Scheldt, clustered about a bridge, on both sides of a small sluggish
stream called the "Dendre," where long lines of women were washing
clothes the live-long day, and chattering like magpies the while. A
Grand' Place, with heavy trees at one side, and on the other many small
_estaminets_ and drinking shops. That was Termonde. My note book says
"Population 10,000, town fortified; forbidden to make sketches outside
the walls, which are fortifications. Two good pictures in old church of
Notre Dame, by Van Dyck, 'Crucifixion' and an 'Adoration of the
Shepherds' (1635). Fine Hôtel de Ville, with five gables and sculptured
decoration. Also belfry of the fourteenth century."
Termonde is famed throughout Flanders as the birthplace of the "Four
sons of Aymon," and the exploits of the great horse Bayard. The legend
of the Four Sons of Aymon is endeared to the people, and they never tire
of relating the story in song as well as prose. Indeed this legend is
perhaps the best preserved of all throughout Flanders. It dates from the
time of Charlemagne, the chief of the great leaders of Western Europe,
whose difficulty in governing and keeping in subjection and order his
warlike and turbulent underlords and vassals is a matter of history
known to almost every schoolboy.
Among these vassal lordlings, whose continued raids and grinding
exactions caused him most anxious moments, was a certain Duke (Herzog)
called Aymon, who had four sons, named Renault, Allard, Guichard, and
Ricard, all of most enormous stature and prodigious strength. Of these
Renault was the tallest, the strongest, the most agile, and the most
cunning. In height he measured what would correspond to sixteen feet,
"and he could span a man's waist with his hand, and lifting him in the
air, squeeze him to death." This was one of his favorite tricks with the
enemy in battle.
Aymon had a brother named Buves who dwelt in Aigremont, which is near
Huy, and one may still see there the castle of Aymon, who was also
called the Wild Boar of the Ardennes. This brother Buves in a fit of
anger against Charlemagne for some fancied slight, sent an insulting
message to the latter, refusing his command to accompany him on his
expedition against the Saracens, which so exasperated Charlemagne that
he sent one of his sons to remonstrate with Buves and if need be, to
threaten him with vengeance, in case he persisted in refusing. Buves was
ready, and without waiting to receive his message, he met the messenger
half way and promptly murdered him.
Then Charlemagne, in a fury, sent a large and powerful body of men to
punish Buves, who was killed in the battle which took place at
Aigremont. Thereupon the four sons of Aymon met and over their swords
swore vengeance against Charlemagne, and betook themselves to the
fastnesses of the Ardennes, in which they built for themselves the great
Castle of Montfort which is said to have been even stronger than that
called Aigremont.
On the banks of the river Ourthe may still be seen the great gray bulk
of its ruins. About this stronghold they constructed high walls, and
there they sent out challenges defying the great Emperor.
Now each of the four sons had his own fashion of fighting. Renault
fought best on horseback, and to him Maugis son of Buves brought a great
horse named Bayard ("Beiaard" in Flemish) of magic origin, possessed of
demoniac powers, among which was the ability to run like the wind and
never grow weary. Here in this stronghold the four sons of Aymon dwelt,
making occasional sallies against the vassals of Charlemagne, until at
length the Emperor gathered a mighty force of soldiers and horses and
engines and scaling ladders, and, surrounding the stronghold, at length
succeeded in capturing it.
Tradition says that among Charlemagne's retinue was Aymon himself, and
intimates that it was by the father's treachery that the four mighty
sons were almost captured, but at any rate the great castle of Montfort
was reduced to ashes and ruin, and only the fact of Renault's taking the
other brothers on the back of the wondrous horse Bayard saved them all
from the Emperor's fury. So they escaped into Gascony, where they
independently attacked the Saracens and drove them forth and extended
their swords to the King of Gascony, Yon, who treacherously delivered
them in chains over to Charlemagne. These chains they broke and threw in
the Emperor's face, fighting their way to freedom with their bare hands.
History thereafter is silent as to their end. Of Renault it is known
only that he became a friar at Cologne, where his skill and strength
were utilized by the authorities in building the walls, and that one day
while at work, some masons whom he had offended crept up behind him and
pushed him off a great height into the River Rhine, and thus he was
drowned. Years afterward the Church canonized him, and in Westphalia at
Dortmund may be seen a monument erected in his memory extolling his
prowess, his deeds, and his strength.
As to the great and magical horse Bayard, the chronicle says that,
captured finally by Charlemagne's soldiers and brought before him, the
Emperor deliberated what he should do with it, since it refused to be
ridden. Finally he ordered that the largest mill stone in the region
should be made fast to its neck by heavy chains, and that it should then
be cast into the River Meuse.
Bayard contemptuously shook off the heavy stone and with steam pouring
from his nostrils, gave three neighs of derision and triumph and,
climbing the opposite bank, vanished into the gloom of the forest where
none dared follow. Of the immortality of this great horse history is
emphatic and gravely states that, for all that is known to the contrary,
he may still be at large in the Ardennes, but that "no man has since
beheld him."
And now yearly on the Grand' Place at Termonde there is a great festival
and procession in his honor depicting the chief incidents of his life
and mighty deeds, while, at Dinaut, on the River Meuse, the scene of
some of his mightiest deeds, may still be seen the great Rock Bayard,
standing more than forty yards high and separated from the face of the
mountain by a roadway cut by Louis the Sixteenth, who cared little for
legends. From the summit of this great needle of rock sprang the horse
Bayard, flying before the forces of Charlemagne with the four brothers
on his back, and, so tradition says, "leaped across the river,
disappearing in the woods on the further bank."
[Illustration: The Museum: Termonde]
We were fortunate in being at Termonde on the occasion of this
picturesque festival. Songs of Bayard and his prowess were sung in the
streets by various musical societies, each of which carried huge banners
bearing their titles and honors, and some curious frameworks on poles
which were literally covered with medals and wreaths bestowed upon the
societies by the town at various times. These were borne proudly through
the streets, and each society had its crowd of partisans and loud
admirers. Had it not been so picturesque and strange, it would have
seemed childish and pathetic, but the people were so evidently in
earnest and seemed to enjoy it so hugely that the chance stranger could
not but enter into the spirit of it all with them. This we did and
wisely. There was much drinking of a thin sour beer called "faro," which
is very popular with the peasants, and the various societies sang
themselves hoarse, to the delight of all, including themselves. The
horse Bayard, as seen in the market place, was a great wicker affair
hung in wondrous chain armor, and the four sons of Aymon, also of
wickerwork, and likewise clad in armor, each bearing a huge sword, sat
upon his back and were trundled through the streets. There were also
booths in which the inevitable and odoriferous fritters were fried, and
some merry-go-rounds with thunderous, wheezy, groaning steam organs
splitting one's ears, and platforms upon which the peasants danced and
danced until one would have thought them fit to drop with fatigue.
It did not take long to examine the attractions most thoroughly, but
there were two very extraordinary exhibits of enormously fat women (who
are great favorites with the peasantry, and no celebration seems to be
complete without them). Their booths were placed opposite to each other,
nearly face to face, with only about forty feet between them. In this
space crowded the peasants listening open mouthed in wonder at the
vocabulary of the rival "barkers."
As usual, a shower came on during the afternoon, and the decorations
were soaked with the downpour. The wickerwork horse Bayard was left to
itself out in the square, and the wind whisked the water soaked
draperies over its head, disclosing piteously all of its poor framework.
The leaden skies showing no promise of clearing, we called the driver of
the ancient "fiacre," and after settling our score at the "Grande Hôtel
Café Royal de la Tête d'Or," we departed for the station of the "chemin
de fer," which bumped us well but safely along the road to Antwerp.
We came again later on to this little town on the river, thinking that
we might not have done it entire justice, because of the discomfort of
the rainy day. And while we did not, it is true, find anything of great
value to record, nor anything in the way of bells to gloat over, still
our rather dismal impression of the little town in the drizzling rain as
we last saw it, was quite removed and replaced by a picture more to our
liking.
We were constantly finding new and unusual charms in the quaint old
towns, each seeming for some reason quainter than the preceding one.
Here on this occasion it looked so tranquil, so somnolent, that we
tarried all unwilling to lose its flavor of the unusual. There were old
weather beaten walls of ancient brick, mossy in places, and here and
there little flights of steep steps leading down into the water; broad
pathways there were too, shaded by tall trees and behind them vistas of
delightful old houses, each doubtless with its tales of joy, gayety,
pain or terror of the long ago.
The local policeman stood at a deserted street corner examining us
curiously. He was the only sign of life visible except ourselves, and
soon he, satisfied that we were only crazy foreigners with nothing else
to do but wander about, took himself off yawning, his hands clasped
behind his back, and his short sword rattling audibly in the stillness.
The atmosphere of this silent street by the river, shaded almost to a
twilight by the thick foliage, with the old houses all about us, seemed
to invite reminiscence, or dreams of the stern and respectable old
burghers and burgesses in sombre clothing, wide brimmed hats, and
stiffly starched linen ruffs about their necks as rendered by Rembrandt,
Hals, Rubens and Jordaens. They must have been veritable domestic
despots, magnates of the household, but certainly there must have been
something fine about them too, for they are most impressive in their
portraits.
"They shook the foot of Spain from their necks," and when they were not
fighting men they fought the waters. Truly the history of their
struggles is a wondrous one! None of these was in sight, however, as we
strolled the streets, but we did disturb the chat or gossip of two
delightful, apple cheeked old ladies in white caps, who became dumb with
astonishment at the sight of two foreigners who walked about gazing up
at the roofs and windows of the houses, and at the mynheer in
knickerbockers who was always looking about him and writing in a little
book.
One cannot blame them for being so dumbfounded at such actions, such
_incomprehensible_ disturbing actions in a somnolent town of long ago.
In the vestibule of the dark dim old church, I copied the following
inscription from a wall. It sounds something like English gone quite
mad--and the last line, it seems to me, runs rather trippingly--and
contains something of an idea too, whatever it means:
"Al wat er is. Mijn hoop is Christus en zyn bloed.
Door deze leer ik en hoop door die het eenwig goed.
Ons leven is maar eenen dag, vol ziekten en vol naar geklag.
Vol rampen dampen (!) en vendriet. Een schim
Eien droom en anders niet."
A small steamer had advertised to leave for Antwerp about 3 o'clock. It
lay puffing and wheezing at the side of the stream, and we went on board
and settled ourselves comfortably, tired out with our wanderings. Here a
bevy of children discovered us and ranged themselves along the dyke to
watch our movements, exploding with laughter whenever we addressed one
another. Finally an oily hand appeared at the hatchway of the engine
room, followed by the touseled yellow head of a heavily bearded man. He
looked at us searchingly, then at the line of tormenting children. Then
he seized a long pole and advanced threateningly upon the phalanx. They
fled incontinently out of reach, calling out various expletives in
Flemish--of which I distinguished only one, "Koek bakker"! This would
seem to be the crowning insult to cast at a respectable engineer, for he
shook his fist at them.
To our amazement he then touched his greasy cap to us, and in the
broadest possible Scotch dialect bade us welcome. There is a saying that
one has only to knock on the companion ladder of any engine room in any
port the world over, and call out "Sandy" to bring up in response one
or two canny Scots from the engine room below. This little steamer
evidently took the place of the carrier's cart used elsewhere; for
passengers and parcels, as well as crates of vegetables were her cargo.
At length we started puffing along the river, and stopping from time to
time at small landings leading to villages whose roofs appeared above
the banks and dykes.
Delightful bits of the more intimate side of the people's life revealed
themselves to us on these unusual trips. We passed a fine looking old
peasant woman in a beautiful lace cap, rowing a boat with short powerful
strokes in company with a young girl, both keeping perfect time. The
boat was laden with green topped vegetables and brightly burnished brass
milk cans, forming a picture that was most quaint to look upon. And
later we passed a large Rhine barge, from the cabin of which came the
most appetizing odor of broiled bacon. Our whistle brought out the whole
family, and likewise a little nervous black and white dog who went
nearly mad with the excitement attendant upon driving us away from the
property he had to protect.
Night was falling when we reached the quay side in Antwerp, and we
disembarked to the tinkling melody of the wondrous chimes from the tower
of the great Cathedral.
Louvain
Louvain
It was in the great Gothic Church of St. Peter that Mathias Van den
Gheyn delighted to execute those wonderful "_morceaux fugues_" now at
once the delight and the despair of the musical world, upon the fine
chime of bells in the tower. This venerable tower was entirely destroyed
in the terrible bombardment of the town in 1914. It is probable that no
town in Belgium was more frequented by learned men of all professions,
since its university enjoyed such a high reputation the world over, and
certainly its library, likewise entirely destroyed, with its precious
tomes and manuscripts, was considered second to none.
The old Church of St. Peter, opposite the matchless Hôtel de Ville, was
a cruciform structure of noble proportions and flanked with remarkable
chapels; it was begun, according to the archives in Brussels, in 1423,
to replace an earlier building of the tenth century, and was "finished"
in the sixteenth century. There was, it seems, originally a wooden spire
on the west side of the structure but "it was blown down in a storm in
1606."
When I saw it in 1910, the church was in process of restoration, and
the work was being very intelligently done by competent men. Before the
façade was a most curious row of bizarre small houses of stucco, nearly
every one of which was a sort of saloon or café, and the street before
them was quite obstructed by small round tables and chairs at which, in
the afternoon from four to five, the shopkeepers and bourgeois of the
town gathered for the afternoon "_aperitif_," whatever it might be, and
to discuss politics. For be it known that this period before the
outbreak of the war, was in Belgium a troublous one for the Flemings,
because of the continued friction between the clerical and the
anti-clerical parties. These bizarre houses, I was told by one of the
priests with whom I talked, were owned by the church, and were very
profitable holdings, but tourists and others had made such sport of
them, and even entered such grave protests to the Bishop, that the
authorities finally concluded to tear them down. But they were certainly
very picturesque, as my picture shows, their red tiled roofs and green
blinds, making most agreeable notes of color against old St. Peter's
gray wall.
[Illustration: The Cathedral: Louvain]