works of art in the nine chapels. Among these were the "Martyrdom of St.
Erasmus," by Dierick Bouts, long thought to be a work of Memling.
Another painting, "The Last Supper," was also considered one of
Memling's works, until its authenticity was established by the finding
of the receipt by Bouts for payment, discovered in the archives of the
Library in Louvain in 1870. Formerly the church owned a great treasure
in Quentin Matsys' "Holy Family," but this was sold to the Brussels
Museum for something less than £10,000, and upon the outbreak of the war
was in that collection. It is said that most of these great paintings
owned in Belgium were placed in zinc and leaden cases and sent over to
England for safety. It is to be hoped that this is true.
The _custode_ showed, with most impressive manner, a quaint image of the
Savior which, he related, was connected with a miraculous legend to the
effect that the statue had captured and held a thief who had broken into
the church upon one occasion! The townspeople venerate this image, and
on each occasion when I visited the church, I noted the number of old
women on their knees before it, and the many lighted waxen candles which
they offered in its honor. A wave of indignation passed over the world
of art when the newspapers reported the destruction of the beautiful
Hôtel de Ville, just opposite old St. Peter's. This report was almost
immediately followed by a denial from Berlin that it had suffered any
harm whatever, and it would seem that this is true.
The Library, however, with its hundreds of thousands of priceless
records, and masterpieces of printing is, it is admitted, entirely
destroyed! This great building, black and crumbling with age, was
situated in a small street behind the Hôtel de Ville. The town itself
was bright and clean looking, and there was a handsome boulevard leading
from the new Gothic railway station situated in a beflowered parkway,
which was lined with prosperous looking shops. This whole district was
"put to the torch" and wantonly destroyed when the town was captured in
1914. Late photographs show the new station levelled to the ground, and
the parkway turned into a cemetery with mounds and crosses showing where
the soldiers who lost their lives in the bombardment, and subsequent
sacking, are buried.
Remembering the complete destruction of Ypres, one can only believe that
the preservation of the Hôtel de Ville was entirely miraculous and
unintentional.
P.J. Verhaegan, a Flemish painter of considerable reputation and
ability, had decorated one of the two "absidiole" chapels which
contained a very richly carved tomb over a certain lady of the
thirteenth century whose fame is known all over Flanders. The legend was
most dramatically told to me by one of the young priests of St. Peter's,
and this is the story of the beautiful Margaret, called "the
Courageous," (La Fière).
[Illustration: The Town Hall: Louvain]
By the Grace of God, there lived in Louvain, in the year 1235, one
Armand and his wife, both devout Catholics and the keepers of a
travelers' "ordinary" on the road to the coast, called Tirlemont. These
two at length decided to retire from their occupation as "Hôteliers,"
and devote and consecrate the remainder of their lives to God, and the
blessed saints.
Now they had a niece who was a most beautiful girl and whose name was
Margaret, and she had such disdain for the young gallants of Louvain
that they bestowed upon her the name of "La Fière." Although but
eighteen years of age she determined to follow the example of her uncle
and aunt, and later become a "Beguine," thus devoting her life to
charity and the care of the sick and unfortunate, for this is the work
of the order of "Beguines."
They realized a large sum of money from the sale of the hotel, and this
became known throughout the countryside. It was said that the money was
hidden in the house in which they lived, and at length eight young men
of evil lives, pondering upon this, resolved that they would rob this
noble couple. Upon a stormy night they demanded admittance, saying that
they were belated travelers.
The young girl Margaret was absent from the room for a moment, when
these ruffians seized the old couple and murdered them. On her return to
the upper room from the cellar, Margaret surprised them ransacking the
strong box beside the fireplace. So they overpowered her also, but at
once there ensued an argument as to what should be done with her, when
the chief rogue, admiring her great beauty, proposed to her that she
accept him as her lover and depart with him for France, where they could
live happily. This she scornfully refused, whereupon "one of the
ruffians strangled her for ten marcs of silver; and her soul, white and
pure as the angels, ascended to the throne of Jesus, in whom she so well
believed, and there became '_l'unique espoux dont elle ambitionait
l'Amour._'"
It is said that Henry the First sitting in a window of his château on
the river Dyle one night, saw floating on the dark water the corpse of
this young martyr, where the ruffians had thus thrown her, and "the pale
radiance from her brow illuminated the whole valley." Calling to his
consort, Marguerite of Flanders, he pointed out to her the wondrous
sight, and hastening forth they drew her dripping body from the dark
slimy water and bore it tenderly to the château. The news spread far and
wide, and for days came throngs to view the "sweet martyr's" body, for
which the priests had prepared a costly catafalque, and for her a grand
mass was celebrated in St. Peter's where she was laid at rest in a tomb,
the like of which for costliness was never seen in Flanders.
And this is the legend of Margaret, called "La Fière," whose blameless
life was known throughout the land.
I wish that I had made a drawing of this tomb while I was in the church,
but I neglected unfortunately to do so. It was of simple lines, but of
great richness of detail. Of course both it and the beautiful wax
paintings of M. Verhaegan are now entirely destroyed in the ruins of St.
Peter's.
Douai
Douai
Although across the border in France, Douai must still be called a
Flemish town, because of its history and affiliations. The town is
quaint in the extreme and of great antiquity, growing up originally
around a Gallo-Roman fort. In the many wars carried on by the French
against the English, the Flemish and the Germans, not to mention its
sufferings from the invading Spaniards, it suffered many sieges and
captures. Resisting the memorable attack of Louis the Eleventh, it has
regularly celebrated the anniversary of this victory each year in a
notable Fête or Kermesse, in which the effigies of the giant Gayant and
his family, made of wickerwork and clad in medieval costumes, are
paraded through the town by order of the authorities, followed by a
procession of costumed attendants through the tortuous streets, to the
music of bands and the chimes from the belfry of the Hôtel de Ville.
This, the most notable edifice in the town, is a fine Gothic tower one
hundred and fifty feet high, with a remarkable construction of tower and
turrets, supported by corbels of the fifteenth century, containing a
fine chime of bells made by the Van den Gheyns. The bells are visible
from below, hanging sometimes well outside the turret of the bell
chamber, and, ranging tier upon tier, from those seemingly the size of a
gallon measure, to those immense ones weighing from fifteen hundred to
two thousand pounds. This great tower witnessed the attack and
occupation of the Spaniards, the foundation by the Roman Catholics of
the great University in 1652 to counter-act the Protestantism of the
Netherlands, which had but a brief career, and the capture of the town
by Louis the Fourteenth. Here was published in 1610 an English
translation of the Old Testament for Roman Catholics, as well as the
English Roman Catholic version of the scriptures, and the New Testament
translated at Rheims in 1582, and known as the "Douai Bible." This was
also the birthplace of Jean Bellgambe, the painter (1540) surnamed
"Maître des Couleurs," whose nine great oaken panels form the wonderful
altarpiece in the church of Notre Dame.
[Illustration: The Town Hall: Douai]
Douai was, before the great war, a peaceful industrial center of some
importance, of some thirty thousand inhabitants. It has been said that
the Fleming worked habitually fifty-two weeks in the year. An exception,
however, must be made for fête days, when no self-respecting Fleming
will work. On these days the holiday makers are exceedingly
boisterous, and the streets are filled with the peasants clad in all
their holiday finery. But it is on the day of the Kermesse that your
Fleming can be seen to the best advantage. There are merry-go-rounds,
shooting galleries, swings, maybe a traveling circus or two, and a
theatrical troupe which shows in a much bespangled and mirrored tent,
decorated with tinsel and flaming at night with naphtha torches. Bands
of music parade the streets, each carrying a sort of banneret hung with
medals and trophies awarded by the town authorities at the various
"_séances_."
But the greatest noise comes from the barrel organs of huge size and
played by steam, or sometimes by a patient horse clad in gay apparel who
trudges a sort of treadmill which furnishes the motive power. In even
these small towns of Ancient Flanders such as Douai, the old allegorical
representations, formerly the main feature of the event, are now quite
rare, and therefore this event of the parade of the wicker effigies of
the fabulous giant Gayant and his family was certainly worth the journey
from Tournai. The day was made memorable also to the writer and his
companion because of the following adventure.
There had been, it seems, considerable feeling against England among the
lower orders in this border town over the Anglo-Boer War, so that
overhearing us speaking English, some half grown lads began shouting
out at us "Verdamt Engelsch" and other pleasantries, and in a moment a
crowd gathered about us.
With the best Flemish at his command the writer addressed them,
explaining that we were Americans, but what the outcome would have been,
had it not been for the timely arrival of a gendarme, I know not; but
under his protection we certainly beat a hasty retreat. The lower
classes of Flemings in their cups are unpleasant people to deal with,
and it were well not to arouse them. But for this incident, and the fact
that the afternoon brought on a downpour of rain, which somewhat
dampened the ardor of the people and the success of the fête, our little
trip over the border to this historic town would be considered worth
while. Our last view of Douai was from the train window as we recrossed
the river Scarpe, with the massive tower of the Hôtel de Ville showing
silhouetted dim and gray against a streaming sky.
Oudenaarde
Oudenaarde
From the small stucco station, embowered in luxuriant trees, we crossed
a wide grass grown square, faring towards the turrets of the town, which
appeared above the small red and black tiled roofs of some mean looking
peasant houses, and an _estaminet_, of stucco evidently brand new, and
bearing a gilt lion over its door. Here a wide and rather well paved
street led towards the town, bordered upon either hand by well kept and
clean but blank looking houses, with the very narrowest sidewalks
imaginable, all of which somehow reminded us of some of the smaller
streets of Philadelphia. The windows of these houses flush with the
street were closely hung with lace, and invariably in each one was
either a vase or a pot of some sort filled with bright flowers.
Occasionally there was a small poor looking shop window in which were
dusty glass jars of candy, pipes, packages of tobacco, coils of rope and
hardware, and in one, evidently that of an apothecary, a large carved
and varnished black head of a grinning negro, this being the sign for
such merchandise as tobacco and drugs.
Here and there doorways were embellished with shiny brass knockers of
good form, and outside one shop was a tempting array of cool green
earthenware bowls of such beautiful shape that I passed them by with
great longing.
Soon this street made a turning, where there was a good bronze statue to
some dignitary or other, and I caught a glimpse of that wondrous tower
of the famous Hôtel de Ville, the mate to that at Louvain, and soon I
was beneath its Gothic walls, bearing row upon row of niches, empty now,
but once containing effigies of the powerful lords and ladies of
Flanders. These rows rise tier upon tier to that exquisitely slender
lace-like tower crowned with a large gilded statue of the town's patron,
pennant in hand, and shining in the sunlight.
From the Inn of the "Golden Apple of Oudenaarde" just opposite, I
appraised its beauties over a good meal of young broiled chicken and
lettuce salad, and a bowl of "_café au lait_" that was all satisfying.
Afterwards, the _custode_, an old soldier, showed us the "Salle des Pas
Perdus," containing a fine chimney piece alone worth the journey from
Antwerp, and the Council Chamber, still hung with some good ancient
stamped leather, and several large badly faded and cracked Spanish
paintings of long forgotten dignitaries both male and female.
[Illustration: The Town Hall: Oudenaarde]
One Paul Van Schelden, a wood carver of great ability and renown,
wrought a wonderful doorway, which was fast falling apart when I saw it.
This gave access to a large room, the former Cloth Hall, now used as a
sort of theatre and quite disfigured at one end by a stage and scenic
arch. The walls were stenciled meanly with a large letter A surmounted
by a crown. The interior had nothing of interest to show.
On the opposite side of the square was the large old church of St.
Walburga, with a fine tower capped by a curious upturned bulbous cupola,
upon which was a large gilt open-work clock face. As usual, there was a
chime of bells visible, and a flock of rooks circling about the tower.
The style of St. Walburga was Romanesque, with Gothic tendencies. Built
in the twelfth century, it suffered severely at the hands of the
Iconoclasts, and even in its unfinished state was very impressive, none
the less, either, because of the rows of small stucco red roofed houses
which clung to its walls, leaving only a narrow entrance to its portal.
Inside I found an extremely rich polychromed Renaissance "reredos," and
there was also the somewhat remarkable tomb of "Claude Talon," kept in
good order and repair.
Oudenaarde was famed for the part it played in the history of Flanders,
and was also the birthplace of Margaret of Parma. It was long the
residence of Mary of Burgundy, and gave shelter to Charles the Fifth,
who sought the protection of its fortifications during the siege of
Tournai in 1521.
Here, too, Marlborough vanquished the French in 1708. I might go on for
a dozen more pages citing the names of remarkable personages who gave
fame to the town, which now is simply wiped from the landscape. But by
some miracle, it is stated, the Town Hall still stands practically
uninjured. I have tried in vain to substantiate this, or at least to
obtain some data concerning it, but up to this writing my letters to
various officials remain unanswered.
I like to think of Oudenaarde as I last saw it--the huge black door of
the church yawning like a gaping chasm, the square partly filled with
devout peasants in holiday attire for the church fête, whatever it was.
Part of the procession had passed beyond the gloom of the vast aisles
into the frank openness of daylight. Between the walls of the small
houses at either hand a long line of figures was marching with many
silken banners. There seemed to be an interminable line of young
girls--first communicants, I fancied,--in all the purity of their white
veils and gowns against the somber dull grays of the church. This mass
of pure white was of dazzling, startling effect, something like a great
bed of white roses.
[Illustration: Old Square and Church: Oudenaarde]
Then came a phalanx of nuns clad in brown--I know not what their order
was--their wide white cowls or coifs serving only to accentuate the
pallor of their grave faces, veritable "incarnations of meek
renunciation," as some poet has beautifully expressed it.
Then followed a group of seminarians clad in the lace and scarlet of
their order, swinging to and fro their brazen censers from which poured
fragrant clouds of incense.
All at once a curious murmur came from the multitude, followed by a
great rustling, as the whole body of people sank to their knees, and
then I saw beyond at a distance across the square, the archbishop's
silken canopy, and beneath it a venerable figure with upraised arms,
elevating the Host.
Surely a moment of great picturesqueness, even to the non-participant;
the bent heads of the multitude; the long lines of kneeling black
figures; scarlet and gold and lace of the priests' robes against the
black note of the nuns' somber draperies; the white coifs and veils,
through which the sweet rapture of young religious awe made even homely
features seem beautiful: the gold and scarlet again of the choristers;
and finally, that culminating note of splendor beneath the silken canopy
of the cardinal archbishop (Cardinal Mercier) enthroned here like some
ancient venerated monarch; all this against the neutral gray and black
lines of the townspeople; surely this was the psychological moment in
which to leave Oudenaarde, that I might retain such a picture in my
mind's eye.
Furnes
Furnes
The old red brick, flat topped, tower of St. Nicholas was the magnet
which drew us to this dear sleepy old town, in the southwest corner of
the Belgian littoral; and here, lodged in the historic hostel of the
"Nobèle Rose" we spent some golden days. The name of the town is
variously pronounced by the people Foorn, Fern, and even Fearn. I doubt
if many travelers in the Netherlands ever heard of it. Yet the town is
one of great antiquity and renown, its origin lost in the dimness of the
ages.
According to the chronicles in the great Library at Bruges, as early as
A.D. 800 it was the theatre of invasions and massacres by the Normans.
That learned student of Flemish history, M. Leopold Plettinck, has made
exhaustive researches among the archives in both Brussels and Bruges,
and while he has been unable to trace its beginnings he has collected
and assorted an immense amount of detailed matter referring to Baudoin
(or Baldwin) Bras de Fer, who seems to have been very active in
harassing the people who had the misfortune to come under his hand.
The War of the "Deux Roses" was fought outside the walls here, likewise
the Battle of the Spurs took place on the plains between Furnes and
Ypres. Following the long undulations of the dunes from Dunkerque,
overgrown here and there with a rank coarse grass sown by the
authorities to protect them from the wind and the encroachments of the
ever menacing sea, dune succeeds dune, forming a landscape of most
unique character. Passing the small hamlet of Zuitcote, marked by the
sunken tower of its small church, which now serves as a sort of
semaphore for the fishing boats off the coast, one reached the canal
which crosses the plain picturesquely. This led one along the path to
the quaint old town of Furnes, showing against the heavy dark green of
the old trees, its dull red and pink roofs with the bulk of the tower
forming a picture of great attractiveness.
The town before the war had about six thousand population which seemed
quite lost in the long lines of silent grass grown streets, and the
immense Grand' Place, around which were ranged large dark stone Flemish
houses of somewhat forbidding exteriors. All the activity of the town,
however, was here in this large square, for the lower floors had been
turned into shops, and also here was the hotel, before which a temporary
moving picture theatre had been put up.
[Illustration: The Fish Market: Ypres]
These are very popular in Flanders, and are called "Cinema-Américain."
The portable theatres are invariably wooden and are carried "knocked
down" in large wagons drawn by hollow-backed, thick-legged Flemish
horses. As a rule they have steam organs to furnish the "music" and the
blare of these can be heard for miles across the level plains.
The pictures shown are usually of the lurid sort to suit the peasants,
and the profits must be considerable, as the charge is ten and
twenty-five cents for admission. On this square is the Hôtel de Ville,
the Palace of Justice, and Conciergerie. This latter is a sort of square
"donjon" of great antiquity, crenelated, with towers at each corner and
the whole construction forming an admirable specimen of Hispano-Flemish
architecture.
The angle of the "Place" opposite the pavilion of the officers is
occupied by the Hôtel de Ville and the "Palais de Justice," very
different in style, for on one side is a massive façade of severe aspect
and no particular period, while on the other is a most graceful Flemish
Renaissance construction, reminding one of a Rubens opposed, in all its
opulence, to a cold classic portrait by Gainsborough.
The Hôtel de Ville, of 1612, exhibits in its "Pignons," its columns and
Renaissance motifs, a large high tower of octagonal form surmounted by a
small cupola. Its frontage pushes forward a loggia of quite elegant
form, with balustrades in the Renaissance style.
Above this grave looking gray building rises the tower of the
"Beffroi," part Gothic in style.
All the houses on the "Place" have red tiled roofs, and gables in the
Renaissance style very varied in form, and each one with a
characteristic window above, framed richly _en coquille_, and decorated
with arabesques.
Behind these houses is what remains of the ancient Church of St.
Walburga, half buried in the thick verdure of the garden. After
considerable difficulty we gained admittance to the ruin, because it is
not considered safe to walk beneath its walls. Even in its ruin it was
most imposing and majestic. We would have tarried here, but the
_custode_ was very nervous and hurried us through the thickets of bushes
growing up between the stones of the pavement, and fairly pushed us out
again into the small parkway, accepting the very generous fee which I
gave him with what I should call surliness. But we ignored this
completely, after the manner of old travelers, which we had been advised
to adopt.
At one side were stored some rather dilapidated and dirty wax figures
which reclined in various postures, somewhat too lifelike in the gloom
of the chamber, and entirely ludicrous, so much so that it was with much
difficulty that we controlled our smiles. The roving eye of the surly
_custode_, however, warned us against levity of any sort. These wax
figures, he explained, gruffly enough, were those of the most sacred
religious personages, and the attendant saints and martyrs, used in the
great procession and ceremony of the "Sodalité," which is a sort of
Passion Play, shown during the last Sunday in July of each year in the
streets of the town. The story relates an adventure of a Count of
Flanders, who brought to Furnes, during the first years of the Holy
Crusades, a fragment of the True Cross. Assailed by a tempest in the
Channel off the coast, he vowed the precious object to the first church
he came to, if his prayers for succor were answered. "Immediately the
storm abated, and the Count, bearing the fragment of the Cross aloft,
was miraculously transported over the waves to dry land."
This land proved to be the sand dunes of Flanders, and the church tower
was that of St. Walburga. After a conference with his followers, who
also were saved, he founded the solemn annual procession in honor of the
True Cross, in which was also introduced the representation of the
"Mysteries of the Passion."[2]