The Spell of Flanders

Of the many other churches in the old town it would be tedious to speak. Nowhere in all Flanders did we see so many black-robed priests walking solemnly about—although they do not lack in any part of the country. All Belgium, in fact, is full of priests, monks and nuns, owing to the expulsion of the religious orders from France some years ago. We frequently engaged them in conversation to ascertain more about the monuments we were visiting and invariably found them courteous and well-informed, and not infrequently we were indebted to them for suggestions or information of much value. At the same time, it must be said that it seems to a layman as though there are far too many for so small a country, but their fine spirit of devotion during the war—when thousands of them shared cheerfully the hardships of the soldiers—will never be forgotten.

Of the civil edifices in Malines the most important is the Hotel de Ville. Architecturally it is disappointing, save for the older portion, which was called Beyaerd, and was purchased by the commune in 1383. The greater part of the edifice was reconstructed during the eighteenth century. The many rooms in the interior are pleasing but hardly notable, nor are the paintings and sculptures important save to the historian. In the Vieux Palais, the room in which the Great Council of the Netherlands held its sessions from 1474 to 1618, is still preserved in its original state, while one of the ancient paintings on the wall shows the Council in session. In this building also is the curious statuette of the Vuyle Bruydegom called “Op-Signorken,” whose grinning face and quaint mediæval costume are reproduced on many postcards. The history of this worthy is best told in French—and in whispers!

In our tramps around the narrow, crooked streets of the old town, and along its picturesque quays, we found many fine examples of fifteenth and sixteenth century architecture. On the Quai au Sel is the House of the Salmon, the ancient guildhouse of the fishmongers, which dates from 1530, and on the Quai aux Avoines we visited the little estaminet entitled In het Paradijs, with its two painted reliefs of the Fall and Expulsion from Eden, and the Maison des Diables—so called from the carved devils that decorate its wooden façade of the sixteenth century. The Grand Pont across the Dyle to these old quays itself dates from the thirteenth century, as its grimy arches testify.

After the defeat and death of Charles the Bold at Nancy his widow, Margaret of York, transferred her residence to Malines, and here she raised and educated the two children of her daughter, Marie of Burgundy, Philip the Handsome and Margaret of Austria. Their father, the Emperor Maximilian, was so occupied with affairs of state over his widely scattered realm that he seldom came to the city, but from 1480 onward the States General of the Netherlands often met here, and in 1491 Philip the Handsome presided at a chapter of the Order of the Golden Fleece at the cathedral of St. Rombaut. On his premature death, in 1506, Maximilian again became Regent, as Philip’s eldest son Charles was barely six years old. The following year Maximilian made his daughter Margaret of Austria Governess-General of the Netherlands and guardian of Philip’s children. Margaret at once chose Malines, where she had herself been educated, as her seat of government and there she reigned as Regent until her death twenty-three years later. This period was the golden age in the history of the city on the Dyle, its brief day of splendour.

In her infancy Margaret had been betrothed to the son of the King of France, Louis XI—the cunning enemy of her house whose plots had brought about the ruin of her grandfather, Charles the Bold. She was only three, and the Prince Dauphin, afterwards Charles the Eighth, was only twelve. Nine years later a more advantageous alliance caused him to renounce this betrothal, and Margaret was subsequently married by proxy to the son of the King of Spain. On her voyage from Flushing to Spain a storm arose which nearly wrecked her ship, and after it had somewhat subsided she and her companions amused themselves by each writing her own epitaph. That composed by Margaret, then a sprightly girl of eighteen, is well known:

Cy gist Margot la gentil’ Damoiselle,Qu’ ha deux marys et encor est pucelle.

Eventually, however, she arrived safely at Burgos, but her young husband, Prince John of Asturias, died suddenly seven months later of a malignant fever. At the age of nineteen, therefore, Margaret had already missed being Queen of France and Queen of Spain. After two years at the Spanish court, where she was very popular, she returned to Flanders, arriving in 1500, just in time to be one of the godmothers at the christening of her nephew, Charles, at the church of St. Jean in Ghent. The following year Margaret married Philibert II, Duke of Savoy, surnamed the Handsome, who was the same age as herself. This time her married life proved to be only a little longer than the other, for her husband died in 1504. Left twice a widow while still in the bloom of youth, the Duchess devoted herself to poetry and the erection of a church at Brou in her second husband’s duchy of Savoy.

There, on the walls, woodwork, stained glass windows and tombs she repeated her last motto:

FORTUNE . INFORTUNE . FORT . UNE

which has generally been interpreted to mean that Fortune and Misfortune have tried sorely (fort) one lone woman (une).

The palace of Margaret of York stood on the rue de l’Empereur, where some vestiges of it still remain, but Margaret of Savoy and of Austria found this edifice inadequate to the requirements of a Regent and acquired the Hotel de Savoy opposite. This has been restored and is now used as the Palais de Justice, but—apart from its pretty courtyard and one fine fireplace—we found very little to recall the glories of the period when the great men of all the Netherlands gathered here. The edifice was largely reconstructed by Rombaut Keldermans, and it was here that the boyhood of the future Emperor Charles the Fifth was passed, watched over by his Aunt Margaret. At the time of her accession as Regent Margaret was twenty-seven years old—“a fair young woman with golden hair, rounded cheeks, a grave mouth, and beautiful clear eyes,” according to one observer. Her father, the Emperor Maximilian, was very fond and proud of her, and the greatest treasure in the library in the Vieux Palais is a “graduale,” or hymnbook, which he presented to her in recognition of her services in educating his grandchildren. On one of the pages in this book is an illuminated picture showing Maximilian himself seated on a throne surmounted by the arms of Austria, with Margaret and the youthful Charles and his sister forming part of the group gathered in front of him. The other illustrations in this priceless volume, all of which we were permitted to examine, consist of religious subjects.

The events connected with the regency of Margaret of Austria belong to the history of Europe. More than once she aided her father in solving the great problems of government and diplomacy with which he was confronted, notably in the prominent part she took in the negotiations resulting in the League of Cambrai, which was directed against France—the nation to which she always showed an unrelenting hostility for the slight put upon her in childhood. In 1516 Charles became of age, and two years later—while the new King of Spain was visiting his Spanish subjects—Margaret was again proclaimed Regent of the Netherlands. In 1519 Maximilian died, and five months later Charles was elected King of the Romans, and was chosen Emperor the following year, succeeding to the widest dominions ever ruled over by one man in the history of Europe. In fact it is doubtful if any sovereign since has exercised so vast a power, as the Kings and Emperors of later years have had their authority more restricted, while that of Charles was absolute.

In 1529 Margaret brought about the negotiations that resulted in the famous Ladies’ Peace between the Pope, the Emperor Charles, and the Kings of France, England and Bohemia. Margaret represented Spain, and Louise of Savoy, her sister-in-law and the mother of Francis, the King of France, represented that monarch. The result of the conferences was a treaty that was highly advantageous to Spain, and a great diplomatic victory for Margaret; but as all Europe was tired of war the terms were accepted and peace proclaimed amid great popular rejoicings, the fountains at Cambrai flowing wine instead of water. The splendid mantelpiece in the Hotel de Franc at Bruges was erected to commemorate this treaty, although it hardly does justice to the prominent part taken by Margaret in negotiating it. The conclusion of the Treaty of Cambrai marks the climax of Margaret’s career and also that of the House of Austria. In addition to the vast empire ruled over by Charles, his brother Ferdinand was King of Bohemia, and his sisters Eleanor, Isabel, Marie and Katherine, Queens of France, Denmark, Hungary and Portugal respectively. All owed their brilliant positions to the patience and skill of their Aunt Margaret who, as her correspondence shows, was looking forward to the time when she could hand over the government of the Netherlands to the Emperor and spend her remaining days in quiet seclusion.

Under her wise rule the Netherlands had attained the greatest prosperity ever known. Industry and commerce flourished, peace and safety reigned throughout her broad dominions. At her court in Malines Margaret gathered a brilliant group of artists, poets and men of letters. Mabuse (Jan Gossaert), Bernard Van Orley and Michel Coxcie were among the famous Flemish artists patronised by the Duchess. Rombaut Keldermans received many commissions as architect from the great Lady of Savoy and her Imperial nephew for important edifices not only at Malines but at Antwerp, Brussels, Ghent and throughout the Low Countries. In 1451 the Pope, Nicholas V, had proclaimed a Holy Year at Malines and enormous numbers of pilgrims visited the city in consequence. Their lavish gifts made possible the rapid erection of most of the splendid religious edifices with which the city is so amply provided, and it was during the reign of Margaret that these structures were completed and decorated. Among the beautiful buildings executed during this period may be mentioned the Belfry at Bruges, the tower of St. Rombaut, the Hotel de Ville at Ghent, the spire of the cathedral at Antwerp, the cathedral of Ste. Gudule at Brussels, and many minor churches throughout the Low Countries.

Margaret displayed rare taste for works of art, and her palace was a veritable treasure house of masterpieces, as an inventory prepared at her direction shows. One of the most famous of these was the portrait of Jean Arnolfini and his wife by Jean Van Eyck, which—after many vicissitudes—has now found a permanent resting place in the National Gallery at London, unless some militant suffragette adds another chapter to its chequered history. Another treasure has been less fortunate, namely the portrait of La belle Portugalaise, wife of Philip the Good, which was painted by Jean Van Eyck under circumstances already described in another chapter. This famous picture disappeared during the religious wars and has never been discovered. The inventory lists a great many other paintings, of which some are still in existence and some have been lost. The descriptions are often quaint and charming, and may have been dictated by the Duchess herself, as for example: “Une petite Nostre-Dame disant ses heures, faicte de la main de Michel (Coxcie) que Madame appelle sa mignonne et le petit dieu dort,” and “Ung petit paradis ou sont touxs les apôtres.” Other artists of note in the collection were Bernard Van Orley, Hans Memling, Roger Van der Weyden, Dierick Bouts, Jerome Bosch and Gerard Horembout.

Among the men of letters whom Margaret gathered around her were Jean Molinet, her librarian and a poet who often celebrated her charms; Jean Lemaire de Belges, who became her historian; Erasmus, Nicolas Everard, Adrian of Utrecht, Cornelius Agrippa, Massé, Rénacle de Florennes, Louis Vivés, and many others. Her library was as choice as her collection of paintings and included a Book of Hours and several other illuminated manuscripts now in the Bibliotheque Royale at Brussels, and many of the mediæval classics. History records few great personages whose personality, considered from every aspect, is more pleasing than that of this gracious lady, whose very pets are known to us through the frequent references made to them by her literary courtiers. Her career, though shaded by sadness and disappointment, was a great and noble one, and, while she lived, the land over which she ruled remained in almost uninterrupted peace and prosperity—the wars of the Emperor being for the most part waged far away on the plains of Italy or in France.

On the last day of November, 1530, the Regent Margaret passed away at her palace at Malines in the fiftieth year of her age and the twenty-third of her regency. For forty-five days the bells of the churches throughout the city tolled at morning, noon and night in expression of the profound grief of the people at their great loss. The dirges may well have been for the departure of the city’s greatness as well, for the death of its great patroness proved the beginning of its decline. The new Regent, Marie of Hungary, removed her court to Brussels, and although Malines, by way of compensation, was made the seat of an arch-bishopric it never recovered its former splendour and sank rapidly into the quiet town that it was when the great war added a new and tragic chapter to its history.

CHAPTER XVI

GHENT UNDER CHARLES THE FIFTH—AND SINCE

But for the great disaster at Nancy, it is altogether probable that Charles the Bold would, before very long, have sought to chastise the burghers of Ghent as he did those of Liége, but his unexpected death, and the ruin of his plans, gave the citizens at least a brief period of respite from the tyranny that had been pressing more and more heavily upon them since the “bloody sea of Gavre.” His daughter, Marie, was only nineteen when her father’s fall placed her at the mercy of the turbulent communes, and at Ghent as well as Bruges she was forced to grant a charter restoring the many privileges that Charles and Philip the Good had taken away. She was even helpless to save the lives of two of her most trusted counsellors, who were accused by the men of Ghent of treacherous correspondence with their wily enemy, Louis XI, and—in spite of her entreaties and tears in their behalf in the Marché de Vendredi—were publicly beheaded in the first year of her brief reign.

Shortly after the untimely death of this princess whose popularity might have held the communes in check, her husband, Maximilian, began the long war that finally resulted in establishing his authority over all of Flanders. This accomplished, he established his daughter, Margaret of Austria, as Regent and during the twenty-three years of her wise and gentle reign the country remained for the most part at peace and its commerce and prosperity returned.

It was during the struggle with Maximilian that the Rabot was constructed at Ghent, in 1489. The previous year the Emperor Frederick III, father of Maximilian, had threatened the city at this point, where its fortifications were weakest, and the two famous pointed towers were built as part of the protective works designed to render a similar attack impossible. Although somewhat mutilated in 1860, the twin towers still stand, and with the curious intervening structure constitute one of the finest bits of military architecture of the fifteenth century that has come down to us. Historically, they form a monument of the victory gained by the commune over Frederick and his son in their first attempt to curtail its liberties and privileges.

On the 24th of February of the year 1500 the city of Ghent learned that a baby boy had been born at the Cour de Princes, to its sovereigns, Philip the Handsome and Joanna of Spain, who was destined to become the most powerful monarch in the world. On the day when this fortunate baby was baptised with the name of Charles, the city gave itself up to rejoicings that might well have been tempered had it known the fate that was in store for it at the hands of its illustrious son forty years later. As it was, joy reigned, and at night ten thousand flaming torches flared, the great dragon in the belfry spouted Greek fire, and on a rope suspended from the top of the belfry to the spire of St. Nicholas a tight-rope dancer performed prodigies of skill for the cheering crowds that thronged the streets below.

Fifteen years later, when Charles was declared of age, it was at Ghent that he was proclaimed Count of Flanders. The following year he became King of Spain, and in 1520 Emperor; thus at the age of twenty ruling over all the Netherlands, Germany, Austria, Northern Italy, Spain and the vast empire in the new world—then in course of conquest by Pizzaro, Cortés and the other Spanish conquistadores. While the city’s most famous son was advancing to the zenith of human power and wealth, its own fortunes were steadily declining. The long contest with Maximilian and the competition of England had struck a death blow to the cloth industry, which languished for a time and then gradually decayed and disappeared. The Cloth Hall was therefore left unfinished, which accounts for its insignificance as compared with similar structures in other Flemish towns where the textile trade was far less important than that of Ghent in the days of its greatest prosperity. The city continued, however, to be the centre of the grain trade as before, and the fine façade of the Maison des Bateliers (House of the Boatmen’s Guild), on the Quai au Blé, was built at this epoch, in 1534.

A still more notable structure, the Hotel de Ville, dates in part from the time of Charles. This edifice in reality comprises a group of buildings erected at different epochs and for diverse purposes. Architecturally the most beautiful of these is the Maison de la Keure, which forms the corner of the Marché au Beurre and the rue Haut Port, extending for most of its length on the latter somewhat narrow street. This was designed and built by Dominique de Waghenakere of Antwerp and the famous Rombaut Keldermans of Malines, and was erected between 1518 and 1534. The actual edifice represents only a quarter of the fine design of the architects and lacks an entire story with various decorative features which would have greatly improved its appearance and made it one of the finest Hotels de Ville in Flanders. As it is, this part is by far the best of the entire structure. The Maison des Parchons facing the Marché au Beurre was built in 1600 to 1620 and is in the Italian Renaissance style and vastly inferior to the fine Gothic structure of a century earlier. The other portion of the building comprises a Hall for the States of Flanders, in the ruelle de Hotel de Ville, built in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; the grande conciergerie joining this to the earlier Gothic Maison de la Keure and built in 1700; and a Chambre des Pauvres built by order of Charles V in 1531, of which the present façade dates from 1750.

The inner rooms of this collection of buildings, of different ages and different architectural styles, are of relatively minor interest. The Grande Salle de Justice de la Keure is somewhat imposing with its large fireplace, but its lack of other decorations makes it rather cold and gloomy and we were glad to leave it. Much more beautiful is the Salle de l’Arsenal, built half a century later. In the Chapel of St. John the Baptist, which adjoins the Salle de Justice in the most ancient part of the edifice, and is now used as a Salle des Mariages, is a fine picture representing Marie of Burgundy begging her people to forgive Hugonet and Humbercourt, her two ministers who—despite her tearful pleas—were executed in the Place Ste. Pharaïlde hard by.

On the death of Margaret of Austria the Emperor appointed his sister, Marie of Hungary, Regent of the Netherlands. The steady decline of its trade and the increasing poverty of the people caused the city of Ghent to seethe with discontent, and in 1539 an outbreak occurred that gave the Regent great alarm. Under the leadership of a group of demagogues the Métiers or lower associations of artisans, overawed the magistrates and seized Liévin Pyn, an aged and honourable member of the Council and Dean of the Métiers who was unjustly accused of giving the Queen Regent a false report on the situation and of having stolen the great banner of the city. This unfortunate old man was subjected to fearful tortures in the Château des Comtes, but resolutely refused to confess to any of the acts charged against him. Nevertheless, he was finally executed on the Place Ste. Pharaïlde—one of the most pitiful and unjust of the many cruel tragedies enacted there. Broken and weakened from the tortures to which he had been subjected, he had to be carried to the place of execution, where his indomitable spirit was such that before bowing before the axe of the executioner he sternly reproached his judges with their cowardice, and predicted that the people would soon have occasion to regret the fatuous course they were pursuing.

The dying old man spoke the truth. The Emperor was then in Spain and matters connected with the government of his world-encircling realm demanded for the moment his attention, but he was none the less kept well informed as to what was going on in his native city, where affairs meanwhile progressed from bad to worse, until a veritable state of anarchy prevailed. When Charles learned of the virtual insurrection against his authority that prevailed, and of the death of Liévin Pyn, he was furious and vowed to inflict upon the rebellious city a vengeance that would deter all other cities in the empire from ever following its example. Slowly, but with a deliberateness that boded ill for the foolhardy rabble who for the moment guided the destinies of the commune, the Emperor made his preparations for a trip to the Low Countries. Two months after the execution of Pyn it became known in the city that their puissant sovereign was on his way. The news filled the mutineers with terror. No longer was Ghent in the proud position she had occupied under the Counts of Flanders and the first Dukes of Burgundy—the premier city of the realm and a foe to be respected and even feared. The power of Charles V was too vast for even the most ignorant to think of armed resistance to his authority, now that he was about to assert it in person. Many of those responsible for the period of anarchy fled, others went into hiding.

Early in the year 1540 the Emperor arrived at Cambrai, proceeding next to Valenciennes and Brussels. Meanwhile a strong force of German soldiers entered the city—meeting with no resistance from its now thoroughly terrified inhabitants, many of whom no doubt wished they could restore the dead Doyen des Métiers, whom they had so cruelly sacrificed, to life again that he might plead their cause with the dreaded Emperor. They had good reason to tremble, for in a few days the ring-leaders of the late troubles began to be arrested and all men were forbidden, under penalty of death, to harbour them or aid them to escape their sovereign’s wrath. A few days later nine of the mutineers were executed on the Place Ste. Pharaïlde where Liévin Pyn had perished at their hands six months before. The magistrates were now filled with terror and abjectly pleaded for mercy. The Emperor haughtily replied that he knew how to be merciful and also how to do justice, and that he would presently give judgment on the city “in such a manner that it would never be forgotten and others would take therefrom an example.”

This disquieting response was followed by the Emperor’s famous visit to the top of the cathedral tower in company with the Duke of Alva. It was on this occasion that the latter, with the ferocity that afterwards made his name a by-word for cruelty for future ages, counselled his sovereign to utterly destroy the rebellious city. To this the Emperor responded with the bon mot that showed at once his sense of humour and his moderation. Pointing to the wide-spreading red roofs of the populous city he asked, “How many Spanish skins do you think it would take to make a glove (Gand, the French spelling of Ghent, also means glove) as large as this?”

Meanwhile, under the direct supervision of the Emperor, a huge citadel began to be erected on the site of the ancient little town surrounding the Abbey of St. Bavon—a choice that involved the destruction of many of the Abbey buildings. The Emperor, while this work was going on, remained at the Princenhof where he held his court, but gave no sign as to what the fate of the city was to be. It was not until April 29th, 1540, that he finally—in the presence of a great throng of princes, nobles and the members of his Grand Council, with the city magistrates on their knees at his feet—gave his long delayed decision. In a loud voice the Imperial herald first read a list of thirty-five crimes committed by the people of the city, declaring them guilty of dèsléalté, désobéyssance, infraction de traictés, sedition, rébellion et de léze-magesté. In consequence of these crimes the sentence deprived them forever of their privileges, rights, and franchises. It directed that the charters, together with the red and black books in which they were registered, should be turned over to the Emperor to do with them as he pleased, and it was forbidden ever again to invoke or appeal to them. It pronounced the confiscation of all the goods, rents, revenues, houses, artillery and war material belonging to the city or to the Métiers. It confiscated the great bell Roland and decreed that it must be taken down. It further directed that three days later the magistrates, thirty members of the bourgeois or middle class, the Doyen of the weavers, six men from each Métier and fifty “creesers” should beg pardon of the Emperor and Queen. The suppliants on this occasion were dressed in black, with heads and feet bare, and cords about their necks, and were compelled to beg the pardon of the Emperor on their knees in the market-place. Besides this public degradation the magistrates were required to wear the cords about their necks thereafter during the exercise of their functions. It is said, however, that before very long the hemp was converted into a rich cord of gold and silk, which they wore as a scarf—as if it were a badge of honour instead of one of disgrace.