Isabel Anderson

THE line of the old Flemish principality ran from Antwerp southwest to Courtrai, but today the line that divides the French and the Flemish speaking Belgians runs due east and west, from VisÉ to Courtrai, with Brussels midway in its course.

North of the line are the fertile plains and gardens, the busy cities and the factories, of Flanders. Through them flows the Scheldt, the river of commerce.

South of the line are the mines and the mountains, the foundries and the forests, of Namur, LiÈge, Hainault, and the Ardennes. This is the Walloon country, through which runs the Meuse, the river of romance.

In the north live the stolid, easy-going, devout Flemish peasantry, while in the south are the lively, energetic, enterprising Walloons. They are a larger people physically than their neighbours, more heavily built, and of darker colouring, for there is a strain of Spanish blood in their ancestry. Many Walloons came to America in the seventeenth century, and we have had few immigrants of better stock. Showalter says that the women are “famed for their industry, thrift, cleanliness, capacity for hard work, and cheerfulness whatever their lot.”

The country of the Meuse and the Sambre is by far the loveliest part of Belgium. It abounds in myths and legends suited to the wild, romantic scenery of its hills and valleys. It abounds also in the villas and chÂteaux of the Belgian noblesse and haute bourgeoisie. The wealthy people of the cities delighted in their summers among the mountains of the Ardennes, while many families of ancient lineage but lesser fortunes lived the year round in their old-world houses.

Some of the chÂteaux were of exceptional beauty. Our trip to Beloeil, the seat of the de Ligne family, will never be forgotten, for it was the finest chÂteau in Belgium. His Highness the Prince de Ligne had asked us out to luncheon, and we started about nine, motoring out toward Hal and Enghien.

It was a bright, sunny day, and the country rolled away on every side, checkered with its crops in varying stages of ripeness into fields of green and orange and lemon and brown. The roadside was flecked with red poppies and blue cornflowers, and quaint farmhouses dotted the landscape. We passed deep forests, too, with glimpses of old chÂteaux through the vistas.

A Village in the Ardennes

At Hal there was a lovely old church, with a Virgin famous for miracles. We stopped and went in; choir boys were singing antiphonally, and there was a sweet smell of incense and a soft, religious light.

At Enghien there was a chÂteau which was favoured with a fairy protectrice, no less than Melusine, so famous in song and story. Long, long ago she married a mortal, Comte Raymond de ForÊt, and raised for him a castle which she never ceased to guard. Always before the death of a member of the family “la fÉe Melusine apparaÎt sur la terrasse du chÂteau.” The Luxembourgs and other noble families changed their pedigrees in order that they might claim descent from fairy Melusine.

Of lower degree but even greater service were the fairies who dwelt aforetimes in a cave at Arquenne. The good folk of the neighbourhood used to leave their soiled linen there of an evening, with some food. In the morning they would return to find that the “little people” had done their work and left the clothes all clean and white.

After passing numberless quaint and picturesque villages we came at length to the gates of the park behind which stood the chÂteau of Beloeil, with its courtyard and inclosing wings. We followed the road lined with orange trees and crossed a bridge over the moat into the broad court with the faÇade of the house on three sides. Footmen lined the steps as we mounted into the cool vestibule, from which we passed through various rooms into the handsome salons.

The house was a museum of valuable and historic things—potiches, curios and rare furniture. On the walls were great pictures representing scenes in the story of the de Lignes, and presentation portraits of kings and queens.

Through the windows we could see the wide moat outside, and the English garden opposite with its beds of brilliant flowers and its background of trees and foliage. Soon after luncheon we went out into the sunny glare and the great heat of the open terraces, and crossed into the cool alleys of the French garden.

A great lagoon opposite the main terrace was continued in a vista through the forest off to the horizon, broken by a monumental sculpture which was reflected in the water. The wood was divided formally by alleys leading to some architectural or natural detail, and open glades were arranged with pools, while a little rivulet, made artificially natural, went winding through the woods with a pretty path alongside.

The Prince permitted the greater part of the garden and park to be used by the people of his little town, but Beloeil was so out of the way that strangers never went there. I use the past tense, because the chÂteau has been razed to the ground since the war began. I also learn that two members of the de Ligne family have been killed.

In order to carry out our plans we had to leave Beloel in the heat of the early afternoon. Motoring out again across the rolling landscape we came to Mons, passing on the way through some of the de Croÿ properties and forests. This region is the great coal-mining district, the Borinage, and the beauty of the scenery is rather spoiled by the huge, conical mountains of the detritus which is brought out of the mines, and by the black, sooty look of things.

Mons was a dull, quiet old town, rather picturesque in its way, with its old church and belfry crowning the hill. As we came out of the church the chime of bells in the tower musically rang the hour, sounding sweetly in the sleepy silence of the place. The stillness has since been broken by other sounds than those, for Mons figured largely in the battle of the Meuse.

From there we were off once more to visit the ruins of the old chÂteau of HavrÉ, once the stronghold and residence of the de Croÿ family. It rose high out of a stagnant moat, all gray and pinkish, with irregular architecture and a tall tower with a bulbous top. From this rose the cross of Lorraine, for the de Croÿs quartered their arms with this great family. The chÂteau was quite stately and magnificent, and its courtyard, all grass-grown, must have seen fine sights in its day.

Not far from Mons is Binche, a town celebrated for its carnival held on Mardi-Gras—the festival of the Dancing Gilles. In spite of the fact that it has always been a source of much pride to the Belgians, its only unique feature was that of the Gilles, which distinguished it from other carnivals.

These Gilles, or dancing men, were characterized by their headdress and humps. The former was most striking and elaborate, resembling in shape the old top-hat of our great-grandfathers, and surmounted with magnificent ostrich feathers three or four feet long, giving the wearers the stature of giants. From each hat, besides, flowed wide, variegated ribbons. The trousers of a Gille were bedecked with trimmings of real lace, and ribbons matching those on the hat. About the waist was a silk belt from which hung small bells. Each Gille wore a mask.

The entire outfit cost from forty to fifty dollars, which was a large sum for the peasant youths who were generally chosen by the carnival committee. But the honour of being a Gille was so great, since only good dancers could be selected, and carried with it such prestige among the local damsels, that the young men were only too pleased to make the necessary financial sacrifice.

On the afternoon of Mardi-Gras the Gilles, in full uniform and preceded by the local brass bands and musical clubs, appeared in procession and marched, two hundred strong, to the Grande Place, dancing to the music of the band. At every few steps they stopped, bending this way and that to make the bells at their waist ring more effectively. Their streamers floated to and fro with every motion, enveloping them in a rainbow of ribbon. The simultaneous ringing of bells and thumping of wooden sabots on the cobblestones sounded like the echo of a cavalry charge.

Each Gille had a straw basket hanging from one side of his belt and filled with oranges, with which he bombarded the spectators as he danced along, men appointed for the purpose following close behind to see that the baskets were kept filled. A general battle of oranges between Gilles and carnival merrymakers ensued, lasting till the procession reached the town hall. In front of this, on a platform, sat the mayor and his officials, and here the Gilles terminated the day’s festivities by a sort of war dance which gave them a chance to show what they could do.

The public joined in the fun, and soon thousands of persons—men, women and children—were gaily waltzing around the Grande Place. The sight of an entire population in carnival costume and masked, dancing in the open air to the music of the bands, was not one to be easily forgotten. The sport continued till late evening, when it was brought to an end by the mayor, who formally awarded a gold medal to the Gille who had proved himself the most expert dancer of them all.

From Binche we motored on again, calling on Prince Henri de Croÿ’s cousins who lived in the chÂteau of Le Roeulx, where Prince Henri himself had been born and brought up. Part of this house dates from 1100 A.D., and after its destruction in succeeding wars was rebuilt and added to repeatedly. For six centuries the de Croÿs have lived there without a break.

PRINCE HENRI DE CROÿ.

In passing through a small town one came suddenly on its gate and saw the wide-standing faÇade of the chÂteau facing across the terraces of the park. Inside there was a Gothic vestibule, and the rooms stretching into the wings were old-fashioned and interesting, some of them with old Chinese paper on the walls. On the rear side, towards the park, the ground fell away abruptly, so that the building seemed to stand very high, and one looked out over the tops of the trees of the forest. The living room was, strangely enough, at the top of the house, and was approached by a great double stairway with very old carved balustrades and paneling.

Of still a different type was Ophem, the seat of the de Grunne family. The chÂteau was very quaint and pretty, an old monastery with a simple, vine-covered faÇade surrounding a little flower-bordered and parterred garden with a high balustraded wall at one side, shaded by overhanging trees. The front had been added at a later time and was quite rococo in style, with many heavy moldings. This looked out over a terrace with a bit of park sloping down to a lagoon. Flowers in formal beds and rows gave colour everywhere. Near by was a dear little chapel with a statue in a niche outside; we were told that the niche had been designed by the Comtesse de Flandre.

After tea we set off for home, scooting down towards Wavre and Perwez, through the land of Brabant. From the broken, hilly country we dropped gradually back among the rolling fields once more, all aglow with their crops, through the tree-lined avenues of the ForÊt de Soignes, and so into Brussels.

The chÂteau life was not one of gaiety—in fact, I think perhaps most of us would have considered it rather dull. There was some riding on horseback, walking, and a little tennis, but on the whole not very much outdoor exercise. Some one has said that “they raised the habit of doing nothing in the open air to the level of a science.”

The chief interest of the men was shooting and hunting. On many of the properties the game was carefully preserved. When the season opened, chÂteau life became for the time quite gay, with dÉjeuners de chasse and dÎners de chasse, lively reunions of the fashionable set. They hunted foxes and hares, and a few kept packs of hounds. Over the border in the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg, where some Belgians held property, the wild boar was occasionally hunted.

As the Belgians are nearly all musical, the children of the family were taught to play various instruments, and the evenings were passed pleasantly enough, some member of the group singing while others played the piano, ’cello, or violin.

In the Ardennes country the houses were often near enough for frequent calls and visits, made in the late afternoon when all would assemble round the tea table. The quiet days were rarely broken by even the smallest excitement. These families certainly passed from one extreme to the other during the early months of the war.

Another motor trip took us somewhat farther afield, by LiÈge and Spa into the Ardennes, and back through Dinant and Namur. This is the Belgium of the Middle Ages, of Emperor Charlemagne and all his kin, of wars, and of wonders without end. Even its once famous watering place we found a thing of the past and not out of harmony with the legendary land round about.

LiÈge is the capital of the Walloon district, and with its dozen strong fortresses was, with Namur, considered the chief defense of the Meuse valley. Namur was supposed to block the road between France and Brussels, while LiÈge was to fend off Germany from the Belgian capital. It commands all the roads from Germany, indeed it was the door to Belgium which, once forced open, left the whole country at the mercy of the invaders. In ten days from its fall, the government officials removed from Brussels to Antwerp, later to Ostend, and finally to Havre. In a fortnight the Germans had hewn their way to Charleroi. LiÈge as we saw it had about two hundred thousand inhabitants, and was beautifully placed on a high bluff overlooking the river, with hills and fertile valleys surrounding it.

Not far from there is the ancient little town of Jupille, which they say is haunted by the shade of Pepin the Short, who lived there long ago. They still showed one the ruins of an old mill at the lower end of the village where Pepin’s wife, Bertha of the Big Foot, took refuge from her irate lord on the occasion of some misunderstanding between them.

This Bertha was the mother of the great Charlemagne and lived to a ripe old age, coming down to us as the heroine of many legends. It is claimed that her famous son was born in this same village of Jupille, although this is much disputed. The author of “La Meuse Beige” suggests that the Emperor may have been born in a carriage or at some village inn, for “Pepin his father constantly found himself on the high roads about 742, and Bertha his mother was obliged, like the honest woman she was, to go from one place to another to meet her lord.”

At LiÈge we crossed the river, with its pretty embankments and bridges, into the more hilly country, climbing up winding roads that followed the ravines and streams, into higher places where the air was fresh and fragrant. Some of the towns through which we passed had a really Alpine look. Finally we turned into the long avenue which led us into Spa.

This pretty town, so famous as the first watering place in Europe, and for a long time the most fashionable, was deadly quiet that warm summer afternoon. On the terraces of the casino there was not a soul to be seen, and only two or three forlorn-looking drinkers at the spring-house. Even the promenades were empty.

We thought it might be the hour when people were resting, so later we fared forth to see the gaieties of which we had heard so much. This time we found half a dozen others walking aimlessly up and down the streets. At dinner, silence reigned. In the evening we tried our best to cheer up, and went to the casino where a few persons were scattered about the auditorium listening to music. This seemed to be the height of the season at Spa, whose name has come into our language as a synonym for gaiety and relaxation.

So we got away next morning and ran up a long, steep, splendid road on to fine rolling uplands that waved away like the Bohemian Highlands, with lovely views in the blue distance. We were some fifteen hundred feet up, and the air was very refreshing as we sped along. Now and then we dipped again into valleys with wooded slopes and ravines with palisades. We were in the real Ardennes country, the famous “Forest of Arden“ of ”As You Like It,” which was sung by Ariosto a century or so before that.

In this region was the church of St. Hubert, to which peasants made Christian pilgrimage. Under the choir was a crypt where they knelt. A thread from the stole of the ancient saint was said to have had the power to cure hydrophobia, if aided by cauterization. But more easily, “one may prevent hydrophobia by carrying on the finger a ring or wearing a medal which has touched the relics of the saint; also by eating or making one’s animals eat the blessed bread of St. Hubert.” This bread is given chiefly to dogs, I believe.

We ran by picturesque La Roches and Rochefort, with fine smooth roads following the beds of little rivers in the valleys and climbing in zigzags the low mountains till we came, about one o’clock, to Han. Here we went at once, of course, to the Grottes de Han, which were very popular with tourists. It was an experience worth having. We passed through endless passages, grotesque and beautiful with stalactites and stalagmites, the varied effects well lighted by electricity. The finest thing, most terrible and impressive, was the Salle du Dome, where the black shadows were lost in the immensity of the vault. It is a cavern four hundred feet high and more than that in breadth, with a sort of mountain of broken boulders up which winds a path into the dusky gloom and blackness of the upper regions. But I must say it was more suggestive of the lower regions than the upper, especially when a guide with a flaring torch climbed and climbed, disappearing behind cliffs of darkness and reappearing on precipices till he stood at last, a tiny figure far above us, in Satan’s Pulpit, and lighted a fire that seemed to burn in another world.

Later we came to the banks of the subterranean river that flows through the mountain, and got into boats. As we floated down, the vaults reËchoed the singing of our fellow-travelers. But presently we saw ahead of us the light of day, peering in through the end of the cave, and slipped out—into the rain.

The car met us there, so we were able to get away again quickly. Off once more over the fine roadways, we passed Ciergnon, the summer chÂteau of the King, on its high bluff overlooking the vast landscape. Through more broken country we came down into the valley of the Meuse at Dinant, then one of the most picturesque places in Europe. Its palisades and striking cliff formations were crowned with ruined castles, like a miniature Rhine. The city has since been destroyed.

The abbey of Waulsort, which became a chÂteau, was at one bend of the river. According to tradition, it was founded by Count Eilbert in the reign of Louis IV—about the middle of the tenth century. The Count went one day to a fair in Picardie, and there he saw a horse which was much to his liking. He had no money with him, but offered the priest who owned the animal his beautiful graven beryl as a pledge till he could send home for funds. The priest accepted the offer and gave him the horse, but when the Count returned with the money he denied that he had the jewel or had so much as seen the Count before in all his life. In a fury Eilbert collected his men-at-arms and attacked the city where dwelt the forgetful cleric, sacking and destroying it, even to the church. Then his anger cooled, and he regretted his hasty vengeance. As a sign of penitence he not only rebuilt the church, but erected the abbey also.

Just down the river from Waulsort is the cave of Freya, near a chÂteau of the same name. The cavern is not large but is very beautiful, with shining white stalactites, pointed columns piercing lofty vaults, and jeweled cascades. One of its chambers has an opening in the roof which lets in the daylight. Some young men who were anxious to avoid the conscription of the Empire are said to have let themselves down into this cave by means of ropes. They lived there for some time, cooking by a small fire whose smoke blackened the walls of the cave, as you can still see. They were contented to stay quite close to this one room, without much exploration, and it remained for a dog to really discover what lay beyond.

The dog was a small one, and in chasing a fox he followed it through a hole in the earth and into the farther depths of the cave. Hearing his barks reËchoing weirdly, the hunters enlarged the opening which he had found and followed him into the series of halls and galleries which make up the cavern. On the walls are traces of pagan ceremonies which lead scholars to believe that the place was used in ancient times for the worship of the goddess Freya, who was the patron of love and liberty in the Scandinavian mythology.

Speeding along the river toward Dinant we came to the famous Rock of Bayard, a tall pinnacle split off from the main cliff, with the road passing through a narrow gorge between. It has been renowned since the days of Charlemagne, when Bayard, the enchanted horse, with the four sons of Aymon clinging to his back, leaped across the chasm in mad flight from the vengeance of the Emperor. As one of the brothers was no less than sixteen feet in height, and the other three nearly as tall, it was really something of an achievement.

But Bayard was a very remarkable animal. The sons of Aymon had received him as a gift from their cousin Maugis, along with an excellent sword named Flamberge, whose very wind would cut off a man’s head. It seems that this Maugis had heard of a wonderful steed reared on an island in the Meuse and kept there by a giant named Rouart. So he went over and called on the giant, telling him stories till he fell fast asleep. Then he set out to find the horse, which he soon discovered in a cavern stable guarded by a dragon. With no other weapon than a fork, Maugis slew the monster. When Bayard came forward to see what was going on, the young man asked politely if he might mount him. As the horse made no objection, Maugis mounted and rode him down to his boat.

After many adventures, Bayard and the four sons of Aymon were all captured by Charlemagne, who pardoned the young men on condition that the eldest should make a pilgrimage beyond the seas and free his horse before he went.

But the older brother was hardly out of sight when the Emperor ordered Bayard brought to a bridge across the Meuse for his inspection. “Ah, Bayard,“ said he, ”you have plagued me many times, but I have you now!” With that he had a great stone fastened about the horse’s neck and the animal thrown into the river. When he saw that Bayard sank to the bottom he cried out, “I have nothing more to ask. Finally he is destroyed!” But Charlemagne rejoiced too soon, for the horse struck off the weight, rose to the surface, and set out for shore. There he shook himself, gave a loud neigh, and was off at top speed for the sheltering depths of the forests of the Ardennes, where, they tell you, he still lives to this day.

Of Dinant so much has been written that there is little new to be said. In the Middle Ages it was famous for the work of its brass and copper smiths, and for its cakes. These were made of a sort of gingerbread and were often celebrated in song. One rime tells of the plight of the bakers who, in their anxiety to entertain properly the governor of their province, made in his honour a cake so large that the biggest oven in town was a foot too small to hold it.

Because of its odd Latin inscription, the bridge of Dinant has also been much sung. Says one of the ditties:

All around Dinant it is a storied land. There was, for instance, the cow of Ciney, who made quite a stir in her day. It happened in the year of our Lord 1274, when the counts of Luxembourg and Namur were holding tournament at Andenne, and all the knights for leagues around had come flocking to show their prowess in feats of arms. Into the throngs gathered to watch the spectacle came a peasant, leading behind him the cow of cows. “He knew that after the heroic strife the contestants were accustomed to eat largely, and however much their glory, nothing was so comforting as a quarter of roast beef. Consequently he brought to sell to the butchers of Andenne a cow, superb and without faults, save for a slight blemish which did not in the least detract from the savour of the meat—she was not really the property of the young man, for he had stolen her.”

The cow belonged by rights to a good bourgeois of Ciney whose name was Rigaud. As it happened, he was in the crowd and recognized his property. Finding near him the sheriff of his town he stated his case and demanded instant justice on the robber. Now the sheriff was out of his own province, and had no authority to act. So he engaged the young man in conversation and led him artfully out of Andenne till they had crossed the boundaries of his own territory. Once there it was, of course, a very simple matter to seize him and hang him by the neck till he was dead.

But the matter did not end there, in spite of the good sheriff’s precautions. The peasant was not a native of either Ciney or Andenne, but of the village of Jallet. His fellow villagers considered themselves affronted, and complained to their overlord. He was more than affronted—he was positively outraged. Summoning his vassals he set forth to Ciney for the purpose of sending to its long rest the soul of the sheriff thereof. Ciney, however, closed its gates and sent to its brother towns for aid. Jallet likewise called upon its friends and laid siege to Ciney. The Duke of Brabant became involved in the war that followed, along with the counts of Flanders, Namur and Luxembourg. The Marshal of LiÈge invaded the Ardennes with fire and flame.

Presumably the cow of Ciney returned to her master’s home on the night of her abductor’s death. But for more than two years the war on her behalf was waged, and fifteen or twenty thousand men were killed. At last the King of France was called in to settle the dispute, and the weary disputants accepted his verdict thankfully enough. It was to the effect that each side being equally to blame, they must bear their own losses and leave things as they were before the war—so far as they could. Thus ended “la guerre de la vache de Ciney.”

Beyond Dinant lies the little village of Bouvignes, whose ruined tower of CrÈve-Coeur has its story, too. In the sixteenth century the French laid siege to the place, which was an important town at that time. Among its defenders were three men of Namur whose beautiful wives had followed them to the front, fighting always at their sides like Amazons. When they saw their lords fall dying before them and realized that the enemy was making the last assault, they climbed to the top of the tower and, joining hands, threw themselves upon the rocks below.

There have been forts in Namur since Roman days, and perhaps before that. A year ago there were nine, for the city with its thirty thousand inhabitants stands at the junction of the two rivers, Sambre and Meuse. Namur was the door to France, and the nine forts were its bolts and bars. On the 22d of August the Germans attacked it, and the next day the French, who had come to its defense, were forced to withdraw, defeated.

Namur as we saw it was a busy and prosperous town. The Sambre is a water route to the Borinage, and the Meuse a financial asset to any city. Its streets were wide, with many parks. One feature made it specially attractive—on the lamp-posts hung circular baskets just beneath the light, filled with flowers and hanging vines.

Not far from Namur is the old hermitage of St. Hubert, clinging to a rocky cliff. There, in the Middle Ages, it was customary to illustrate Bible stories by the use of marionettes, small wooden figures which moved about the stage at the will of the monks. They were capable of acting out before the eyes of the marveling country folk the story of the Passion, of the cock that crowed thrice, and the penitence of Peter, stirring sluggish imaginations to renewed devotion. “At the right, against the wall, you see a table. There, you should remember, rested the scaffolding in the midst of which was played the Passion. From the opening below, the man of God pulled the strings of the machine.... The man of God was the hermit, at once the author of the actors and of the piece, and impressario of the troop which he had made with his own hands.”

Such was the Walloon country, as we saw it in our journeyings. It was our last trip in Belgium, for my husband received word that he had been named Ambassador to Japan. So we packed up our things and sadly said good-by to all the friends who had been so kind to us. Little did we think that there was soon to be war, and that many of them we should never see again.

But Belgium has been through many wars before this, many sieges and sackings and burnings, so we can feel sure that the spell of its enchantment will survive the gray wave of soldiers which has swept across the land during these last sad months.