The Broël Towers: CourtraiThe Broël Towers: Courtrai
To see the country thus was a privilege, and was most interesting, for one had to wait in the squares of the small towns, or at other central places until the corresponding motor arrived before the journey could proceed. Here there was a sort of exchange established where the farmerscompared notes as to the rise or fall in commodities, or perchance the duty upon beets and potatoes.
Loud and vehement was the talk upon these matters; really, did one not know the language, one might have fancied that a riot was imminent.
One morning we halted at a small village called Gheluwe, where the train 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 arebadly 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 onthe 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 hisfilet aux champignons, with a bottle ofBaune superior, ordered his "demi tasse" withfine 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-mouthedvis à visgazes at one with steely bluish green unwinking eyes—somewhatred 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.
Myvis 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, beingenormously 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 oncorbels.
Very large drawn maps of the ancient town and its dependencies cover the walls, and these are dated 1641.[1]
Astrangehalf 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 smallestaminetsand 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. Indeedthis 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, tothreaten 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, surroundingthe 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 andbrought 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."
The Museum: TermondeThe 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 dancedand 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 andburgesses 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, suchincomprehensibledisturbing 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 schimEien 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 portthe 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.
Itwas 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.
The Cathedral: LouvainThe Cathedral: Louvain
The church so wantonly destroyed in 1914 contained some most remarkable 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.
Thecustodeshowed, 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 thousandsof 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).
The Town Hall: LouvainThe Town Hall: Louvain
By the Grace of God, there lived in Louvain, in theyear 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 fromthe 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.
Althoughacross 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, supportedby 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.
The Town Hall: DouaiThe 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 holidaymakers 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 speakingEnglish, 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.
Fromthe 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 anestaminet, 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, thecustode, 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.
The Town Hall: OudenaardeThe Town Hall: Oudenaarde
One Paul Van Schelden, a wood carver of great abilityand 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, whosought 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.