The Spell of Flanders

Six years later the Duke d’Alençon, who had been made nominal sovereign over the Low Countries by William the Silent, planned to treacherously attack and sack the city with his French soldiers, some three thousand, five hundred strong. This time, however, the citizens were not caught napping and when the tocsin in the cathedral called the alarm the burghers rushed out in thousands. The French swashbucklers proved to be less stubborn fighters than the Spanish veterans and soon were driven back in a confused mass to the city gates, most of them being killed and the cowardly Duke only saving himself by flight. This episode has been derisively called the French Fury. It happened January 17, 1583.

The following year Alexander Farnese, the Duke of Parma—and the son of the Duchess of Parma, whose career as Regent of the Netherlands was briefly described in the chapter on Audenaerde, her birthplace—determined to besiege Antwerp, which, since the Spanish Fury, had fallen into the hands of the revolted Provinces. Unfortunately for its defenders, William the Silent had just died at the hands of an assassin and his plans for the protection of the city by flooding all of the marshes surrounding it were not followed. The butchers opposed flooding all of their pasture lands and the important Kowenstein Dyke was not cut. The Prince of Parma, who was the greatest military leader of his age, swiftly captured the forts on the Flemish side of the river, seized the Kowenstein Dyke—which extended on the Brabant side from a point opposite Calloo to Starbroeck—and began to build a bridge across the river itself. This daring project, if successful, would completely isolate Antwerp from the sea and its Dutch allies and render certain its ultimate subjection by starvation.

The bridge was built partly on piles, as far out as the water was sufficiently shallow, then the intervening gap was spanned by means of thirty-two large vessels anchored at both ends and lashed together by chains and heavy cables. The structure was completed in February, 1585, to the amazement of the besieged burghers and the great joy of the Prince’s army. It would seem a small affair to the pontoon bridge builders of to-day, being two thousand, four hundred feet long and twelve feet wide, but at that time it was deemed one of the most notable achievements ever known. The defenders of the city sent huge fireships down the river to destroy the bridge. One of these actually exploded against the structure and another off Calloo, destroying more than eight hundred Spanish soldiers and endangering their intrepid leader himself. The bridge was wrecked, but Farnese repaired it before the people at Antwerp learned of the success of their attempt.

A tremendous attack was next made on the Kowenstein Dyke, with a view to cutting it—a feat that could have been done without any trouble if the Prince of Orange’s counsels had been followed a few months earlier. A fleet of one hundred and fifty Dutch ships joined in the battle from the sea side, while a strong force of Flemings, English and Dutch from Antwerp attacked the dyke from the land side. After a fierce struggle it was cut, the waters rushed through and one vessel loaded with provisions for the beleaguered city made its way past. That night Antwerp rejoiced, but in the darkness the Prince of Parma made another furious assault and finally drove back the allies, capturing twenty-eight ships of the Dutch fleet and filling in the dyke once more. This victory—which as a feat of arms was one of the most brilliant of the war—sealed the fate of the city, which finally capitulated August 17th. So important was this success to the Spanish, cause that Isabella, the daughter of King Philip, was awakened by her father during the night by the tidings, “Antwerp is ours!” Its fall settled approximately the extent of the region that was left to the Spanish Crown out of the wreck of its former empire in the Low Countries. Thenceforth all of the provinces to the west and south of Antwerp—the region now comprised in the Kingdom of Belgium—remained subject to the King of Spain and his Austrian successors until the great French Revolution. The remaining provinces became the Dutch Republic and now form the Kingdom of Holland.

The Spanish Fury and the great siege had together well-nigh destroyed the commerce of the port, and the heavy fine imposed by the conquerors upon the city for its rebellion completed its ruin. Packs of wild dogs are said to have roamed unmolested through the outlying villages, which stood deserted, while even wolves were seen. Grass grew in the once crowded streets of the city, and famine added to the miseries of its fast declining population. It would hardly be conceivable that a quarter of a century of hideous misrule could have so utterly obliterated the prosperity of this once opulent city, but for the fearful object lesson afforded in 1914 that war is still as potent a breeder of destruction and despair as it was in that dark age.

Enough, however, of wars and sieges and the sack of cities. Antwerp’s past includes many pleasanter stories as well—stories of progress and achievement. To those who are interested in the noble art of printing, and the various branches of the fine arts that serve as handmaids to the printer, Antwerp possesses one of the rarest treasure-houses in the world. This is the Museum Plantin-Moretus, for three centuries the head office and workshop of the great printing-house whose name it bears.

Christopher Plantin, the founder of this famous establishment, was by birth a Frenchman—having first seen the light of day in the vicinity of Tours in the year 1514. Fleeing from the plague with his father to Lyons, he went from there to Orleans, to Paris, and finally to Caen in Normandy, where he learned the art of printing from Robert Mace. Here also he met Jeanne Rivière, who became his wife in 1545 or 1546. The couple soon went to Paris, where Plantin learned the art of bookbinding and of making caskets and other articles of elegance from leather. In 1549 he came to Antwerp and the following year was enrolled as a citizen and also as a member of the famous guild of St. Luke with the title of printer. He does not appear to have followed this profession, however, but speedily gained much renown for his exquisite workmanship as a bookbinder and casket maker, finding several wealthy patrons and protectors-among them Gabriel de Çayas, Secretary of Philip II, then the most powerful monarch in Christendom.

In the year 1555, while on his way to deliver in person a jewel-case he had just made for this client, he met with an adventure that changed the course of his career. It was quite dark before he had completed his errand, and as he made his way along the narrow, ill-lit streets of the old city he was set upon by a party of drunken revellers who mistook him, with the casket under his arm, for a guitar player against whom they had some grievance. One of the party ran the unfortunate casket-maker through the body with his sword, and he had barely strength enough to drag himself home, more nearly dead than alive. Skilful medical and surgical aid finally saved his life, but left him unable to do any manual work. He therefore gave up his casket-making and resumed the trade of printer, which he had learned at Caen. Instead of a misfortune, as it no doubt seemed at the time, this sword thrust proved the turning point in his career, for in his new profession he was destined to achieve undying fame.

There were at this time no less than sixty-six printing establishments in the Low Countries, of which thirteen were at Antwerp, some of the latter rivalling the best printers of Paris, Basel and Venice in the beauty of their productions. Plantin’s first book was issued the year of his accident, in 1555, and was entitled “La Institutione di una fanciulla nata nobilmente.” During the next seven years his presses turned out a limited number of works, but in 1562 his office was raided by order of the Regent, Margaret, the Duchess of Parma, and three of his workmen seized and condemned to the galleys for a heretical book they had printed unknown to him, entitled “Briefve instruction pour prier.” Plantin fled to France, and to avoid confiscation he had some of his friends, acting as creditors, sell and buy in his printing plant. The following year—having convinced the Government of his orthodoxy—he returned to Antwerp and organised a company consisting of himself and four partners, including some of his pretended creditors. While this arrangement lasted, from 1563 to 1567, more than two hundred books were printed, and forty workmen kept constantly employed. His work was already considered notable for the beauty of its type and excellence of the paper used.

Soon after the partnership was dissolved Plantin undertook what was destined to be the greatest work of his career, and one of the most notable in the history of printing, the famous Biblia Regia. This was an edition of the Bible in four ancient languages, Latin, Hebrew, Greek and Chaldean. The Hebrew type was purchased from a Venetian printer, while the last two were cast expressly for this book. His friend Çayas interested Philip II in the project and that monarch sent the great scholar Arias Montanus from Alcala to supervise the work. At the suggestion of Cardinal Granville, Syriac was added to the other texts, so that, including French, there were six languages in all. The first volume of this “Polyglot Bible,” as it came to be called, appeared in 1569 and the eighth and last in 1573. The work proved to be exceedingly costly, and to help meet the expense the King of Spain advanced 21,200 florins, and granted Plantin a monopoly for its sale throughout the Spanish dominions for the period of twenty years. A similar monopoly was granted by the Pope, the Emperor, the King of France and the Republic of Venice. In spite of all this, the book brought its printer no profits, but kept him in debt for the rest of his life. Pensions promised by Philip II to himself and his son-in-law, Raphelingen, were never paid.

Between the editor of the great Bible and its printer a strong friendship sprang up. “This man,” wrote Arias on one occasion, “is all mind and no matter. He neither eats, drinks, nor sleeps.” And again, “Never did I know so capable and so kindhearted a man. Every day I find something fresh to admire in him, but what I admire the most is his humble patience towards envious colleagues, whom he insists on wishing well, though he might do them much harm.”

Besides the Biblia Regia Plantin, now at the height of his fame, managed to turn out a vast quantity of printed matter. High in royal favour by reason of this worthy work, he had no difficulty in obtaining for himself and his heirs a profitable monopoly for printing and selling missals and breviaries throughout Spain’s wide dominions. While the largest printers at Paris rarely employed more than six presses, Plantin kept twenty-two constantly at work, had agents at Paris and Leyden, and sent a member of his family every year to attend the fairs at Leipzig and Frankfort. In 1575 his office is said to have had seventy-three kinds of type, weighing over seventeen tons.

In 1570 he was appointed by Philip to the newly created office of Prototypographer in the Netherlands. Masters and men in the printing trade had to apply to him for certificates as to their fitness, while he was also required to draw up a list of forbidden books. In this, curiously enough, one of the earlier products of his own press found a place—a rhyming version of the Psalms in French by Clement Marot. This office does not seem to have paid much salary, if any, or to have given its first possessor anything but a lot of worry.

The Plantin Press was located at various places about the city until 1576, when it was established on the rue Haute near the Porte de St. Jean. Three years later Plantin purchased from the owner of this property the premises occupied by the present museum and extending from the rue Haute through to the Friday Market, with a large gateway opening into the latter. Plantin had been only eight months in this new location when the Spanish Fury broke out. He was away on a journey himself, but his son-in-law, Moretus, had to pay a heavy fine to save the printing-office from pillage. The next few years were full of trouble and anxiety. For a time Plantin had to leave Antwerp, going to Leyden, where he met Justus Lipsius and was made printer to the University. During the great siege of Antwerp he fled, with many other Catholics, to Cologne, where he thought for a time of establishing his chief printing-office. After the siege he hurried home, but a short time later his health began to fail.

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:

“Un Labeur courageux muni d’humble ConstanceResiste à tous assauts par douce Patience.”

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.