The Spell of Flanders / An Outline of the History, Legends and Art of Belgium's Famous Northern Provinces

It was in the house on the Friday Market that the dying printer gathered his family about him. His only son had died in infancy, but his five daughters had all lived to be married, three of them to men associated with him in the printing office. The eldest, Margaret, married Francis Raphelingen, the chief proof-reader and an able linguist; while the second, Martina, married Jean Moretus, the father of a long line, of which the eldest sons bore the same name so that they came to be distinguished by numbers, the first being Jean Moretus I—like a line of kings. This son-in-law was Plantin’s business manager. The third daughter aided the mother, who ran a linen business in the frugal way that many Flemish housewives have of helping their husbands. A fourth, Magdalen, when only a child, corrected proofs on the Biblia Regia in five languages, and later married her father’s Paris agent. The fifth married a brother of Jean Moretus I, who became a diamond-cutter.

Plantin had from a very early date adopted the motto “Labori et Constantia,” together with the emblem of a hand holding a pair of open compasses, which may be seen over the Friday Market gateway to the museum. This emblem, with the motto entwining it in the form of a scroll, or appearing above, below or across it in a hundred variations, is the mark by which connoisseurs can distinguish the products of the Plantin Press. It must have been constantly in the mind of the great printer himself, for on his deathbed he composed the following French couplet, which expresses and describes his own character better than any epitaph could do:

On July 1, 1589, this “giant among printers” breathed his last, and was buried in the ambulatory of the cathedral, his friend Justus Lipsius writing the inscription for his tombstone. While his name is not associated with the earliest beginnings of the art of printing, and the products of his press do not therefore command the almost fabulous prices paid for the rarest productions of some of the first printers, Christopher Plantin was not only the greatest printer of his age, but one of the greatest in the history of the art. Almost from the first he knew how to gather about him the foremost scholars and artists of his time, making his establishment not merely a printing-office but an institution of learning, a home of the fine arts. Arias Montanus, editor of the Biblia Regia, aided by a host of the most learned churchmen of Europe; Justus Lipsius, lecturer before Princes at the Universities of Leyden and Louvain; Mercator and Ortelius, the geographers, from whom the world learned the right way to make maps and atlases; Crispin, Van den Broeck, Martin de Vos, and a score of the foremost Flemish artists, who were employed by Plantin to illustrate his books; these and many more no doubt were frequent visitors at the printing-house during the lifetime of its founder.

These noble traditions were fully maintained under his successors. Jean Moretus I ruled over the destinies of the house until his death, in 1610, leaving it to his two sons, Jean II and Balthazar I. The latter was the greatest of the dynasty of printers after Plantin and Jean Moretus I. He was a warm friend of Rubens, who illustrated many of the publications of the house during this period. In the fourth generation, represented by Balthazar III, who ruled for half a century, from 1646 to 1696, the family was ennobled, but after this period the house confined its output and commerce to missals and breviaries, under the monopoly granted by Philip II for the countries under the rule of Spain. This business was completely destroyed by an edict prohibiting the importation of foreign books into the Spanish dominions, and in 1800 the printing office ceased operations. It resumed activity on a small scale once or twice during the nineteenth century, but finally closed in 1867, after an existence of three hundred and twelve years, and in 1876 the last representative of the house, Edouard Moretus, sold the entire establishment, with all its priceless collections and furnishings, to the City of Antwerp for the sum of 1,200,000 francs, to be maintained as a museum.

During the splendid period of activity in the first half of the seventeenth century, the throng of famous men in the libraries and the corrector’s room of the old establishment surpassed that of the days of Plantin and Jean Moretus I. Rubens, Van Dyck, Erasmus Quellin and a host of other artists; Lævinius Torrentius, bishop and poet, Kiliaen, the lexicographer, and scores of other learned men; Princes and Dukes innumerable, the patrons and protectors of the house—all these and many more were constant visitors. To the student the museum of to-day recalls these great names with a freshness and vividness that the ordinary museum fatally lacks, for here are countless mementoes of their presence in the very proofs and prints they handled and corrected, in the letters they wrote, in the sketches drawn by the greatest artists of Flanders and engraved by the foremost engravers of the time.

As a detailed description of the Plantin Museum can be found in all the guidebooks, while an excellent handbook regarding its treasures by Max Rooses, its renowned curator, can be purchased for a franc, it would be unnecessary as well as tedious to recount them here. To those who have but a little time at their disposal a liberal honorarium to the attendant in each room—all of whom are garbed in brown with a quaint cap of the same colour, as the printers of the house were wont to be dressed in the great olden days—will bring forth a wealth of curious and interesting information not to be found in any book, anecdotes of distinguished visitors, bits of lore about this or the other treasure, that will make the trifling investment well worth while. In our case we made our first visit in this way, roaming about the splendid old rooms and dipping into this case or that at random—like butterflies amid a bower of roses. Visitors were few that day and we had each attendant to ourselves. Later on we made another visit, armed with letters of introduction to M. Denucé, the learned assistant curator, and through his courtesy revisited each room once more. A single book—one of the marvellous collections of early Bibles—was, according to the attendant in that room, made the object of an offer of a million francs, or maybe it was a million dollars, by a well-known American millionaire. The collection in its entirety, if dispersed by auction, would doubtless fetch many millions—but it belongs exactly where it is. Like the collection of Van Eycks and Memlings in Bruges, it would be a world calamity to despoil it or disperse it. Even the very furnishings of the chambers up-stairs are associated with the house of Plantin, were used by the family for many years; the paintings that crowd the walls like an art gallery are for the most part by Rubens—portraits of leading members of the family. Then there are numberless drawings, prints and engravings that represent the work of half of the greatest artists of the Flemish school during the century of its greatest splendour—an inimitable, indescribable collection!

Among other pictorial treasures we saw a collection of views of old Antwerp that the Professor said he would gladly have spent a month in, if only his vacation were a little longer. Then there were the books—and again words fail to convey an adequate idea of the richness and interest of the collection. There are nearly a score of early German Bibles, including a fine copy of Gutenberg’s Bible latine of 1450; rare German and Italian incunabula, choice examples of the work of the early Flemish printers, including Les dicts moraulx des philosophes, printed by Colard Manson at Bruges in 1477. There are examples of early French, Dutch and Italian printing; there are Aldines, Estiennes, Elzevirs; books from the first printing presses of Switzerland, Spain and Portugal. Truly the historian of the early art of printing might come here and complete his work within these charmed walls—he would need no other materials! Naturally the collection of books printed by the house itself is large, though not complete, and there are a great many products of other Antwerp presses. Most valuable of all is the collection of manuscripts, which includes a huge Latin Bible completed in 1402 and ornamented with the most marvellous miniatures. Here are also several superb Books of Hours and many other books with choice miniatures.

The printing-rooms also deserve all the time the tourist can spare. The proofreaders’ room is a gem, architecturally, artistically, and from its historic associations with one of the world’s finest arts. A few old proof sheets are still lying on the high desks, near the stained glass windows with their tiny panes. The typeroom has still some of the old fonts of type and original matrices, while the composing and pressroom has two presses of the sixteenth century, and many quaint and curious devices then in use. All these rooms, together with the large state rooms, which contain the manuscripts and choicest examples of early printing, surround a charming courtyard which is still kept bright with flowers as it was in the days of the founders of the great house. The City of Antwerp is justly proud of this noble monument to its great family of great printers, which serves to keep green the memory of their achievements and of their fine artistic taste and skill as no other form of memorial could do.

CHAPTER XX
ANTWERP FROM THE TIME OF RUBENS TILL TO-DAY

If there is one name more honoured in Flanders than any other—more often employed as the name of hotels, restaurants or cafés; more frequently on the lips of guides, caretakers and sacristans; more constantly in the mind of every tourist, be he or she American, English or Continental—it is the name of the greatest of Flemish painters, Peter Paul Rubens. No book on Flanders, and most assuredly no work touching on Antwerp, would be complete without some reference to the life and work of this prince among painters, yet no task can be more superfluous, since nothing can be said that will add in the slightest degree to his fame. He ranks in the history of art with the greatest masters in the world—with Michael Angelo, Leonardo, Rembrandt, Raphael, Titian and Velasquez—and it is probable that more books have been written about him than about Antwerp itself.

Occasional references have been made in previous chapters to notable paintings by Rubens to be seen in various churches throughout Flanders—particularly to “The Miraculous Draught of Fishes” at Malines, which is said to have been saved from the destruction of that city, having been carried away before the first of its many bombardments. It is at Antwerp, however, that the tourist who desires to study the work of Rubens will find him at his best and in greatest profusion. And the most famous spot enriched by his unrivalled art is the cathedral. Here hang his two greatest devotional works, “The Elevation of the Cross” and “The Descent from the Cross.” The former was painted in 1610 and gave the young artist—he was then only thirty-three—instant and enduring fame. The companion work was completed the following year. Neither was originally painted for the cathedral. “The Elevation of the Cross,” the earlier and inferior of the two, was intended to be the altarpiece for the church of Ste. Walburge, while the other was painted for the Society of Arquebusiers, to adjust a difficulty that had arisen over apportioning the cost of a wall separating Rubens’ house from that of the guild. Both, however, are in an ideal location where they now are, and form an admirable starting point from which to see, first the cathedral, and then the work of Rubens as a whole.

The Cathedral of Notre Dame is without doubt the most beautiful Gothic church in Belgium, and has thus far happily escaped the ravages of the present war—passing unscathed through the furious German bombardment of the city. Begun in 1352 it was, like other churches of its size, centuries in reaching completion. The exquisite lace-work in stone of the north tower was completed during the sixteenth century, but was not wholly finished when the iconoclasts ravaged the interior of the edifice. Originally the church of St. Mary, it became the Cathedral of Notre Dame in 1560. The nave and transepts were not vaulted until 1611-16, or the very period when Rubens was painting the famous pictures that now hang in the south transept. Work on the south tower was discontinued in 1474, which seems a pity, as its completion would have made the cathedral one of the most perfect specimens of Gothic architecture in the world. As it is, the single tower dominates the old part of the city and is a familiar feature of its sky line. The chimes of the cathedral are famous, and are often played by Jef Denyn of Malines. There are forty bells of various sizes, of which the greatest was named Charles V, and requires the strength of nineteen men to swing it. This bell was founded some eight years before the young Duke Charles made his joyous entry into Antwerp, and no doubt rang lustily on that occasion.

The interior of the cathedral is very vast, comprising six aisles, but is too well known to require description. Among the numerous paintings with which the chapels are adorned is one, a “Descent from the Cross,” by Adam Van Noort, the teacher of Jordaens, and said to be the first who taught Rubens how to handle a brush. In the second chapel on the south is an interesting “Resurrection” by Rubens, which was painted in 1612 for the tomb of his friend Moretus, of the famous printing-house of Plantin. The fourth chapel on the same side contains the tomb of Christopher Plantin, with an inscription by his colleague and friend, Justus Lipsius, and several family portraits. The visitor will find many other points of interest in this vast church, which is a veritable museum of art, architecture, history and human progress. The high altarpiece is another famous Rubens, an “Assumption”—a subject which he painted no less than ten times. There are half a dozen other notable paintings by other artists, but the majority are of minor artistic importance. The rich Gothic choir stalls, however, are worth more than a passing glance, for the wood-carvings here are very fine, although modern—having been begun in 1840, and completed forty years later. The elaborately carved pulpit was made in the eighteenth century by the sculptor Michel Vervoort, and was intended for the Abbey of St. Bernard.

After the completion of the two great masterpieces now in the cathedral Rubens was by universal acclaim acknowledged to be the foremost painter in Flanders and of his time. His studio was besieged by artists desirous of becoming the pupils of the brilliant master. As early as 1611 he wrote that he had already refused more than a hundred applicants. In 1614 he painted “The Conversion of St. Bavon,” now in the cathedral of St. Bavon at Ghent; in 1617 “The Adoration of the Magi” in the church of St. John at Malines, and “The Last Judgment,” now in the Pinacothek of Munich; in 1618 “The Miraculous Draught of Fishes” at Malines; in 1619 “The Last Communion of St. Francis,” now in the museum at Antwerp, and, according to Fromentin, his greatest masterpiece; in 1620 the “Coup de Lance,” now at the museum of Antwerp, and his finest work according to some other authorities. In 1622-23 he produced the twenty-four superb paintings of the Galerie des Medicis. The “Lion Hunt,” and the “Battle of the Amazons,” now in the Pinacothek at Munich, belong to this decade, together with the six paintings of the history of Decius in the Liechtenstein Gallery, and thirty-nine pictures for the church of the Jesuits, of which all but three were destroyed at the burning of the church in 1718. The three are in the museum of Vienna.

Here, in the space of a little over ten years, were nearly a hundred masterpieces—works of such magnitude that two or three would have sufficed to immortalise any other painter. Yet in addition to these labours he designed for the tapestry-workers of Brussels the life of Achilles in eight parts, the history of Constantine in twelve, and many other cartoons of extraordinary merit. His friend, Moretus, in accordance with the high traditions of the house of Plantin, came to him for designs for many books, and he drew borders, designs, title-pages and vignettes, and illustrated himself a book on cameos. He even painted triumphal arches and cars for ceremonial processions, and these works in his hands acquired a permanence of artistic value that is in itself one of the highest tributes to his genius. The fine portraits of Albert and Isabella, now in the museum at Brussels, were painted for a triumphal arch in the Place de Meir—yet they are masterpieces of portraiture, perfect and splendid down to the minutest detail!

According to a report made in 1879, by the Commission Anversoise chargée de réunir l’ouevre de Rubens, en gravures ou en photographies, there are altogether no less than two thousand, two hundred and thirty-five pictures and sketches by this amazingly prolific artist, and four hundred and eighty-four designs—a total of two thousand, seven hundred and nineteen known works. At Antwerp alone there are upwards of one hundred pictures, of which more than a score are masterpieces of world-wide renown and incalculable value. Besides the great trio at the cathedral, and the family portraits in the Plantin Museum, the museum catalogues more than thirty subjects of which the “Spear Thrust” (Coup de Lance), “Adoration of the Magi or Wise Men,” the “Last Communion of Saint Francis,” the “Christ on the Straw” (à la Paille), “The Prodigal Son,” and “Virgin Instructed by Saint Anne” are among the more notable. Both here and at the Plantin Museum the student of Rubens can find many interesting prints, sketches and minor examples of the great master’s work. At the museum also is the interesting Holy Family known as “La Vierge au Perroquet” (Virgin with the Parrot) which was presented by Rubens to the Guild of St. Luke when he was elected President of that famous organisation in 1631. Near the Place de Meir is the house of Rubens, largely a replica of the original built in the eighteenth century—few vestiges of the building in which the great painter held his almost royal court remaining. It is worth a visit, but is far inferior to the Plantin Museum as a memorial and in the interest and importance of its contents.

On his death in 1640—“twenty years too early”—the artist was buried in the church of St. Jacques, an edifice rivalling the cathedral in size and interest. It was the burial-place of many of the wealthiest families in Antwerp. The Rubens chapel is in the ambulatory, behind the high altar, and contains a picture of the “Holy Family” which, according to the critics, is one of the worst of the artist’s pictures. Several of the faces are those of his own family, which probably was the reason why his widow placed it here.

Besides the paintings in various churches and museums in Flanders there are twenty-three by Rubens in the museum at Brussels, seventy-seven in the Pinacothek at Munich, ninety at Vienna, sixty-six at Madrid, fifty-four in the Hermitage at St. Petersburg and the same number in the Louvre at Paris, sixteen at Dresden, thirty-one at London, while a considerable number can be seen in various public and private art collections in the United States. “He is everywhere,” writes Prof. Wauters with justifiable enthusiasm, “and everywhere triumphant. No matter what pictures surround him, the effect is invariable; those which resemble his own are eclipsed, those that would oppose him are silenced; wherever he is he makes you feel his presence, he stands alone, and at all times occupies the first place.... He has painted everything—fable, mythology, history, allegory, portraits, animals, flowers, landscapes—and always in a masterly way.... Is he perfect? No one is. Has he faults? Assuredly. He is sometimes reproached with having neither the outline of Raphael, the depth of Leonardo da Vinci, the largeness of Titian, the naturalness of Velasquez, nor the chiaroscuro of Rembrandt. But he has the outline, the depth, the largeness, the naturalness and the chiaroscuro of Rubens; is not that enough?”

To appreciate fully the magnitude of this greatest of all Flemings it is necessary to recall, for a moment, the times in which he lived. Fourteen years after the capture of Antwerp by the Prince of Parma, Philip II determined—when on his deathbed—to give the Spanish Netherlands partial independence by transferring the sovereignty over the loyal provinces possessed by the Crown of Spain to his daughter Isabella and her husband, the Archduke Albert. The arrival of the Archdukes, as they were called, in 1599, was made the occasion of a joyous entry that, on the whole, was justified by their Government—which was a great improvement over anything that had preceded it since the days of the unspeakable Alva. To be sure, the war with the States of Holland still dragged on, and the Scheldt was closed. But the burghers wisely sought to replace the loss of their sea trade by encouraging industries. Silk and satin manufactures during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries gave employment to upwards of twelve thousand hands, and diamond-cutting became an industry of growing importance. While the commercial stagnation was severely felt, the city did not decline like Bruges, but held much of its population and recovered some of its former wealth.

The Archdukes, who were relieved of the paralysing necessity of referring every important act to Madrid, did their best to heal the terrible wounds of the early years of the war and restore some degree of tranquillity and prosperity to their dominions. Religious persecutions ceased. Eager to win the love of their subjects, the Archdukes welcomed Rubens to Antwerp when he returned to his native city on the death of his mother in 1608, and in order to keep him from returning to Italy made him their court painter in 1609. During the remainder of his lifetime their favour never ceased, and on many occasions Rubens was sent as a special ambassador of the Government on important diplomatic missions. His courtly manners and stately appearance favoured him, as well as his now tremendous artistic reputation. He was knighted by Charles I, while on a visit to England, and created a Master of Arts by the University of Cambridge. Among his friends he numbered—besides his royal patrons, Moretus, the printer, and Rockox, the burgomaster—many of the most famous scholars and statesmen of his time. He was interested in literature and science as well as art in all its branches and wrote a vast number of letters on an astounding variety of subjects—one calculation places the total number at eight thousand!

As if his own achievements were not enough, the genius of Rubens was the torch that set aflame a renaissance of Flemish painting that made the later Flemish school, which justly bears his name, the peer of any in the long history of art. Of his many pupils the greatest is Anthony Van Dyck, who was born at Antwerp in 1599 and entered the studio of the master at the age of fifteen. In the little church of Saventhem, not far from Brussels, is the most famous of Van Dyck’s early paintings which shows his precocious talent. Rubens had urged his promising pupil to visit Italy, and not only gave him a letter of introduction but provided funds for the long journey. The youth set forth, but in a little village on the way there happened to be a kermesse into the merriment of which he entered heartily. Among others with whom he danced was a beautiful country girl with whom the artist fell so deeply in love that he was unable to proceed any further, but devoted himself for days to courting her. Meanwhile his funds ran out, and he bethought himself with horror, when it was too late, that this meant the abandonment of the trip to Italy. In his extremity he applied to the parish priest and offered to paint an altarpiece for the village church on very moderate terms. It is related that the priest smiled indulgently at the youth’s pretensions that he was a historical painter and put him off, saying that there were no funds. Van Dyck, however, persisted, and offered to paint the picture if provided only with the canvas, and leave the matter of the price to the curé’s liberality.

These terms could hardly be refused, and the young artist set to work with such energy that in a few weeks the picture was finished. The priest admired the work greatly, particularly the beautiful figure of the Saint—the subject selected having been Saint Martin dividing his Cloak among the Beggars—and sent for a connoisseur from Brussels to decide if he should keep the picture. The verdict was favourable, and the price paid to the artist enabled him to proceed on his journey to Italy. It is not reported whether the future painter of kings and courtiers ever returned to visit his fair inamorata of the kermesse, but this pretty story, which is told in a rare little book, “Sketches of Flemish Painters,” published at The Hague in 1642, was written by a contemporary, and may quite possibly have been true. At any rate, there is the painting itself to prove it.

On his return to Antwerp in 1625 Van Dyck left behind him in Italy more than a hundred paintings, in itself a prodigious achievement. He now began to work in his native city with a rapidity and perfection resembling his master’s and produced the altarpieces that are among the master works of Flemish churches. Here also he painted a marvellous galaxy of portraits of the great artists of his time and of the Flemish, French and Spanish nobility. His marvellous etchings also belong to this period, so that Antwerp is associated with much of his finest work in two great branches of art. In 1632 the artist went to London, which he had visited on one or two previous occasions, and became painter to the court of Charles I. Here he remained for the rest of his lifetime, painting more than three hundred and fifty pictures portraying the royal family and nobility of England. He died in 1641, or only a year after his master, leaving a record of varied achievement comprising more than one thousand, five hundred works. The museum at Antwerp possesses twelve of his paintings, of which one of the most interesting is the “Christ on the Cross” painted for the Dominican nuns in recognition of the care and tenderness with which they had nursed his father during the old man’s last illness. The catalogue of the museum somewhat conceals the artist’s name under the Flemish form, Antoon Van Dijck, which hardly suggests the brilliant and debonnaire Sir Anthony of Whitehall and the beauties of England under Charles the First. There are sixty-seven works by this master in Vienna, forty-one at Munich, thirty-eight at St. Petersburg, twenty-four at the Louvre, twenty-one in Madrid and nineteen in Dresden, but England possesses the largest collections of his productions, most of those he painted at London still remaining in the public and private galleries of that country.

It would be a tedious task to recount the names and works of the throng of lesser artists who studied at the feet of Rubens and Van Dyck during the fruitful years when those masters were giving their talents to the world with such amazing prodigality. Erasmus Quellin I, the Elder, was one of the first—a sculptor who founded a family of notable sculptors and painters who lived and gained renown at Antwerp for more than a century. Faid’herbe, whose work abounds at Malines, was another sculptor of the highest rank who was a direct pupil of Rubens; Dusquesnoy, Grupello and Verbrugghen were renowned sculptors who owed much to his influence.

After Rubens and Van Dyck the greatest name in the Flemish school of this brilliant period was that of Jacob Jordaens, who learned his art under Rubens’ old master, Adam Van Noort, and married his teacher’s beautiful daughter Catherine, who posed for many of his pictures. The numerous family gatherings depicted by this master are famous, one of the most characteristic of them all being the well-known “As the Old Birds Sing the Young Birds Pipe” in the Antwerp museum. His satyrs and peasants and rural scenes are among the finest products of the Flemish school. The religious pictures of Gaspard de Crayer and Gerard Zeghers, the portraits of Cornelius de Vos, and the animal pictures of Francis Snyders and John Fyts all belong to this epoch when Antwerp, although sinking in commercial and political importance, was making herself for all time one of the art capitals of the world.

In pictures of homely Flemish life David Teniers, who belongs to the next generation of Antwerp artists, achieved a fame that places him in a sense in a class by himself, for none of the earlier masters surpassed him in his particular field. He, too, was prolific—one catalogue enumerating no less than six hundred and eighty-five of his works. Of the same genre is the work of Adrian Brauwer, whose early death prevented him from leaving so great a legacy to posterity. Besides these masters of the first rank, Antwerp boasts an almost innumerable throng of minor artists—pupils of Rubens, Van Dyck and their successors—much of whose work is of excellent merit. Any half-dozen of these would have rendered another city notable in the history of art, but here their achievements are lost as are the heroic deeds of the private soldiers in a great army. The mind cannot retain so many names, cannot appraise and classify so bewildering a mass of productions.

For this reason the tourist who is a philosopher will not regard too seriously the dicta of the learned as to which of these lesser paintings is or is not of the first rank in the order of merit. What of it if the guidebook does not indicate by its little stars that this is a picture for one to go into raptures over, if the sacristan or guide passes it coldly by? If it appeals to us by all means let us pause and admire it, let us study it, find out about it, learn something of its history and that of the unknown artist who painted it. Indeed, if on such closer inspection it still appeals to us, let us buy it if we can—but at all events let us enjoy it to the utmost, for of such joys Flanders is full. In out of the way corners everywhere one can find genre pictures like those of Tenier, brilliantly coloured groups suggestive of Rubens, scenes of bucolic feasting in imitation of Jordaens. And here and there, who knows, perhaps one may yet discover an original by one of these greater artists or their rare predecessors, and retire on the proceeds! Who knows?

The visitor to the Royal Museum of Fine Arts at Antwerp should not leave without devoting at least a day to the modern paintings. To an American, accustomed to museums where long walls filled with dreary mediocrities are illuminated only at rare intervals with something altogether fine and satisfactory, these modern galleries are a treat. Picture after picture, room after room—all are beautiful and worthy, many are splendid. The collection of modern paintings is not large as European galleries go, some five hundred and fifty altogether, but the general average of quality is exceptionally high—much superior in this respect it seemed to us than the far larger collection at Brussels, though it is not so regarded by the critics. The interiors of Henri de Braekeleer, and his charming Nursery Garden, for example, what could be finer? The “Ancient Fishmarket” at Antwerp by Frans Bossuet, a native of Ypres; the “Lull before the Storm,” by P. J. Clays, of Bruges, one of whose paintings is in the Metropolitan Museum at New York—all these are notable. So are the historical pictures of Baron Leys, Guffens, Louis Gallait and Charles Verlat—but the list is too long. These pictures are not to be described, they must be seen. Individually the savants may quarrel as to their merits, but, taking them all together, these paintings—for the most part by Flemish artists—prove that the great traditions of Rubens and Van Dyck, Jordaens and Teniers, have not been forgotten in their native land and that modern Flemish art is a worthy successor to the greatness of the past.

The lover of the beautiful has yet another treat in store for him when he visits the famous old Hotel de Ville. It had hardly been completed, in 1565, by Cornelis de Vriendt when it was partially destroyed during the Spanish Fury. Rebuilt a few years later in its present form, it contains some of the most beautiful rooms to be seen in all Europe. The vestibule and grand staircase are richly decorated with coloured marble, while imposing frescoes depict the zenith of Antwerp’s commercial and artistic splendour. The great reception-room is decorated with four superb historical frescoes by Baron Leys, while the exquisite Salle des Mariages is completely surrounded with allegorical paintings portraying the history of the marriage ceremony by Lagye, a pupil of Leys. In the rooms of this edifice the history of the famous old city lives again, while in its splendid fireplaces and minor decorations one can see examples of every branch of Flemish art.

While the Hotel de Ville is most gratifying to the eye and the imagination, it is not, however, intimately associated with many important events in the history of the city. Albert and Isabella, while they ruled, were virtually independent sovereigns, but on the death of Albert without issue, in 1621, the country reverted to Spain. Thereafter, for more than two centuries, the city, together with Flanders, Brabant and the other loyal provinces of the Netherlands, became the football of European politics, and Belgium received its sinister name of “the cockpit of Europe.” The people, as a whole, took little interest in the great wars of the Spanish and of the Austrian Successions that were fought largely to decide who should rule over them, since there seemed no likelihood of their in any event ever being able again to rule over themselves. Marlborough, after his great victory at Ramillies, occupied the city with English troops in 1706, and in 1715 the Hotel de Ville was the scene of the signing of the treaty that ended the war. By this treaty the Spanish Netherlands were ceded to Austria, becoming subject to the Emperor Charles VI. Thirty years later the French victory at Fontenoy made them masters of the city, and Louis XV had a joyous entry the following year. Two years later, in 1748, the country was handed back to Austria and Charles made a joyous entry in turn, the people apparently welcoming any change of government with complete impartiality. The Empress Maria Theresa was popular in her Netherlands dominions, but her son Joseph II made Austrian rule so odious that there was a revolt, and in 1790 Antwerp was taken by the patriot army, to the immense joy of its citizens. The Austrians soon crushed the revolution and reoccupied the city, but the great victory of the French republicans, under Dumouriez, at Jemappes destroyed the power of Austria in the Netherlands, and in 1792 the army of the sans-culottes entered Antwerp. The defeat of Dumouriez at Neerwinden resulted in the Imperial forces again occupying the city in 1793, but the French victory at Fleurus the following year turned the tables again and Antwerp once more became subject to the republic.

All these years the Scheldt had been firmly closed, Joseph II having made a feeble attempt to free the river, which had collapsed at the first shot from the Dutch forts. In 1795 the free navigation of the river was decreed by the French, and a ship came up and was received in state by the delighted burghers. It is stated that the value of real estate in the city increased tenfold in consequence of this decree. On the other hand, the sans-culottes very nearly rivalled the image-breakers in the vigour with which they destroyed the city’s religious monuments. The cathedral and churches were despoiled, and it was even proposed to tear down the cathedral, because (they said), “it cannot be reckoned a monument of any value except for the lead, iron, copper and timber it contains.” Fortunately Napoleon seized the reins of power at Paris at about this time, and put an end to such nonsense. In 1803 the First Consul visited Antwerp, which—as he afterwards said—was “like a loaded pistol pointed at the heart of England.” Filled with this idea, he systematically sought to revive the commerce of the port and erected great docks there for his war vessels, portions of which still remain. In 1814, after the Emperor’s defeat and abdication, Antwerp, under Gen. Carnot, was the last French stronghold in the Netherlands to yield.

After the second defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo Antwerp succeeded in recovering most of the paintings that had been carried away to France by the republicans in 1794. The treaty that followed the last Napoleonic war gave all of what is at present Belgium to the King of Holland, William I, who favoured Antwerp in many ways. As the Scheldt still remained free the commerce of the port was considerable and prosperity seemed to be returning. In 1830 began the revolution that resulted in the independence of Belgium. One of its first events was the bombardment of the city of Antwerp by the Dutch troops holding the citadel. The following year Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha was elected by the National Congress as King of the Belgians under the title of Leopold I. The war with Holland was not yet over, however, and in 1832 the English, French and Belgian troops began a siege of the citadel at Antwerp, which was still in the hands of the Dutch. The fortress had one hundred and forty-three guns, and the besiegers two hundred and twenty-three, and it is stated that sixty-three thousand projectiles were fired against it. The fortress was a mass of ruins before its sturdy defenders capitulated.

From 1832 until 1914 Antwerp and the liberty-loving Flemings of ancient Flanders remained free, happy and increasingly prosperous under the wise and moderate rule of their chosen Kings. Leopold I reigned until his death in 1865, and proved to be one of the wisest monarchs in history. For Antwerp his greatest achievement was the final freeing of the River Scheldt in 1863, after more than ten years of diplomatic negotiations, from the tolls which the Dutch had insisted in levying since 1839. Under his successor, Leopold II, one of the most efficient chief executives it was possible for a nation to have, the fine Belgian public service system was developed and the prosperity of its cities and citizens promoted in every practical way. In the two decades following the freeing of the Scheldt the commerce of the port of Antwerp increased six-fold, while that of its rivals, London and Liverpool, doubled and that of Hamburg and Rotterdam tripled. Since then the business of the port has advanced even faster, and the imposing modern business buildings that now line the Place de Meir, one of the handsomest commercial streets in the world, afford abundant testimony to its prosperity and wealth—as do the fine residences of its merchants to be seen in drives through the outskirts of the city. Under Albert I the wise policies of his predecessors were continued, and the little country was enjoying peace and contentment such as never came to it during the centuries of foreign oppression and tyranny that began with the acquisition of Flanders and Brabant by the Dukes of Burgundy. It is the greatest moral issue in this war whether Belgium, after being free for less than eighty-five years, shall once more pass into the hands of a foreign power. Its people have demonstrated conclusively that under the limited monarchy they have chosen they are capable of governing themselves far better than the best of their self-appointed masters ever did in the bad old days that, they had hoped, had forever passed away.

CHAPTER XXI
WHERE MODERN FLANDERS SHINES—OSTENDE AND “LA PLAGE”

Our last stopping place in Flanders was the one that many tourists visit first, the gay watering place of Ostende. Here a little fleet of fast Channel steamers convey the traveller to Dover in four or five hours, while an excellent service of through express trains connect the Dover end of the water route with London, and the Ostende end with Brussels, Berlin and half the capitals of Europe. Our stay in Flanders, however, was drawing to a close, and we were headed for Liverpool, where the new Aquitania was waiting to bear us home.

The tourist who expects in Ostende to find much that is reminiscent of the Flanders of the sixteenth century, of which so much has been said in the other chapters of this book, will be disappointed. To be sure, it is not a young city, being mentioned in the chronicles of Flanders as far back as the eleventh century. In the Eighty Years’ War between Spain and her revolted Dutch colonies Ostende was for a long time held by the Dutch, who beat off two severe attacks by the Spaniards in 1583 and 1586, the former led by the all but invincible Farnese, Prince of Parma. In the year 1600 the Battle of the Dunes took place at Nieuport, in which the troops of the Archduke Albert were defeated by a Dutch army under Maurice, Prince of Nassau. This victory, while it gave great encouragement to the enemies of Spain by demonstrating that the renowned Spanish soldiers were not invincible, was otherwise barren of results, and in 1601 the Archdukes determined to besiege Ostende, which was the last stronghold of the Dutch in Flanders.

Prior to the war with Philip II Ostende had been little more than an obscure fishing-village, but since it had been fortified by the Dutch, and had so successfully maintained itself against all assaults, the place was fast becoming a “thorn in the foot” to the government of the Archdukes. Queen Elizabeth, whose defeats of Philip’s armadas had made England mistress of the seas, was determined that Spain should not regain so important a strategic base, and had kept an English garrison there under an English commander. Since Albert’s accession the town had been greatly strengthened by new ramparts, bastions and fortifications of every type, then known in the engineering art of warfare. To protect Flanders against this hostile fortress in its very midst the Archdukes were obliged to erect eighteen forts around Ostende and keep them constantly garrisoned and supplied. This cost ninety thousand crowns a month and kept the rich province in a state of perpetual war. Towns in the vicinity were compelled to pay tribute in order to escape pillage, and commerce—then, as always, dependent upon peace—languished.

The Estates of Flanders under these direful conditions offered the Archdukes three hundred thousand florins a month as long as the siege to rid them of this menacing stronghold might last, and three hundred thousand florins additional as a bonus to be paid in instalments—a third when the city was invested, a third when a breach was made in the fortifications, and the balance when the place was taken. These terms are curiously similar to those employed in drawing building loans at the present day and show that the Flemings had lost none of their ancient caution.

On July 5th, 1601, the Archduke Albert arrived before Ostende and formally began its investment. The Infanta Isabella came with him, and often shared camp life with her husband during the weary months that followed. The siege from the very first developed into a contest of engineers and military strategists on the taking and the defence of fortified places the like of which had never before been known in Europe. In fact nearly all Europe was directly engaged in the conflict. On the Archdukes’ side were Spaniards, Italians and Walloons; on the ramparts of the defenders were lined up side by side English, Dutch, French, German and Scotch forces. The fortress was commanded by Sir Francis Vere. The operations of the siege consisted of mining and counter-mining, the erection and destruction of batteries, storming of outlying works—all the devices of attack and defence known to the military science of the day. Never before had the world seen such cannons and engines of destruction. The siege became Homeric, epic, a seventeenth-century Siege of Troy.

The great difficulty of the besiegers was their inability to cut off the town from receiving new provisions and supplies, and a constant stream of reinforcements, by sea. The Dutch, English and French ships came and went almost at will. All the summer and fall of 1601 the siege dragged on, and through the cold winter that followed. In 1602 Sir Francis Vere and a large part of the garrison were relieved and a new commander and garrison installed without the Archdukes being able to prevent the manœuvre. In 1603 Ambrose, the Marquis Spinola, a young scion of a rich Genoese family, offered to take charge of the siege of Ostende and to capture the city. As the Archduke Albert had made a complete failure of the job, and was unpopular besides among his troops, whom he had not been able to pay with any regularity, he welcomed this offer and Spinola assumed the command. His wealth enabled him to pay and feed his soldiers, while his youth and ambition made him a wary and energetic commander. Day and night he took part in person in supervising the mines, assaults, trenches and erection of new positions. Gradually, under his vigorous leadership, the besiegers began to burrow their way into the town. Maurice of Nassau, unable to pierce Spinola’s network of entrenchments around the town created a diversion by besieging and capturing Sluys. In spite of this, however, Spinola clung doggedly to his prey and on September 13th, 1603, Sand Hill, after a resistance of three years, was captured. Seven days later the Governor, who now controlled nothing but the heart of the town, capitulated and on September 22nd, the garrison marched out with all the honours of war. Hardly a soul of the former population of Ostende remained at the time of its capture, and it is said that the Archduchess Isabella “wept at the sight of the mound of earth, all that remained of the city which she had been so anxious to capture.” It was estimated that the place, which had been little more than a village, cost the besiegers one hundred thousand lives and the defenders sixty thousand. The siege had lasted three years, two months and seventeen days, but the “thorn” had at last been extracted.

For several years after this Ostende remained a city without inhabitants, the Archdukes rebuilding the place but population coming to it but slowly. In 1722 The East and West India Company of the Austrian Netherlands was founded at Ostende, chiefly by Antwerp capitalists and merchants, who were deeply interested in the enterprise. Factories were established in India, but the Emperor Charles VI dissolved the company in 1731 in order to secure English and Dutch support for his Pragmatic Sanction. The next century was one of stagnation, the town reverting to a fishing-place, but almost at the moment of Belgian independence—or from about 1830—it began to be renowned as a watering-place. It owes much of its present prosperity to Leopold II, who made it a place of royal residence during the summer, and whose royal palace still looks down upon the Digue not far from the racetrack. The coming of the cross-channel steamers still further stimulated its growth, and at present it is one of the most beautiful and picturesque of all the Flemish cities.

Our visit was unfortunate—as we regretfully told one another at the time—in that it came in July, before the season had really opened. August is the time to come, the waiters and hotel porters all assured us, for then the Grand Dukes come from Russia, the long special trains from Germany roll in one after another loaded to capacity, the Channel steamers arrive three times a day with decks black with English tourists, and Ostende’s many kinds of gaiety are in full swing. However, the opening of the August season in 1914 was conducted under circumstances that made us rather glad we were there in July. The Germans came, to be sure, but the gaiety departed.

No one in Ostende foresaw a bit of the terrible future when we were there in July. The long curving beach was crowded with people, little people for the most part, and most of the queer little beach-houses—summer cottages on wheels—were gradually getting rented. The beach is splendidly broad and smooth, but the slope seaward is so slight that at low tide one must needs go very far out to get into the water at all. This did not seem to trouble anybody very much, for we saw few who ever went near the water, most of the pleasure-seekers staying on the warm, dry sand up near the big sloping sea wall of the Digue. For families with small children the little summer-houses seemed rather attractive, as papa and mamma could sit within, sheltered from sun or rain, while the youngsters rollicked all day long in the deep sand.

The Digue just mentioned is a high artificial seawall or embankment, faced with sloping stone on the sea side and surmounted by a broad boulevard—the Esplanade. It slopes gradually on the landward side, one row of stately hotels and lodging-houses facing directly on the Esplanade, while on the side streets the buildings drop each below the other until they reach the level of the town, which is some forty or fifty feet lower than the summit of the embankment. Here the fashionable crowds promenade at the proper times, while the unfashionable promenade all day long and far into the night. Even in July the sight is a most fascinating one, and the Bohemianism of the crowd and its diversity of national types most interesting. Here, as everywhere in Belgium, the cafés and hotels place their tables and chairs far out into the roadway, so that we can sit outdoors in the manner that the Madame so much enjoys and eat our dinner, or sip our coffee and cognac, while watching the ever-changing crowds go by.

At Ostende the scale of expenses for everything, rooms, meals, service, pleasure, cigars, tips, and even for the English newspapers, increases or falls according to the proximity or remoteness of the Digue. If you are on top of it—look out! To Americans the charges, even in the finer big hotels, do not seem particularly excessive—though in August they are usually much higher than in July—but there is a constant succession of incidental expenses that make the voyager as a rule hurry more than once to the banker where his letter of credit can have another illegible notation made on it. Externally the hotels are very imposing and stately—making a brave show as one looks down the long line that extends for several miles from the harbour entrance westward to Westende and beyond half way to Nieuport. Within they are pretty much like all Belgian hotels of the better class. For the novelty of the thing we thought of renting one of the tiny apartements meublés, that, each with a charming broad window—usually open all day long like a piazza—look out directly upon the sea. The price was a thousand francs a month, which seemed too much for what was after all little more than one big room with an alcove. The landlady informed us that she attended to all the details of the ménage, cooking and serving the meals and providing maid service, but that messieurs must provide the provisions, both solid and liquid.

The great show place of Ostende is, of course, the Kursaal, a huge structure of glass, iron and stone belonging to no particular school of architecture, but in the main making a pleasing impression and serving very well indeed for the somewhat diversified uses for which it is intended. In the daytime the Kursaal is a place of relatively little interest, although well-dressed people flock through it at all hours. At night it is the scene of much animation, and is, as it was meant to be, the centre of the gay life of the town. A large orchestra gives a concert every evening in a very pretty concert hall, which, when we were there, contained numerous little tables for refreshments, although I have seen pictures in which the room was filled with seats in solid rows, like a theatre. It was much more comfortable the way we found it, and the concert was very enjoyable. At the intermission, however, we observed that nearly everybody rose and flocked off into an anteroom leading out of the concert hall. The Professor and I decided that there appeared to be “something doing” in that direction and followed the crowd, leaving the ladies to look after our wraps, and promising to return and get them if we found anything worth while.

I fear that the narrative of our experience may sound a bit like an extract from Innocents Abroad, but I will relate the thing as it happened and make no pretence that we were a bit more sophisticated than we really were. The crowd seemed to be headed through a long and handsome corridor toward a distant room. We followed along, passing on the way what looked more or less like the office of a hotel, with a register book and two or three clerks, to which we paid no attention. Arrived at the end of the corridor we found ourselves in a large circular room around which were a number of small tables on which visitors were rolling balls down toward a group of pockets—some such a game as one sees at Coney Island or any popular American amusement resort. The price was two francs for three shots, and barkers were shouting lustily to all comers to try their luck. On one side a doorway was heavily curtained with velvet draperies and here occasional groups of the guests were silently disappearing. We approached this mysterious passageway and sought to pass like the others when two tiny lads in brilliant livery demanded our cards. On our replying that we had none, a large man, also in livery, appeared from somewhere behind the draperies and courteously informed us that special membership or admission cards were required from all who wished to proceed further.

We thereupon returned to the ladies and reported what we had seen, and took our turn at looking after the wraps while they visited the circular room. They likewise returned, reporting that admission beyond the curtains had been refused. After the concert was over we decided to make another attempt—as both the Professor and I surmised what attraction lay beyond the mysterious portal. Pausing at the hotel office we had previously noticed, we asked bluntly how admission to the hidden room could be secured, and were told that a card would be given each of us on the sole formality of registering. This we accordingly did, giving our names, hotel address, home address and one reference. This done, we each received a card admitting two and departed to find the Madame and Mrs. Professor.

Arriving at the doorway armed with the cards we had received, we were ushered at once into a very handsome room where perhaps three hundred people were gathered about half a dozen roulette tables. No one paid the slightest attention to us, nor did any employé appear to care whether we played or contented ourselves with merely looking on. Practically every one in the room, however, was playing—with all the tense earnestness that this game of chance seems to impress upon its devotees. White chips, we observed, cost five francs, reds twenty, round blues a hundred—or twenty dollars. There were, in addition, a large ovalshaped blue, marked five hundred and an oblong one marked one thousand. In less than three minutes one player lost eight of the thousand franc chips, and then, this being apparently enough for the evening, lit a cigar and started for home. While he was playing we observed an over-painted young woman who had just lost her last stake solicit a loan from him. He tossed the girl a hundred-franc chip and left without pausing to see whether she won or lost with it. We were more curious. She lost.