Vanished towers and chimes of Flanders Part 8

From the small stucco station, embowered in luxuriant trees, we crossed a wide gra.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 s.h.i.+ny bra.s.s knockers of good form, and outside one shop was a tempting array of cool green earthenware bowls of such beautiful shape that I pa.s.sed 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 Hotel 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 "_cafe 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 fete, whatever it was.

Part of the procession had pa.s.sed 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 ma.s.s of pure white was of dazzling, startling effect, something like a great bed of white roses.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 mult.i.tude, 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-partic.i.p.ant; the bent heads of the mult.i.tude; 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 "n.o.bele Rose" we spent some golden days. The name of the town is variously p.r.o.nounced 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 ma.s.sacres 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 a.s.sorted an immense amount of detailed matter referring to Baudoin (or Baldwin) Bras de Fer, who seems to have been very active in hara.s.sing 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 coa.r.s.e gra.s.s 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. Pa.s.sing the small hamlet of Zuitcote, marked by the sunken tower of its small church, which now serves as a sort of semaph.o.r.e for the fis.h.i.+ng boats off the coast, one reached the ca.n.a.l 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 gra.s.s 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Fish Market: Ypres]

These are very popular in Flanders, and are called "Cinema-Americain."

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 Hotel 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 Hotel de Ville and the "Palais de Justice," very different in style, for on one side is a ma.s.sive facade 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 cla.s.sic portrait by Gainsborough.

The Hotel 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 bal.u.s.trades 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 "Sodalite," which is a sort of Pa.s.sion 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. a.s.sailed 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 Pa.s.sion."[2]

This procession was suppressed during the religious troubles of the Reform, but afterwards was revived by the church authorities, and now all of the episodes of the life of Christ pa.s.s yearly through the great Grand' Place--the stable in Bethlehem; the flight into Egypt; down to the grand drama of the Calvary and the Resurrection, all are shown and witnessed with great reverence by the crowds of devout peasants from the surrounding country. And these pathetic waxen figures were those of Prophets, Apostles, Jews, Angels, Cavaliers and Roman Soldiers, lying all about the dim dusty chamber in disorder. Afterwards, from the window of the quaint Hotel of the "n.o.bele Rose," we saw this procession pa.s.sing through the crowded streets of Furnes, and almost held our breaths with awe at the long line of black cloaked, hooded penitents, bare-footed, the faces covered so that one could hardly tell whether they were men or women, save for the occasional delicate small white foot thrust forward beneath the black shapeless gown.

And finally _One Figure_, likewise black gowned and with concealed face, staggering along painfully--feebly--and bearing a heavy wooden cross, the end of which dragged along on the stones of the street.[3]

Outside of this, the Grand' Place, and the old red brick tower of St.

Nicholas, so scorched by the sun and beaten by the elements, and the rows of quaint gabled houses beneath, Furnes has little to offer to the seeker after antiquity. The bells in the tower are of sweet tone, but the chimes which hung there were silent, and no amount of persuasion could induce the _custode_ to admit me to the bell chamber. Madame at the "n.o.bele Rose" had a.s.sured me that I could go up there into the tower whenever I wished, but somehow that pleasure was deferred, until finally we were forced to give it up. Of course Madame _did_ rob me; when the bill was presented, it proved to be fifty per cent. more than the price agreed upon, but she argued that we had "used" the window in our apartment overlooking the procession, so we must pay for that privilege.

The point was so novel that I was staggered for a suitable reply to it,--the crucial moment pa.s.sed,--I was lost. I paid!

The Artists of Malines

The Artist of Malines