The Spell of Flanders

The proud city of Ghent was the next to feel the weight of the powerful Duke’s displeasure. Rebelling in 1448 against the imposition of a tax on salt, called the gabelle, the city defied the Duke’s authority for five years. Meanwhile Philip gradually cut off its supplies, as he had done with Bruges. Ghent was more populous, however, and its burgher armies took the field and carried open war as far as Audenaerde, which they besieged. Several small battles were fought, the advantage resting mainly with the Duke, until on July 23, 1453, the decisive conflict took place. The Duke’s forces were encamped at Gavre, a few miles from the city. Spies within the gates told the burghers that it would be easy to surprise the camp and destroy Philip’s army. The tocsin therefore was sounded and the hosts of guildsmen and burghers marched out to attack the enemy. The Duke’s forces, aware of the manner in which the Flemings were to be betrayed, were placed where the open ground favoured the Burgundian horsemen. In spite of this advantage, the contest was a stubborn one, both the Duke and his son Charles narrowly escaping death on one occasion. At last the Flemings began to give way, and the battle became a slaughter, more than twenty thousand of the guildsmen being slain on the field, while all prisoners were hanged. This struggle was called “the red sea of Gavre.” As the men of Ghent were fleeing toward their city Philip sought to pursue them by the shortest way and intercept their flight. He accordingly called for a guide. A peasant of the neighbourhood volunteered, and, after leading the Burgundian army across fields and by-paths for several hours, conducted the victors—not to the gates of Ghent, but back to their own camp again! This nameless hero was incontinently hanged to the nearest tree, but he no doubt saved the city from pillage and rapine that night.

Philip by this victory completely crushed the spirit of the communes, for none dared resist when Ghent the all-powerful had failed. He seems to have had at least a fleeting realisation, however, that victories of this sort were not matters for unmitigated satisfaction. The day after the battle the women of Ghent were searching the ghastly heaps of dead for the bodies of their husbands, their brothers and their lovers when Philip exclaimed—possibly touched by the sad sight—“I do not know who is the gainer by this victory. As for me, see what I have lost—for these were my subjects!”

The privileges of Ghent were somewhat curtailed, and the dearly loved guild banners carried away by the conqueror, but Philip, on the whole, was very moderate. The obnoxious gabelle, the cause of the war, was removed, and all citizens guaranteed their individual liberties. The following year, Philip, possibly to celebrate his now undisputed supremacy, gave a series of fêtes at Lille that surpassed even those held on the occasion of his marriage at the foundation of the Order of the Golden Fleece. Upon one dining table stood a cathedral, with a choir singing within; another held a huge pie, inside of which an orchestra of twenty-eight musicians played; a third contained a pantomime representing Jason in search of the golden fleece. These fêtes and tournaments lasted for days, and were the wonder of Europe.

During the remainder of his reign of fifty years Philip never again had occasion to make war on his Flemish subjects, and while he seriously curtailed the power and importance of the communes, his rule was, on the whole, a period of great prosperity for Flanders. Both merchants and artisans were waxing rich, while the chief cities were being beautified on every hand. It was under Philip the Good that the cathedral at Antwerp was begun, and the town halls of Mons, Louvain and Brussels erected. It was also during his reign that William Caxton learned the art of printing at the house of Colard Manson at Bruges, but the prejudice of the burghers led to his banishment as a foreigner—thus depriving Bruges of the lustre of his achievements. The greatest event of Philip’s reign, however, was one of which the glory is shared by both Bruges and Ghent—the establishment in Flanders of the school of painters in oils whose masterpieces loom so large in the history of art.

Like most men whose commanding personality dominates the age in which they live, Philip the Good was many sided. The Professor admires him because he was, in his judgment, one of the greatest constructive statesmen of the Middle Ages—aiming steadily throughout his long reign to weld together, by fair means or foul, a compact Burgundian nation. On the other hand, I look upon him as a foe rather than a friend of true progress, because he crushed the self-governing communes and guilds, the bulwarks of personal liberty in feudal Europe. Mrs. Professor cares nothing for either of these aspects of his career, but looks upon him as great for all time because he was an ardent friend and patron of the fine arts.

In this she is undoubtedly right, for no greater glory belongs to any of the long line of princes who ruled over Flanders than that which is associated with his reign—the birth at Bruges of the art of painting with oils and of the wonderful school of painting represented by the early Flemish masters. In his History of Flemish Painting Prof. A. J. Wauters recounts the names and some faint traces of the work of a few Flemish painters who lived prior to the period of Philip the Good. At Ghent there are two interesting frescoes dating from about the end of the thirteenth century. At that city in 1337 the first guild of sculptors was organised, under the patronage of St. Luke, and similar corporations were instituted at Tournai in 1341, in Bruges in 1351, at Louvain by 1360 and Antwerp by 1382. To this guild from the very earliest period the painters belonged, sometimes the goldsmiths and goldbeaters being also associated with them. In the same way the illuminators of Bruges and Ghent, and the tapestry workers of Arras, Tournai, Valenciennes and Brussels were organised into guilds, and these associations of men whose work was in a high degree artistic soon resulted in the transformation of the artisan into the artist.

Philip the Good was not the first of his line to give encouragement to art and artists. One Jehan de Hasselt was court painter to Count Louis of Maele, while at the same period the better known Jehan de Bruges was peintre et varlet de chambre for the King of France. By the end of the fourteenth century not only the great Dukes of Burgundy and the Kings of France but many minor princes had their chosen painters, imagers, illuminators and tapestry workers. Philip the Bold, the first of the Dukes of Burgundy to rule over Flanders, retained his father-in-law’s painter, Jehan de Hasselt, on his pay-roll for some time, and later employed a resident of Ypres, Melchior Broederlam, whose masterpiece was an altar-piece for the Carthusian monastery at Dijon founded by his patron. Part of this has been preserved and is now in the museum of Dijon. It is of interest as the first great painting of the early Flemish school and represents the Annunciation and Visitation, the Presentation in the Temple, and the Flight into Egypt. John the Fearless, the next Duke of Burgundy, likewise had his official painter, but it was not until the reign of Philip the Good that any of these Ducal artists, with the exception of Broederlam, achieved more than mediocre results.

The reason for this may have been the medium with which all painters in those days were accustomed to work. This was called tempera, the colours being mixed with water, the white of an egg or some other glutinous substance, then dried in the sun and varnished over. The colours, however, soon became dull and pale—often fading away altogether, especially in course of restoration—and the process of drying was slow and unsatisfactory. To Flanders belongs the honour of the great discovery of the art of painting with oils that revolutionised this branch of the fine arts and made the master-works of the artists of the brush imperishable for all time.

This epoch-making discovery, which is justly looked upon as the birth of modern painting, was made by the two brothers Van Eyck about the year 1410. The early accounts attribute the invention wholly to Jean, the younger of the two brothers, relating that on a certain occasion he had placed a painting on wood, which had cost him much time and labour, in the sun to dry when the heat of the sun caused it to crack. Seeing his work thus ruined at a blow Jean sought to find some substance that would obviate the necessity of drying his paintings in the sun and, after many experiments, discovered that linseed oil and nut oil were by far the most rapid in drying. He further found that the colours mixed better in oil than with the white of an egg or glue. They also had more body, a far richer lustre, were impermeable to water and—what was best of all—dried just as well in the shade as in the sun. Later scholarship is not inclined to give the entire credit for this discovery to Jean alone, however, and his elder brother Hubert is looked upon by some as the one to whom the glory is due. Probably it was the joint result of innumerable experiments made by both, each profiting by the mistakes and successes of the other—just as was the case with the Wright brothers in perfecting the greatest invention of our own times. There were, of course, other pioneers who contributed to the great discovery.

The brothers were born at Maeseyck (Eyck-sur-Meuse) near Maestricht, and took the name of the village as their own in a way that was then very common. Literally they called themselves Hubert and Jean of Eyck. They first obtained service under the prince-bishop of Liége, and were illuminators of manuscripts and statues as well as painters. The increasing wealth and luxury of Flanders under the Dukes of Burgundy drew the two brothers to that country and they appear to have been in the employ of the Count of Charolais, afterwards the Duke Philip the Good, at about the date assigned by the early historians as that when the art of painting with oils was discovered. The Count was residing at that time in the Château des Comtes at Ghent with his young wife Michelle, sister of the Duke of Orleans. In 1419, when the news of the murder of John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, by the Duke of Orleans on the bridge of Montereau arrived at Ghent, Philip rushed into his wife’s room crying, “Michelle, Michelle! Your brother has killed my father!” The shock of this terrible intelligence, and the subsequent suspicion of her husband that she knew of the plot, caused the poor little French princess to pine away and die two years later. As a tribute to her memory the guild of St. Luke was asked by the Duke to grant the freedom of the guild to her favourite painters, the two Van Eycks, which was done.

Jean, however, did not remain at Ghent, but took service for a time under John of Bavaria, whose capital was at The Hague. In 1425 he became painter and varlet de chambre of Philip the Good, a position he retained until his death. For a time he seems to have travelled about with his ducal master, but he eventually settled at Bruges, where most of his best work was done. Hubert, meanwhile, remained at Ghent, painting for the rich burghers of that prosperous city. Here he presently received an order from Jodocus Vydts for an altar-piece for a chapel he had founded in the Cathedral of St. Bavon in his native city of Ghent. Hubert began work immediately, planned the great work and lived to partially complete it when overtaken by death in 1426. Hubert was recognised as a great painter in his day, the magistrates of Ghent on one occasion going in state to his studio to inspect a picture he was painting—which was no doubt the altar-piece for St. Bavon. He was, however, wholly forgotten by early historians of art in Flanders, and it is only recently that he has been given his proper place as one of the first of the great masters of the Flemish school.

The subject chosen by Hubert for the proposed altar-piece was the Adoration of the Lamb, and the artist, while true to the conventions of the age in which he lived, achieved a work that is still full of interest and charm. Like Shakespeare’s plays this, the first great masterpiece of the Flemish school, belongs not to an age but to all time. In its entirety the work consists of twenty panels and comprises more than three hundred separate figures. How far it had been completed at Hubert’s death there is no way to tell, although it is customary to attribute to him the architectural frame, the central panel showing the lamb, and the large upper panels. Other critics believe that Jean practically painted the whole picture when he was commissioned by the donor to complete it. The books on Flemish art devote many pages to an analytical description of this picture,1 which was finally completed by Jean in 1432. The Duke Philip, his patron, and the magistrates of Bruges visited his studio in state to inspect the finished picture, which was afterwards publicly exhibited at Ghent. When it is considered that this is the very first painting in oil that has come down to us it is in every respect a most marvellous performance. The three large central panels in the upper portion are especially noble and impressive, that of “God the Father,” in the centre, being finely expressive of majesty and repose. In the panel to the left of the Virgin Mary is a group of youthful angels singing, who are so skilfully painted that “one can readily tell from looking at them which is singing the dominant, which the counter-tenor, and which the tenor and the bass,” according to an early critic. We were told by a Belgian curé with whom we talked about this wonderful picture shortly before our visit to Ghent that the work is so fine in its details that in the case of the figures in the foreground who are holding open in their hands copies of the Scriptures the very passage at which each book is opened can be distinguished! We verified this remarkable assertion by the aid of a glass loaned us by an attendant.

The subsequent history of the painting is interesting. Philip II, who carried many Flemish masterpieces away to Spain, admired this one, but contented himself with a copy by Michel Coxcie, for which he paid four thousand ducats—which was quite likely more than the Van Eyck brothers received for the original. About 1578 the Calvinists of Ghent wished to present the painting to Queen Elizabeth in return for her support of their sect. For a time it was placed in the Hotel de Ville at Ghent, but was finally restored to the cathedral. After several other escapes from destruction or shipment abroad the work was finally dismembered out of deference to the views of Joseph II of Austria, during the period of Austrian rule in Flanders. He objected to the nude figures of Adam and Eve as unsuited to a church, and these were accordingly removed. The entire work was carried away during the French Revolution, but was returned some years later. The wings, however, were not restored to their original position, and were finally sold to a London dealer for four thousand pounds sterling. He, in turn, sold them to the King of Prussia, and they are now in the Museum of Berlin. The wings now at St. Bavon are the copies made by Coxcie. The original panels of Adam and Eve were stored for many years in the cellars of St. Bavon, and then were exchanged with the Belgian Government for the Coxcie wings just mentioned. They are now in the Brussels Museum. The Adam and Eve at St. Bavon are not even copies of the originals.

Jean Van Eyck enjoyed the confidence and affection of Philip the Good until his death, and was often sent on diplomatic missions of great importance. On one occasion he was sent to Portugal with an embassy appointed to propose a marriage between his ducal patron and the Princess Isabel. Jean was also commissioned to paint the portrait of the fair Isabel so that his master could judge for himself whether her charms were as great as he had fancied them to be. This portrait was duly painted and in the inventory of the possessions of Margaret of Austria there was a painting by Jean Van Eyck called La belle Portugalaise, which was, no doubt, the very one painted for Duke Philip. It must have been pleasing, for he married the lady. As late as 1516 La belle Portugalaise was still in existence at Malines. It represented a lady in a red habit with sable trimmings, attended by St. Nicholas. It has since disappeared—one of the many thousands that were lost or destroyed during the wars of the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries, but both historically and artistically one of the most interesting of them all. There are a considerable number of authenticated paintings by Jean Van Eyck still in existence. Several of these are in the original frames with the artist’s famous motto, “Als ik kan” (As I can), more or less legible. It is by no means unlikely that in time to come one or more of those now lost will be discovered, thus adding to the priceless heritage that the world owes to his immortal brush.

Two of the most celebrated of Jean Van Eyck’s paintings can be seen at Bruges. One of these is in the Museum and shows George Van der Paele, Canon of St. Donatian, worshipping the Madonna. Of the portrait of the worthy donor Max Rooses, the Director of the Plantin-Moretus Museum at Antwerp, says: “The Canon’s face is so astoundingly true to life that it is perhaps the most marvellous piece of painting that ever aspired to reproduce a human physiognomy. This firm, fat painting renders at once the cracks of the epidermis and the softness of the flesh. Beside this head with its lovingly wrought furrows and wrinkles gleam the dazzling white of the surplice with its greenish shimmer, the intense red of Mary’s mantle, St. Donatian’s flowing cape, and the metallic reflections of St. George’s breastplate.” Equally fine as an example of faithful portrait painting is the picture of the artist’s wife which also hangs in this interesting little gallery of old masters.

Four years after Jean Van Eyck’s death, which occurred in 1440, another Flemish painter of note acquired citizen’s rights at Bruges. This was Petrus Christus. The most celebrated of his paintings depicts the Legend of Ste. Godeberte. The story was that this young lady’s parents had planned a rich marriage for her, whereas she preferred to enter a convent. The prospective bride and her groom visited a jeweller’s to select the wedding ring and there encountered St. Eloi, or Elisius, who was both a goldsmith and a bishop. The Saint, knowing the wishes of the maiden, placed the ring upon her finger himself, thereby dedicating her to the service of the Lord. This picture was painted for the Goldsmiths’ Guild of Antwerp, passed into the collection of Baron Oppenheim, of Cologne, and is now in a private gallery.

Besides the “Adoration of the Lamb,” the Cathedral of St. Bavon possesses enough other notable works of art to equip a small museum. One of these is the wooden pulpit, carved by P. H. Verbruggen, and representing the glorification of St. Bavon. Another is the famous tomb of Bishop Triest carved by Jerome Duquesnoy in 1654. This represents the Bishop reclining on a couch, and has been termed “the most beautiful piece of statuary in the country.” Still a third masterpiece is “St. Bavon withdrawing from the World,” by Rubens. There are a score of other paintings and pieces of sculpture of interest and importance, but all are so over-shadowed by the famous polyptych that the average tourist scarcely notices them unless he goes back to this remarkable church several times. In front of the Château of Girard, and close to the cathedral, stands the impressive monument to the two Van Eycks erected by the city in 1913. It is by the sculptor Georges Verbanck and represents the brothers receiving the homage of the nations.

CHAPTER XII

TOURNAI, THE OLDEST CITY IN BELGIUM

As the ladies were somewhat fatigued by our rambles around Flanders it was decided that they would spend two or three quiet days with la tante Rosa while the Professor and I made daily excursions into wonderland, returning to the home of our hostess every night. The nearest point of interest was the city of Tournai, the oldest city in all Belgium. There was no direct railway line, however, and—as on many other occasions during our pilgrimage—we had no little trouble studying out a correspondence, or set of connections, that would take us there and back without loss of time. We started each morning before six o’clock and found the trains at that time of day made up mostly of fourth-class coaches filled with working people. The Belgian State Railway sells billets d’abonnement for these trains at incredibly low rates—a few sous a month for short trips from one town to the next, and a few francs a month for rides half way across the Kingdom. I have known clerks residing in the extreme southern end of the Department of Hainaut, close to the French frontier, who ride every day to Mons, ten or fifteen miles distant, and there take a train for Brussels. The object of this low rate of fare is the paternal desire of the Government that labourers should be able to obtain work wherever it may be found and still retain their homes in the villages in which they were born and raised. Home ties are very strong in Belgium, and the people cheerfully travel considerable distances under this plan rather than move away from their relatives and friends. Economically it is a very good thing for the country as a whole, since it enables the labourer out of work to look for a place in a hundred different towns and the employer to draw his help from an equally wide area. Thus in times that are not abnormally bad there are very few industrial plants without their full quota of hands, and very few hands out of work.

The fourth-class coaches are built like the third-class, with cross divisions making several compartments, but the division walls do not extend to the roof so the passengers can toss things to one another over them. Separate cars are provided for men and women, many scandals having resulted from the promiscuous herding of both sexes which prevailed some twenty years ago. The occupants of the men’s cars are of all ages, from tiny lads who seem to be hardly more than eight or nine—but are no doubt older, as the Belgian laws no longer permit minors of that age to work—to grandsires of eighty. All are roughly clad, ready to take up their respective tasks the moment they arrive—no one thinks of having a separate suit for travelling as most of the workmen who commute to and from an American city would do. In the women’s car the occupants are mostly young girls from fifteen to twenty, with a sprinkling of little girls and some women up to thirty, but very few who appear to be older than that. They always seem to be happy, singing and “carrying-on” with the utmost abandon. They are ready to start a flirtation at a moment’s notice and occasionally, when their car halts in a station next to some other train in which there are young men near the windows, the whole bevy of charmers devotes itself to making conquests—opening the windows and shouting a volley of good-natured raillery to which, if they are natives and used to it, the youngsters retort in kind. Then, as the trains start, the laughing crowd throws kisses by handfuls and the flirtation is over.

As our train jolted along, with frequent stops to take on and let off fourth-class passengers, the Professor explained to me that to be consistent to his plan we really should have visited Tournai first. However, it was far out of the way as a starting point, and its history did not dominate that of all Flanders in the way that the early history of Bruges did. In fact, while in early times subject to the Counts of Flanders, it was often subject to the French Crown for generations at a time, and is usually regarded as a Walloon rather than a Flemish city. Its influence on Flemish art and architecture, however, led us to include this Ville d’Art in our itinerary.

According to the scholars Tournai is the Turris Nerviorum of Cæsar, the capital of the Nervii, and one of the oldest towns north of the Alps. In 299 it was the scene of the martyrdom of St. Piat, who founded a church on the site of the cathedral. As the visitor gazes at that magnificent structure he can reflect that the ground on which it stands has been consecrated to divine worship for more than sixteen hundred years. During the fourth and fifth centuries Tournai was the capital of the branch of the Franks that ruled over the greater part of what is now Belgium, but the history of these early days when the Roman Empire was tottering to its fall is very meagre, and more than half legend at best. The first kings of the Merovingian line are shadowy, mythical personages who stalk across the pages of history like the ghost in Hamlet—far off, dim, but awe-inspiring.