Flemish Legends. Charles de Coster
in the court of a great dignitary of the Roman Church, and intended for the aristocratic University of Louvain, but showed early his independent and democratic turn of mind by preferring the more popular University of Brussels, to which he made his own way. Here he fell in with a group of fellow-students and artistic enthusiasts which included Félicien Rops, with whom he was associated in a society called Les Joyeux, and afterwards in a short-lived Review, to which they gave the name of that traditional Belgian figure of joyousness and high spirits, Uylenspiegel. It was in this that these Legends first appeared, written in the years 1856 and 1857, and soon afterwards published in book form.
Belgian literature was not at that time in a very flourishing condition, and little general appreciation was shown of de Coster’s work, but it was hailed with enthusiasm by a few of the more discerning critics, and won him a place on a Royal Commission which was investigating mediæval state papers. After publishing another book, Contes brabançons, likewise based on the folk-lore of his country, he seems to have withdrawn into himself and led the life of a dreamer, wandering about among the peasants and burying himself in the wide countryside of Flanders, until he had completed his epic of the Spanish tyranny, Ulenspiegel, which has already been translated into English. None of these publications brought him any material recompense for his work, and he remained a poor man to the end of his life, in constant revolt against what he called the horrible power of money.1
The primitive stuff of these Legends is to be found scattered up and down, a piece here and a piece there, in the folk-lore of Brabant and Flanders. De Coster, who had an intense love of this folk-lore and at the same time, as he said, “that particular kind of madness which is needed for such writing,” set himself to give it a literary form. He has chosen to make that form so elaborate, and has worked his material to so fine a composition, that he must be considered to have produced an entirely original book. But he has not been unfaithful to his masters the people. Sir Halewyn, for instance, follows an old song. And the Faust-story of Smetse Smee, the jovial and ingenious smith, who gets the better of his bargain with the devil in so wholly satisfactory a fashion, crops up in one form or another again and again.
The Legends were written in the idiom of the sixteenth century, the period to which the latest and longest of them roughly belongs. I believe that no more perfect example of pastiche exists in the language. But that is not of much interest to English readers, and I have made no attempt to reproduce the achievement. De Coster found modern French, with its rigidity of form, unsuitable to his subject and inapt to his genius. He seems to have had a mind so perfectly in tune with the Middle Ages that one may well believe that he found it actually more natural to write in the still fluid language of Rabelais than in that of his own day. The prose of the original is of arresting beauty, especially in Sir Halewyn; which, with its peculiarly Flemish tale of faery and enchantment, still beauty and glowing hearths, and the sombreness of northern forests brooding over them, I feel to be the high-water mark of his achievement. At times it becomes so rhythmic that one can hardly decide whether it is prose or poetry. It is not difficult to believe Potvin’s report that de Coster spent an immense amount of pains on his work, sometimes doing a page twenty times over before he was content to let it go.
De Coster has been spoken of as a mouthpiece of Protestantism. Protestant, of course, is the last word in the world to describe him. No one can have regretted much more than he the passing of that warm-hearted time before the Reformation. One has but to read the story of the building of the church at Haeckendover in The Three Sisters, or the prayer of the girl Wantje to the Virgin in the tale of the hilarious Brotherhood to see how far this is true. It is only in Smetse Smee, when he comes to the time of the Inquisition, that he bursts out with that stream of invective and monstrous mockery which made the Polish refugee Karski say of him, “Well roared, Fleming!” And even then it is Spain rather than Catholicism which is the centre of his attack, and Philip II who is his aiming-point.
Above all and before all de Coster loved the simple peasant-people of his own land, with their frank interest in good things to eat and good beer to drink, their aptitude for quarrelling and their great hearts. All his chief portraits are painted from them. The old homely nobility of Flanders, such as were the people of Heurne in the tale of Halewyn, he liked well enough, but he could not bear a rich man or a distant-mannered master of the Spanish type. A tale is told of him and his painter friend Dillens which may well stand as the key to his work. One day at Carnival-time they were in Ghent, and when the evening came Dillens asked what they should do. “Voir le peuple!” cried de Coster, “le peuple surtout! La bourgeoisie est la même partout! Va voir le peuple!”
H. T.
1 His biography has been written by Charles Potvin. Charles de Coster; Sa Biographie. Weissenbruch; Brussels.
The Brotherhood of the Cheerful Countenance
I. Of the sorrowful voice which Pieter Gans heard in his garden, and of the flame running over the grass.
In the days when the Good Duke ruled over Brabant, there was to be found at Uccle, with its headquarters in the tavern of The Horn, a certain Brotherhood of the Cheerful Countenance, aptly enough so named, for every one of the Brothers had a wonderfully jolly face, finished off, as a sign of good living, with two chins at the least. That was the young ones; but the older ones had more.
You shall hear, first of all, how this Brotherhood was founded:
Pieter Gans, host of this same Horn, putting off his clothes one night to get into bed, heard in his garden a sorrowful voice, wailing: “My tongue is scorching me. Drink! Drink! I shall die of thirst.”
Thinking at first that it was some drunkard below, he continued to get into bed quietly, notwithstanding the voice, which kept crying out in the garden: “Drink! Drink! I shall die of thirst.” But this persisted so long and in so melancholy a manner that at last Pieter Gans must needs get up and go to the window to see who it might be making so much noise. Thence he saw a long flame, of great brightness and strange upstanding shape, running over the grass; and, thinking that it must be some poor soul from purgatory in need of prayers, he set about repeating litanies, and went through above a hundred, but all in vain, for the voice never ceased crying out as before: “Drink! Drink! I shall die of thirst.”
After cock-crow he heard no more, and looking out again he saw with great satisfaction that the flame had disappeared.
When morning came he went straightway to the church. There he told the story of these strange happenings to the priest, and caused a fair mass to be said for the repose of the poor soul; gave a golden peter to the clerk so that others might be said later, and returned home reassured.
But on the following night the voice began its wailing anew, as lamentably as if it were that of a dying man hindered from dying. And so it went on night after night.
Whence it came about that Pieter Gans grew moody and morose.
Those who had known him in former days, rubicund, carrying a good paunch and a joyous face, wont to tell his matins with bottles and his vespers with flagons, would certainly never have recognized him.
For he grew so wizened, dried up, thin, and of such piteous appearance that dogs used to start barking at the sight of him, as they do at beggars with their bundles.
II. How Jan Blaeskaek gave good counsel to Pieter Gans, and wherein covetousness is sadly punished.