There was
Yana's father, a short, thick-set sexagenarian, bent but still
healthy-looking, his face wrinkled like old parchment, with a
stiff beard and bright eyes; the mother, a buxom woman about
ten years younger, very active despite her stoutness; then a host
of brothers and sisters, varying from twenty-five to fifteen; the
boys bold, dark, curly-headed, muscular, square-set fellows; the
girls fresh-looking, tanned by the sun, all like Yana their elder
sister, who, to my mind, was the most charming boerine annwers-
oise that one could imagine, with her dark hair, her big emerald-
## p.
Yana's father, a short, thick-set sexagenarian, bent but still
healthy-looking, his face wrinkled like old parchment, with a
stiff beard and bright eyes; the mother, a buxom woman about
ten years younger, very active despite her stoutness; then a host
of brothers and sisters, varying from twenty-five to fifteen; the
boys bold, dark, curly-headed, muscular, square-set fellows; the
girls fresh-looking, tanned by the sun, all like Yana their elder
sister, who, to my mind, was the most charming boerine annwers-
oise that one could imagine, with her dark hair, her big emerald-
## p.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v09 - Dra to Eme
And that disposition of heart, that consent, union, or
propensity of mind to being in general which appears chiefly in
such exercises, is virtue, truly so called; or in other words, true
grace and real holiness. And no other disposition or affection
but this is of the nature of virtue.
## p. 5189 (#361) ###########################################
5189
GEORGES EEKHOUD
(1854-)
A JEUNE BELGIQUE” is more than a school; it is a literary
movement, which began about the year 1880. The aim of
this group of writers is to found a national literature, which
uses the French language and technique for the expression of the
Flemish or Walloon spirit, and the peculiar sentiment and individu-
ality of the Belgian race which has developed between the more
powerful nations of France and Germany. In the words of William
Sharp:--
« To one who has closely studied the whole movement in its intimate and
extra-national bearings, as well as in its individual manifestations and aber-
rations, its particular and collective achievement in the several literary genres,
there is no question as to the radical distinction between Belgic and French
literature. Whether there be a great future for the first, is almost entirely
dependent on the concurrent political condition of Belgium. If Germany were
to appropriate the country, it is almost certain that only the Flemish spirit
would retain its independent vitality, and even that probably only for a gen-
eration or two. But if Belgium were absorbed by France, Brussels would
almost immediately become as insignificant a literary centre as is Lyons or
Bordeaux, or be, at most, not more independent of Paris than is Marseilles.
Literary Belgium would be a memory, within a year of the hoisting of the
French tricolor from the Scheldt to the Liège. Meanwhile, the whole energy
of Young Belgium) is consciously or unconsciously concentrated in the effort
to withstand Paris. »
Among the leading spirits of “La Jeune Belgique » are Maurice
Maeterlinck, Georges Eekhoud, Camille Lemonnier, Georges Roden-
bach, J. K. Huysmans, Auguste Jenart, Eugene Demolder, and a
number of others, who have distinguished themselves in fiction and
poetry. Their works are generally inspired by the uncompromising
sense of the reality of ordinary life, which would sometimes be
repulsive if it were not for their brilliant style and psychological
undercurrent.
This school of literature is somewhat analogous to that of the
Flemish painting. Nature is always an important accessory to the
development of the action; and therefore the landscapes and the
genre pictures are given with a rapid and sure touch and in a vivid
and high key,- so high that at times the colors are almost crude.
The reader of these Belgian writers often feels, in consequence, that
## p. 5190 (#362) ###########################################
5190
GEORGES EEKHOUD
he is looking at a series of paintings which are being explained by a
narrator.
Of all these writers, Georges Eekhoud, whom Mr. Sharp calls “the
Maupassant of the Low Countries,” is the one who has made the
greatest effort to model his work upon the style of the contemporary
French authors. He was born in Antwerp, May 27th 1854. His lit-
erary career was begun as an editor of the Precursor, in Antwerp,
but he soon became associated with L'Étoile Belge as literary editor.
In 1877 he published his first volume, entitled Myrtes et Cyprès.
This was succeeded by a second book of poetry, Zigzags Poétiques
et Pittoresques, which appeared in 1879. Among the most admired
of these poems are (La Mare aux Sangues,' Nina,' (Raymonne,' and
the strong La Guigne. '
French critics say that his diction lacks polish, but that he has
strength, color, and a talent for description. His novels are -'Kees
Doorik) (1884), Les Kermesses? (1884), Les Milices de Saint-Fran-
çois) (1886), Les Nouvelles Kermesses) (1887), and 'La Nouvelle
Carthage) (1888). The latter is considered his most brilliant novel,
and won for him the quinquennial prize of 5,000 francs given for
French literature in Belgium. It is a vivid picture of Antwerp, with
vigorous and highly colored descriptions of its middle-class citizens,
enriched by centuries of continued prosperity. In general, Eekhoud
is naturalistic, and intent only on painting life as he sees and feels
it.
His other books include_Cycle Patibulaire' (1892); (Au Siècle
de Shakespeare,' a valuable book on the English literature of the
Elizabethan period (1893); and (Mes Communions) (1895).
EX-VOTO
From (The Massacre of the Innocents, and Other Tales by Belgian Writers):
copyright 1895, by Stone & Kimball
T"
He country I know and love best does not exist for the tourist,
and neither guide nor doctor ever dreams of recommend-
ing it.
This reassures me, for I love my country selfishly,
exclusively. The land is ancient, flat, the home of fogs. With
the exception of the Polder schorres, the district fertilized by the
overflowing of the river, few districts are cultivated. A single
canal from the Scheldt irrigates its fields and plains, and occa-
sional railways connect its unfrequented towns.
The politician execrates it, the merchant despises it, it intimi.
dates and baffles legions of bad painters.
## p. 5191 (#363) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5191
Poets of the boudoir! virtuosi! This flat country will always
elude your descriptions! For you, landscape painters, there is no
inspiration to be gained here. O chosen land, neither thou nor
thy secret can be seen at a glance! The degenerate folk who
pass through this country feel nothing of its healthy, intoxicating
charm, or are only wearied in the midst of this gray peaceful
nature, unrelieved by hill or torrent; and still less sympathy have
they with the country louts who stare at them with placid bovine
eyes.
The people remain robust, uncouth, obstinate, and ignorant.
No music stirs me like the Flemish from their lips. They mouth
it, drawl it, linger lovingly over the guttural syllables, while the
harsh consonants fall heavily as their fists. They move slowly,
swingingly, bent-shouldered and heavy-jawed; like bulls, they are
at once fierce and taciturn. Never shall I meet more comely, firm-
bosomed lassies, never see eyes more appealing, than those of this
dear land of mine. Under their blue kiel the brawny lads swag-
ger well content; though when in drink, if dispute arises, rivalry
may drive them into fatal conflicts. The tierendar ends many a
quarrel without further ado; and as the combatants cut and hack,
their faces preserve that dogged smile of the old Germans who
fought in the Roman arenas. During the kermesses they over-eat
themselves, they get drunk, dance with a kind of gauche solem-
nity, embrace their sweethearts without much ceremony, and when
the dance is over, gratify themselves with all manner of excesses.
One and all, they are slow to give themselves away; but once
gained, their affection is unalterable.
Those who depict them thick-set, laughter-loving, misshapen
boors, do not know this race. The Campine peasantry recall
rather the brown shepherd folk of Jordaens than the pot-house
scenes by Teniers, a great man who slandered his Perck rustics.
They preserve the faith of past centuries, undertake pilgrim-
ages, respect their pastoor, believe in the Devil, in the wizard, in
the evil eye, that jettatura of the North. So much the better.
These yokels fascinate me. I prefer their poetic traditions, the
legends drawled out by an old pachteresse in the evening hours,
to the liveliest tale of Voltaire, and their clan-narrowness and
religious fanaticism stir me more than the patriotic declamations
and the insipid civic rhodomontade of the journalist. Splendid
and glorious rebels, these Vendéans of ours; may philosophy and
civilization long forget them. When the day of equality, dreamed
## p. 5192 (#364) ###########################################
5192
GEORGES EEKHOUD
of by geometric minds, comes, they will disappear also, my
superb brutes; hunted down, crushed by invasion, but to the end
unyielding to Positivist influences. My brothers, utilitarianism
will do away with you, you and your rude remote country!
Meanwhile, I who have your hot rebel blood coursing in my
veins, I who shall not survive you, am fain to steep my spirit in
yours, to be at one with you in all that is rude and savage in
you, to stupefy myself at great casks of brown ale at the fairs,
with you to raise up my voice when the clouds of incense rise
like smoke above your sacred processions, to seat myself in silence
beside your smoky hearths or to wander alone across the desolate
sand-dunes at the hour when the frogs croak, and when the dis-
traught shepherd, become an incendiary and a lost man, grazes
his flock of fire across the heaths.
At the beginning of the June of 1865, I had just reached my
eleventh birthday and made my first communion with the Frères
de la Miséricorde at M - One morning I was called into the
parlor; there I found the father superior and my uncle, who told
me that he would take me to Antwerp to see my father. At the
idea of this unexpected holiday and the prospect of embracing
my kind parent, who had been a widower for five years and to
whom I was now everything, I did not notice my uncle's serious
looks nor the pitying glances of the monk.
We set off. The train did not go fast enough for my liking.
However, we arrived at last. To ring the door-bell of the sim-
ple little house; to embrace Yana the servant; to submit to the
caresses of good Lion, a splendid brown spaniel, to race up-stairs
with him four steps at a time, to bound into the familiar bed-
room, then two words:-“Father! - George! ” — to feel myself
lifted up and pressed against his heart; to be devoured with
kisses, my lips seeking his in the big fair beard: these actions
followed one another rapidly; but transient as they were, they
are forever graven on my memory. What a long time the dear
man held me in his arms! He looked at me with tender admi.
ration, repeating, “What a big boy you have grown, my Jurgen,
my Krapouteki! ” and he repeated a whole string of impossible
but adorable pet names he had invented for me,
and
among
which he interspersed caresses. It was still early in the morning.
When I entered, followed by Lion, Yana, and finally by my
uncle, the least member of the four, my father was in his dress-
ing-gown, but was about to dress.
## p. 5193 (#365) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5193
.
He looked splendid to me. His color was fresh, but too
flushed about the cheek-bones, I was told afterwards; his eyes
sparkled - sparkled too much; his voice was a little hoarse, but
sweet, caressing, despite its grave tone,-a tone never to be for-
gotten by me.
He was then forty-six. I see his tall figure rise before me
now, with his well-set limbs; and his kind face still smiles on
me in my dreams.
My uncle clasped his hand.
"You see that I keep my word, Ferdinand. Here's the little
scamp himself! >>
“ Thank you, Henry. Pardon the trouble I have caused you.
You will laugh at me; but if you had not brought him, I
should have gone to the convent myself to-day. I should
have scorned the doctor's régime and prescriptions. . . You do
not know, Georgie. . . . I have not been very well.
Oh, a
mere nothing; a small ailment, a neglected cold. . .
A slight
cold, was it not, Yana? . . . I have lost it, as you see. Ah!
my boy, what good it does me to see you! . . . What fun we
shall have! We are going out into the country at once.
I
have prepared a surprise for you. "
I listened enchanted — oh the selfishness of childhood! The
promise of this expedition made me deaf to his cough — a dry,
convulsive cough which he tried to stifle by holding his silk hand-
kerchief to his mouth. Neither did I notice - or rather I did
notice but attached no importance to-- the bottles of medicine
and pill-boxes which stood on the chimney-piece and on the bed-
table. A bottle of syrup had just been opened, and a drop re-
mained in the silver spoon. Yana held a prescription in her
hand, which had been written that morning. A heavy odor of
opiates and other drugs filled the room. These details only
recurred to me afterwards.
My uncle took leave.
"Above all, no imprudence! ” he said to my father. « You
promise me? Be back in town before the dew falls. . . . I will
take George to school again to-morrow morning. ”
“Set your mind at rest; we will be wise! ” replied my father,
excited and preoccupied, thinking only of his child.
I believe that he was not sorry to find himself alone with me,
and as the prospect of returning to M - evoked by the old
officer, had saddened me, he took me on his knee.
## p. 5194 (#366) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5194
.
"Courage! little one,” he said. “It is not for long. I feel
too lonely since the death of your poor mother. I have told my
family that in the future I do not intend to be separated from
you . . . You have made your first communion, you are big,
you shall go back to school for a week, just time to pack
up and to settle in our new quarters.
Come, there, I am
betraying the secret . . . Never mind, after all, I may as well
tell you everything now. I have bought a pretty little house,
almost a farmstead, three miles from here. . . We are going to
live in the country, like peasants, to wear sabots and smocks.
Hey? That will make you grow. What do you say to it ?
We shall be always together. ”
I clapped my hands, and jumped round the room.
“What joy! Always we two, is that it ? Then we shall be
always together. Is it really true ? ”
"Really true. ”
We sealed this understanding in a long embrace.
An hour later my father, Yana, and I stepped into a landau
at the door.
It was one of those enervating equinoctial days when the
warmth and the intense quietness affect one almost to tears.
The sun, in a beautiful Flemish sky of pale, soft turquoise, had
dispersed the morning mist.
“Look at him, sir,” said Yana, pointing to me; "he is as
happy as a king! ”
“Now is the time to take in a plentiful supply of air," re-
marked my father; "one only needs to open one's mouth! ”
I opened mine quite wide, as if I were yawning.
What a difference, too, between this air and the air at school;
even that which one breathed out of doors in the cloistered
court, shut in by four forbidding high walls, sweating with damp
and decaying with mildew.
Seated with my back to the coachman, my hands on my
father's knee, I uttered exclamations of surprise and besieged
him with questions. He sat back in the carriage, shielded from
the wind by his big overcoat. Yana sat beside him; Lion ran on
in advance.
Passing along the chief street of the suburb, we came out
into the open country. The tufts of young leaves gave a sweet
freshness to the hoary trunks of the great beech-trees which
lined the road. In place of the yellow withered grass in the
## p. 5195 (#367) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5195
snows.
meadows, there was a vivid emerald carpet; splendid cows, with
well-rounded flanks and dewlaps reaching the ground, nibbled
the tender shoots. The full rows of young corn promised a
plentiful harvest. Between a double hedge of weeping-willows
and alders ran silvery waters, swollen by the melting of the late
When we passed a flower-garden the scent of lilac filled
the dreamy air. Gates with gilt knobs opened on avenues of
elms and oaks; sloping lawns led up to a castle, whose terrace
was ornamented with clipped and modeled orange-trees. The
majestic passing of a pair of big swans or the scurry of hare-
brained ducks stirred the stagnant pond, and left wakes amid
the flags and water-lilies.
Moss-grown farmsteads, flanked by barns with green shutters
fixed to the red bricks, draw-wells, chickens picking about on
the manure-heaps,—these were my chief delight. Sometimes a
countryman's cart with its white awning stood on one side for us
to pass.
We drove through Deurne, then through Wyneghem.
For the third time a slender spire lifted its gray-slated point
into the opaline sky.
“S'Gravenwezel tower! ” exclaimed Yana.
«S'Gravenwezel! But that is your village! ” I cried.
Are
we going to live there? ”
The good creature smiled in the affirmative.
Some few moments later, the driver, directed by Yana, stopped
in front of a lonely farm, a quarter of an hour away from the
rest of the long, straggling village.
“This is my parents' home! ” she said.
I can still see the little one-storied farmhouse, with its over-
hanging thatched roof, festooned with stone-crop, a white chalk
cross on the brickwork to protect it from lightning. At sound
of the carriage, the whole household ran to the door.
There was
Yana's father, a short, thick-set sexagenarian, bent but still
healthy-looking, his face wrinkled like old parchment, with a
stiff beard and bright eyes; the mother, a buxom woman about
ten years younger, very active despite her stoutness; then a host
of brothers and sisters, varying from twenty-five to fifteen; the
boys bold, dark, curly-headed, muscular, square-set fellows; the
girls fresh-looking, tanned by the sun, all like Yana their elder
sister, who, to my mind, was the most charming boerine annwers-
oise that one could imagine, with her dark hair, her big emerald-
## p. 5196 (#368) ###########################################
5196
GEORGES EEKHOUD
As they
green eyes and sweeping lashes. In honor of S'Gravenwezel
kermesse, - sounds of which could already be heard in the dis-
tance, — they said, but more in honor of our visit, the men wore
their Sunday trousers, and bright blue smocks coquettishly gath-
ered at the neck. The women had taken out their lace caps
with big wings, the head-dresses with silver pins, woolen dresses,
and large silk handkerchiefs which crossed over the breast and
fell in a point behind. The good people complimented my father
on his appearance.
« That is Mynheer's son, - Jonkheer Jorss! ”
In a few moments I had made friends with these simple cordial
folk, and particularly with a fine lad of nineteen — "onze Jan
(our Jean), said Yana — on the eve of drawing lots for the con-
scription.
When his sister laid the table,- for we were to stay to din-
ner there,- he offered to show me the orchard, the garden, and
the stables. I accepted joyfully. I could no longer keep still.
Jean, with my hand in his, took me first to the cows.
lay down, chained up in their sheds, they lowed piteously. The
dung-strewn bedding shone with bronze and old-gold, and the
far end of the stable resembled a picture by Rembrandt - at
least, it is thus that I recall to-day that reddish brown half-
light. That I might be better able to admire the animals,
he roused them with kick. They got uplazily, sulkily.
He told me their names and their good points. That big black
one, with the spot between her eyes, was Lottekè; this big glut-
ton chewing the early clover was called La Blanche.
a Blanche. Jan per-
suaded me to pat them. They rubbed their horns against the
posts which divided them. The boy told me that they were
excellent milkers. I counted six in all. A strong smell of milk
filled the air, warm with all this breathing, heaving animality.
Jan promised to take me to work in the fields with him when
I came to live in the village. I should dig the ground and
become a real peasant, a bocr like himself. Boer Jorss, he called
me, laughing But I took this prospect of country life quite
seriously; I admired the fine figure, the proud healthy bearing,
of this young peasant. I in my turn should grow like that, I
thought. A career such as his awaited me! That was better
than wearing a frock-coat and a black hat, than growing pale
and fevered over books and copies, and seeing nothing of beau-
tiful nature except what can be found in a suburb: weeds grow-
ing over waste places and patches of sky amid spotted roofs!
а
## p. 5197 (#369) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5197
He took me also to the garden, an oblong inclosure with well-
kept paths, and planted with sunflowers, peonies, and hollyhocks.
The beds were edged with strawberry plants, the fruit just
ripening. The kind lad promised me the first that were gathered.
We were called back to the house, while I was making the
acquaintance of Spits the watch-dog. The kermesse meal awaited
us.
At the express request of my father, who threatened to eat
nothing, the family, at least the men, sat down with us.
As to
the women, they all pretended to wait on us. My eyes wandered
with delight around this room, so new to me; the alcoves where
the parents and older members of the family slept, receded into
the wall and were hidden by flowered curtains; the wide chimney-
piece was ornamented with a crucifix and plates imprinted with
historical subjects; a branch of consecrated box hung below; then
there were enormous spits and the imposing chimney-hook.
Yana placed on the table a tureen of cabbage and bacon soup,
the smell of which would have aroused the appetite of the dead.
We all made the sign of the cross, bowed our heads and
clasped our hands over the soup-basins, the savory smell from
which rose towards the smoky beam like the perfume of incense.
For some seconds nothing was audible save the lowing of the
cows from the sheds, the buzzing of flies on the window-panes,
and the striking of S'Gravenwezel clock, which rang out midday
with the silvery, melancholy chimes of village bells.
What a delicious meal we had! My father thought of all the
most expressive adjectives in the patois to express the merits of
the soup, I sang the praises of the eggs which served as a golden
frame to the red-and-white slices of ham. A mountain of mealy
potatoes disappeared beneath our lively forks, I had a healthy
country appetite!
Yana, who was touched, declared that her master had not
eaten so much for a month.
We were obliged to taste all the products of the farm: butter,
milk, cream cheese, early vegetables, and fruit. I laughed at
Yana, who had thought it necessary to bring provisions. She
did not know the parental hospitality! But I no longer made
fun of her forethought when she brought out the contents of
the wonderful basket: two bottles of old wine and a plum tart
of her own making, which she placed triumphantly in the mid-
dle of the table. They all drank to my father's health, to mine,
and to our happy stay in S'Gravenwezel.
## p. 5198 (#370) ###########################################
5198
GEORGES EEKHOUD
"It is settled, then, that in a week's time you shall come to
my house-warming, you hear, all of you! ” said my father defi-
nitely. . “And now, Djodgy, we must be going, for you
are longing to see our nest. ”
Jan came with us. He walked behind with his sister. Lion
ran backwards and forwards, showing his joy by his wild leaps
and bounds, and chasing the small animals which he raised
among the rye.
Poppies and cornflowers already lit up the changing ears of
corn with their bright color, and white or brown butterflies flitted
above like animated flowers. We had followed a path which ran
across the cornfields, behind Ambroes farm, to the left of the
high road. Some minutes later we skirted a little oak wood,
and immediately behind it my father pointed our home out
to me.
Simple cottage! you haunt me still, above all in springtime,
when the air is warm and soft as on that memorable day.
Your white walls will ever be to me a sad though sweet and
loving memory.
The little house was simple and quiet as possible. There was
one story only, and it contained but four rooms. An out-house
with hen-roost, which would serve as a shed for the gardener,
stood on one side. Yana's brother had for the time being put
into it a pretty white kid, which bleated loudly at our approach;
he ran to set it free.
Fruit-trees covered the wall facing south. The inclosure, en-
circled by a hedge of beech, was half orchard, half pleasure
garden, and covered an area of three thousand metres. In front
of the house was a square lawn, divided by a path from the gate
to the front door. Leafy copses of plantain, chestnuts, American
oaks, and birches, offered delightful retreats on either side of the
house for reading or dreaming. As we went round the grounds,
my father explained with animation the improvements which he
projected. Here was to be a clump of rhododendrons, here a bed
of Orléans roses, there a grove of lilacs. He consulted me with
a feverish “Hey? " He was excited, unreserved; rarely had I seen
him in such high spirits. Since the death of my mother his
beautiful, sonorous, and contagious laugh had been heard no
more.
Chattering thus, we came to a mound at the bottom of the
garden, from which we could see a corner of the village; the
## p. 5199 (#371) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5199
over-
spire emerging from a screen of limes, the crossed sails of a
silent mill perched on a grassy knoll, farms scattered among corn-
fields and meadows, until the plain was lost in the horizon.
“Look, George,” he said, “this will be our world in future.
It will be good for us both to live here; for if I need
solace, you will gain equally. . . . No more confinement, my dear
little fellow; we are rich enough to live in the country as phi-
losophers. . . . And when I am gone . . . for one must provide
for everything. . . . " He stopped. I remember that a broken-
winded barrel organ ground out a polka behind the screen of
limes which shut off the village.
My father had suddenly become serious, and the solemnity of
his last words moved me deeply. Then that distant melancholy air
made me shudder. When he had finished speaking, he coughed
for a long time.
We were seated on the slope, our backs to the house, facing
the vast plain, the silence of which was rendered more
whelming by the jarring notes of the barrel organ.
“Father,” I murmured, as if in prayer, “what do you mean ? »
In reply he drew me towards him, took my head in his hands
and looked at me long, his eyes lost in mine; then he embraced
me, attempted to smile, and said :-
"It is nothing. I am well, am I not? Why do my family
worry me with their advice ? Indeed, they will frighten me with
their long faces and perpetual visits. . . , To-day at least I have
escaped from them. . . . We two are alone . . . free! Soon it
will be always so! ”
Despite this reanimation, an inexpressible agony wrung my
heart, and I made no effort to escape from this influence, which
I felt to be due to our deep sympathy.
Regret was already mingled with my delight; and on this
exquisite afternoon there was that heart-rending sense of things
which have been and will never be again — never.
I threw my arms round my father's neck, and made no other
reply to his last words. It required a mutual effort to break the
silence; neither of us made the effort. In the distance the organ
continued to grind out the tune as if it too were choked with sobs.
Thus we remained for long, until the day waned.
"Is it not time to go back, sir? ”
Yana's interruptions aroused us. Silently my father got up,
and with my hand still in his we passed through the graying
## p. 5200 (#372) ###########################################
5200
GEORGES EEKHOUD
country, where the twilight already created fantastic shadows. At
about a hundred yards from the house he turned round, and
made me look once more at the little corner of earth, the hermi-
tage which was to shelter us.
“We will call it Mon Repos! ” he said, and he moved on.
Mon Repos! How he lingered over those three syllables.
Even thus are certain nocturnes of Chopin prolonged.
When we reached Ambroes farm, we took affectionate fare-
well of Yana's family. My father thanked them for their wel.
come, and reminded them of his invitation. He gave Jan a few
further instructions about the garden; the lad stood cap in hand,
his dark eyes expressive of vivid sympathy.
Yet another au revoir"; then the carriage drove away, and
we turned our backs on the dear village.
Was it still the kermesse organ which obsessed me, lingering
above all other sounds, growing fainter and fainter but never
quite dying away? And why did I ceaselessly repeat to myself,
whatever the music, these three unimportant syllables “Mon
Repos” ?
The sun was setting when we reached the gates of the town.
Country masons, white and dusty, with tools over their shoulder
and tins hanging by their side, walked rapidly to the villages
which we had left behind. Happy workmen! They were wise
to go back to the village, and to leave the hideous slums of
West Antwerp to their town comrades.
A fresh breeze had risen which stirred the tops of the aspens.
The purple light on the horizon beyond the ramparts grew faint.
During the whole drive my father remained sunk in prostration;
his hands, which I stroked, were moist; now burning, now icy.
He roused himself from this painful torpor only to slip his hand
through my hair, and to smile at me as never friend has smiled
since.
Yana too looked sad now, and pretended that it was the
dust which caused her to wipe her eyes continually with her
handkerchief.
I was tired, overcome with so much open air, but I could not
fall asleep that night. I dreamed with open eyes of the events
of the day, of the farm, of good-natured Jan, of the happy meal,
of the kid, of the coming day when I should be boer Jorss," as
the kind fellow said. . . . I was happy, but from time to time
a fit of terrible coughing from the next room stifled me, and
## p. 5201 (#373) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5201
« You
me.
then I recalled the scene in the garden, our silence against the
jarring sound of the organ, and later these two words
« Mon
Repos. ” I did not close my eyes until the morning.
When I awoke, my uncle was already waiting for me. He
was an old officer and adhered to military time only.
“We must be off ! ” he said in his gruff, harsh voice.
must go back to work, my lad. ”
Must I go away again ? Why this week's separation ? What
did my uncle's authoritative tone mean in my father's house, in
our house? Why did Yana look at him respectfully but sullenly?
I did not guess the horrible but absolute necessity for this intru-
sion; it exasperated me.
What a bitter leave-taking! And that, too, for a week's sepa-
ration only. It was in vain that my uncle made fun of our tears.
I clung to my beloved father, and he had not the strength to repel
The impatient officer tore me at last from his embrace.
«The train does not wait! ” he grumbled. "Were there ever
such chicken-hearted people!
I was indignant.
“No, not at parting from you,” I said to my unsympathetic
relation, (but from him ! »
“Djodgy! Djodgy! my father tried to say in a tone of re-
proach. “Forgive him, Henry. . . . Au revoir! In a week's
time! . . . Be good ever. ”
This time Yana no longer tried to hide her tears. Lion
moved sadly from one to another, and his human eyes appeared
to say, “Stay with him. ”
But nothing would move my obdurate uncle.
We drove away
in the same carriage which had taken us the day before to
S'Gravenwezel.
We waved to one another as long as the carriage was in the
street.
In a week I should see him again!
In a week he was dead!
But I have forgotten nothing.
Thus it is, ever since then, that I love, I adore this Flemish
country as my heritage from him who loved it above all others;
from him, the sole human being who never wrought me any ill.
These vast pale-blue horizons, often veiled with mist or fog,
gleam before me again as that tearful smile which I caught for
the last time upon his dear face.
IX-326
## p.
propensity of mind to being in general which appears chiefly in
such exercises, is virtue, truly so called; or in other words, true
grace and real holiness. And no other disposition or affection
but this is of the nature of virtue.
## p. 5189 (#361) ###########################################
5189
GEORGES EEKHOUD
(1854-)
A JEUNE BELGIQUE” is more than a school; it is a literary
movement, which began about the year 1880. The aim of
this group of writers is to found a national literature, which
uses the French language and technique for the expression of the
Flemish or Walloon spirit, and the peculiar sentiment and individu-
ality of the Belgian race which has developed between the more
powerful nations of France and Germany. In the words of William
Sharp:--
« To one who has closely studied the whole movement in its intimate and
extra-national bearings, as well as in its individual manifestations and aber-
rations, its particular and collective achievement in the several literary genres,
there is no question as to the radical distinction between Belgic and French
literature. Whether there be a great future for the first, is almost entirely
dependent on the concurrent political condition of Belgium. If Germany were
to appropriate the country, it is almost certain that only the Flemish spirit
would retain its independent vitality, and even that probably only for a gen-
eration or two. But if Belgium were absorbed by France, Brussels would
almost immediately become as insignificant a literary centre as is Lyons or
Bordeaux, or be, at most, not more independent of Paris than is Marseilles.
Literary Belgium would be a memory, within a year of the hoisting of the
French tricolor from the Scheldt to the Liège. Meanwhile, the whole energy
of Young Belgium) is consciously or unconsciously concentrated in the effort
to withstand Paris. »
Among the leading spirits of “La Jeune Belgique » are Maurice
Maeterlinck, Georges Eekhoud, Camille Lemonnier, Georges Roden-
bach, J. K. Huysmans, Auguste Jenart, Eugene Demolder, and a
number of others, who have distinguished themselves in fiction and
poetry. Their works are generally inspired by the uncompromising
sense of the reality of ordinary life, which would sometimes be
repulsive if it were not for their brilliant style and psychological
undercurrent.
This school of literature is somewhat analogous to that of the
Flemish painting. Nature is always an important accessory to the
development of the action; and therefore the landscapes and the
genre pictures are given with a rapid and sure touch and in a vivid
and high key,- so high that at times the colors are almost crude.
The reader of these Belgian writers often feels, in consequence, that
## p. 5190 (#362) ###########################################
5190
GEORGES EEKHOUD
he is looking at a series of paintings which are being explained by a
narrator.
Of all these writers, Georges Eekhoud, whom Mr. Sharp calls “the
Maupassant of the Low Countries,” is the one who has made the
greatest effort to model his work upon the style of the contemporary
French authors. He was born in Antwerp, May 27th 1854. His lit-
erary career was begun as an editor of the Precursor, in Antwerp,
but he soon became associated with L'Étoile Belge as literary editor.
In 1877 he published his first volume, entitled Myrtes et Cyprès.
This was succeeded by a second book of poetry, Zigzags Poétiques
et Pittoresques, which appeared in 1879. Among the most admired
of these poems are (La Mare aux Sangues,' Nina,' (Raymonne,' and
the strong La Guigne. '
French critics say that his diction lacks polish, but that he has
strength, color, and a talent for description. His novels are -'Kees
Doorik) (1884), Les Kermesses? (1884), Les Milices de Saint-Fran-
çois) (1886), Les Nouvelles Kermesses) (1887), and 'La Nouvelle
Carthage) (1888). The latter is considered his most brilliant novel,
and won for him the quinquennial prize of 5,000 francs given for
French literature in Belgium. It is a vivid picture of Antwerp, with
vigorous and highly colored descriptions of its middle-class citizens,
enriched by centuries of continued prosperity. In general, Eekhoud
is naturalistic, and intent only on painting life as he sees and feels
it.
His other books include_Cycle Patibulaire' (1892); (Au Siècle
de Shakespeare,' a valuable book on the English literature of the
Elizabethan period (1893); and (Mes Communions) (1895).
EX-VOTO
From (The Massacre of the Innocents, and Other Tales by Belgian Writers):
copyright 1895, by Stone & Kimball
T"
He country I know and love best does not exist for the tourist,
and neither guide nor doctor ever dreams of recommend-
ing it.
This reassures me, for I love my country selfishly,
exclusively. The land is ancient, flat, the home of fogs. With
the exception of the Polder schorres, the district fertilized by the
overflowing of the river, few districts are cultivated. A single
canal from the Scheldt irrigates its fields and plains, and occa-
sional railways connect its unfrequented towns.
The politician execrates it, the merchant despises it, it intimi.
dates and baffles legions of bad painters.
## p. 5191 (#363) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5191
Poets of the boudoir! virtuosi! This flat country will always
elude your descriptions! For you, landscape painters, there is no
inspiration to be gained here. O chosen land, neither thou nor
thy secret can be seen at a glance! The degenerate folk who
pass through this country feel nothing of its healthy, intoxicating
charm, or are only wearied in the midst of this gray peaceful
nature, unrelieved by hill or torrent; and still less sympathy have
they with the country louts who stare at them with placid bovine
eyes.
The people remain robust, uncouth, obstinate, and ignorant.
No music stirs me like the Flemish from their lips. They mouth
it, drawl it, linger lovingly over the guttural syllables, while the
harsh consonants fall heavily as their fists. They move slowly,
swingingly, bent-shouldered and heavy-jawed; like bulls, they are
at once fierce and taciturn. Never shall I meet more comely, firm-
bosomed lassies, never see eyes more appealing, than those of this
dear land of mine. Under their blue kiel the brawny lads swag-
ger well content; though when in drink, if dispute arises, rivalry
may drive them into fatal conflicts. The tierendar ends many a
quarrel without further ado; and as the combatants cut and hack,
their faces preserve that dogged smile of the old Germans who
fought in the Roman arenas. During the kermesses they over-eat
themselves, they get drunk, dance with a kind of gauche solem-
nity, embrace their sweethearts without much ceremony, and when
the dance is over, gratify themselves with all manner of excesses.
One and all, they are slow to give themselves away; but once
gained, their affection is unalterable.
Those who depict them thick-set, laughter-loving, misshapen
boors, do not know this race. The Campine peasantry recall
rather the brown shepherd folk of Jordaens than the pot-house
scenes by Teniers, a great man who slandered his Perck rustics.
They preserve the faith of past centuries, undertake pilgrim-
ages, respect their pastoor, believe in the Devil, in the wizard, in
the evil eye, that jettatura of the North. So much the better.
These yokels fascinate me. I prefer their poetic traditions, the
legends drawled out by an old pachteresse in the evening hours,
to the liveliest tale of Voltaire, and their clan-narrowness and
religious fanaticism stir me more than the patriotic declamations
and the insipid civic rhodomontade of the journalist. Splendid
and glorious rebels, these Vendéans of ours; may philosophy and
civilization long forget them. When the day of equality, dreamed
## p. 5192 (#364) ###########################################
5192
GEORGES EEKHOUD
of by geometric minds, comes, they will disappear also, my
superb brutes; hunted down, crushed by invasion, but to the end
unyielding to Positivist influences. My brothers, utilitarianism
will do away with you, you and your rude remote country!
Meanwhile, I who have your hot rebel blood coursing in my
veins, I who shall not survive you, am fain to steep my spirit in
yours, to be at one with you in all that is rude and savage in
you, to stupefy myself at great casks of brown ale at the fairs,
with you to raise up my voice when the clouds of incense rise
like smoke above your sacred processions, to seat myself in silence
beside your smoky hearths or to wander alone across the desolate
sand-dunes at the hour when the frogs croak, and when the dis-
traught shepherd, become an incendiary and a lost man, grazes
his flock of fire across the heaths.
At the beginning of the June of 1865, I had just reached my
eleventh birthday and made my first communion with the Frères
de la Miséricorde at M - One morning I was called into the
parlor; there I found the father superior and my uncle, who told
me that he would take me to Antwerp to see my father. At the
idea of this unexpected holiday and the prospect of embracing
my kind parent, who had been a widower for five years and to
whom I was now everything, I did not notice my uncle's serious
looks nor the pitying glances of the monk.
We set off. The train did not go fast enough for my liking.
However, we arrived at last. To ring the door-bell of the sim-
ple little house; to embrace Yana the servant; to submit to the
caresses of good Lion, a splendid brown spaniel, to race up-stairs
with him four steps at a time, to bound into the familiar bed-
room, then two words:-“Father! - George! ” — to feel myself
lifted up and pressed against his heart; to be devoured with
kisses, my lips seeking his in the big fair beard: these actions
followed one another rapidly; but transient as they were, they
are forever graven on my memory. What a long time the dear
man held me in his arms! He looked at me with tender admi.
ration, repeating, “What a big boy you have grown, my Jurgen,
my Krapouteki! ” and he repeated a whole string of impossible
but adorable pet names he had invented for me,
and
among
which he interspersed caresses. It was still early in the morning.
When I entered, followed by Lion, Yana, and finally by my
uncle, the least member of the four, my father was in his dress-
ing-gown, but was about to dress.
## p. 5193 (#365) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5193
.
He looked splendid to me. His color was fresh, but too
flushed about the cheek-bones, I was told afterwards; his eyes
sparkled - sparkled too much; his voice was a little hoarse, but
sweet, caressing, despite its grave tone,-a tone never to be for-
gotten by me.
He was then forty-six. I see his tall figure rise before me
now, with his well-set limbs; and his kind face still smiles on
me in my dreams.
My uncle clasped his hand.
"You see that I keep my word, Ferdinand. Here's the little
scamp himself! >>
“ Thank you, Henry. Pardon the trouble I have caused you.
You will laugh at me; but if you had not brought him, I
should have gone to the convent myself to-day. I should
have scorned the doctor's régime and prescriptions. . . You do
not know, Georgie. . . . I have not been very well.
Oh, a
mere nothing; a small ailment, a neglected cold. . .
A slight
cold, was it not, Yana? . . . I have lost it, as you see. Ah!
my boy, what good it does me to see you! . . . What fun we
shall have! We are going out into the country at once.
I
have prepared a surprise for you. "
I listened enchanted — oh the selfishness of childhood! The
promise of this expedition made me deaf to his cough — a dry,
convulsive cough which he tried to stifle by holding his silk hand-
kerchief to his mouth. Neither did I notice - or rather I did
notice but attached no importance to-- the bottles of medicine
and pill-boxes which stood on the chimney-piece and on the bed-
table. A bottle of syrup had just been opened, and a drop re-
mained in the silver spoon. Yana held a prescription in her
hand, which had been written that morning. A heavy odor of
opiates and other drugs filled the room. These details only
recurred to me afterwards.
My uncle took leave.
"Above all, no imprudence! ” he said to my father. « You
promise me? Be back in town before the dew falls. . . . I will
take George to school again to-morrow morning. ”
“Set your mind at rest; we will be wise! ” replied my father,
excited and preoccupied, thinking only of his child.
I believe that he was not sorry to find himself alone with me,
and as the prospect of returning to M - evoked by the old
officer, had saddened me, he took me on his knee.
## p. 5194 (#366) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5194
.
"Courage! little one,” he said. “It is not for long. I feel
too lonely since the death of your poor mother. I have told my
family that in the future I do not intend to be separated from
you . . . You have made your first communion, you are big,
you shall go back to school for a week, just time to pack
up and to settle in our new quarters.
Come, there, I am
betraying the secret . . . Never mind, after all, I may as well
tell you everything now. I have bought a pretty little house,
almost a farmstead, three miles from here. . . We are going to
live in the country, like peasants, to wear sabots and smocks.
Hey? That will make you grow. What do you say to it ?
We shall be always together. ”
I clapped my hands, and jumped round the room.
“What joy! Always we two, is that it ? Then we shall be
always together. Is it really true ? ”
"Really true. ”
We sealed this understanding in a long embrace.
An hour later my father, Yana, and I stepped into a landau
at the door.
It was one of those enervating equinoctial days when the
warmth and the intense quietness affect one almost to tears.
The sun, in a beautiful Flemish sky of pale, soft turquoise, had
dispersed the morning mist.
“Look at him, sir,” said Yana, pointing to me; "he is as
happy as a king! ”
“Now is the time to take in a plentiful supply of air," re-
marked my father; "one only needs to open one's mouth! ”
I opened mine quite wide, as if I were yawning.
What a difference, too, between this air and the air at school;
even that which one breathed out of doors in the cloistered
court, shut in by four forbidding high walls, sweating with damp
and decaying with mildew.
Seated with my back to the coachman, my hands on my
father's knee, I uttered exclamations of surprise and besieged
him with questions. He sat back in the carriage, shielded from
the wind by his big overcoat. Yana sat beside him; Lion ran on
in advance.
Passing along the chief street of the suburb, we came out
into the open country. The tufts of young leaves gave a sweet
freshness to the hoary trunks of the great beech-trees which
lined the road. In place of the yellow withered grass in the
## p. 5195 (#367) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5195
snows.
meadows, there was a vivid emerald carpet; splendid cows, with
well-rounded flanks and dewlaps reaching the ground, nibbled
the tender shoots. The full rows of young corn promised a
plentiful harvest. Between a double hedge of weeping-willows
and alders ran silvery waters, swollen by the melting of the late
When we passed a flower-garden the scent of lilac filled
the dreamy air. Gates with gilt knobs opened on avenues of
elms and oaks; sloping lawns led up to a castle, whose terrace
was ornamented with clipped and modeled orange-trees. The
majestic passing of a pair of big swans or the scurry of hare-
brained ducks stirred the stagnant pond, and left wakes amid
the flags and water-lilies.
Moss-grown farmsteads, flanked by barns with green shutters
fixed to the red bricks, draw-wells, chickens picking about on
the manure-heaps,—these were my chief delight. Sometimes a
countryman's cart with its white awning stood on one side for us
to pass.
We drove through Deurne, then through Wyneghem.
For the third time a slender spire lifted its gray-slated point
into the opaline sky.
“S'Gravenwezel tower! ” exclaimed Yana.
«S'Gravenwezel! But that is your village! ” I cried.
Are
we going to live there? ”
The good creature smiled in the affirmative.
Some few moments later, the driver, directed by Yana, stopped
in front of a lonely farm, a quarter of an hour away from the
rest of the long, straggling village.
“This is my parents' home! ” she said.
I can still see the little one-storied farmhouse, with its over-
hanging thatched roof, festooned with stone-crop, a white chalk
cross on the brickwork to protect it from lightning. At sound
of the carriage, the whole household ran to the door.
There was
Yana's father, a short, thick-set sexagenarian, bent but still
healthy-looking, his face wrinkled like old parchment, with a
stiff beard and bright eyes; the mother, a buxom woman about
ten years younger, very active despite her stoutness; then a host
of brothers and sisters, varying from twenty-five to fifteen; the
boys bold, dark, curly-headed, muscular, square-set fellows; the
girls fresh-looking, tanned by the sun, all like Yana their elder
sister, who, to my mind, was the most charming boerine annwers-
oise that one could imagine, with her dark hair, her big emerald-
## p. 5196 (#368) ###########################################
5196
GEORGES EEKHOUD
As they
green eyes and sweeping lashes. In honor of S'Gravenwezel
kermesse, - sounds of which could already be heard in the dis-
tance, — they said, but more in honor of our visit, the men wore
their Sunday trousers, and bright blue smocks coquettishly gath-
ered at the neck. The women had taken out their lace caps
with big wings, the head-dresses with silver pins, woolen dresses,
and large silk handkerchiefs which crossed over the breast and
fell in a point behind. The good people complimented my father
on his appearance.
« That is Mynheer's son, - Jonkheer Jorss! ”
In a few moments I had made friends with these simple cordial
folk, and particularly with a fine lad of nineteen — "onze Jan
(our Jean), said Yana — on the eve of drawing lots for the con-
scription.
When his sister laid the table,- for we were to stay to din-
ner there,- he offered to show me the orchard, the garden, and
the stables. I accepted joyfully. I could no longer keep still.
Jean, with my hand in his, took me first to the cows.
lay down, chained up in their sheds, they lowed piteously. The
dung-strewn bedding shone with bronze and old-gold, and the
far end of the stable resembled a picture by Rembrandt - at
least, it is thus that I recall to-day that reddish brown half-
light. That I might be better able to admire the animals,
he roused them with kick. They got uplazily, sulkily.
He told me their names and their good points. That big black
one, with the spot between her eyes, was Lottekè; this big glut-
ton chewing the early clover was called La Blanche.
a Blanche. Jan per-
suaded me to pat them. They rubbed their horns against the
posts which divided them. The boy told me that they were
excellent milkers. I counted six in all. A strong smell of milk
filled the air, warm with all this breathing, heaving animality.
Jan promised to take me to work in the fields with him when
I came to live in the village. I should dig the ground and
become a real peasant, a bocr like himself. Boer Jorss, he called
me, laughing But I took this prospect of country life quite
seriously; I admired the fine figure, the proud healthy bearing,
of this young peasant. I in my turn should grow like that, I
thought. A career such as his awaited me! That was better
than wearing a frock-coat and a black hat, than growing pale
and fevered over books and copies, and seeing nothing of beau-
tiful nature except what can be found in a suburb: weeds grow-
ing over waste places and patches of sky amid spotted roofs!
а
## p. 5197 (#369) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5197
He took me also to the garden, an oblong inclosure with well-
kept paths, and planted with sunflowers, peonies, and hollyhocks.
The beds were edged with strawberry plants, the fruit just
ripening. The kind lad promised me the first that were gathered.
We were called back to the house, while I was making the
acquaintance of Spits the watch-dog. The kermesse meal awaited
us.
At the express request of my father, who threatened to eat
nothing, the family, at least the men, sat down with us.
As to
the women, they all pretended to wait on us. My eyes wandered
with delight around this room, so new to me; the alcoves where
the parents and older members of the family slept, receded into
the wall and were hidden by flowered curtains; the wide chimney-
piece was ornamented with a crucifix and plates imprinted with
historical subjects; a branch of consecrated box hung below; then
there were enormous spits and the imposing chimney-hook.
Yana placed on the table a tureen of cabbage and bacon soup,
the smell of which would have aroused the appetite of the dead.
We all made the sign of the cross, bowed our heads and
clasped our hands over the soup-basins, the savory smell from
which rose towards the smoky beam like the perfume of incense.
For some seconds nothing was audible save the lowing of the
cows from the sheds, the buzzing of flies on the window-panes,
and the striking of S'Gravenwezel clock, which rang out midday
with the silvery, melancholy chimes of village bells.
What a delicious meal we had! My father thought of all the
most expressive adjectives in the patois to express the merits of
the soup, I sang the praises of the eggs which served as a golden
frame to the red-and-white slices of ham. A mountain of mealy
potatoes disappeared beneath our lively forks, I had a healthy
country appetite!
Yana, who was touched, declared that her master had not
eaten so much for a month.
We were obliged to taste all the products of the farm: butter,
milk, cream cheese, early vegetables, and fruit. I laughed at
Yana, who had thought it necessary to bring provisions. She
did not know the parental hospitality! But I no longer made
fun of her forethought when she brought out the contents of
the wonderful basket: two bottles of old wine and a plum tart
of her own making, which she placed triumphantly in the mid-
dle of the table. They all drank to my father's health, to mine,
and to our happy stay in S'Gravenwezel.
## p. 5198 (#370) ###########################################
5198
GEORGES EEKHOUD
"It is settled, then, that in a week's time you shall come to
my house-warming, you hear, all of you! ” said my father defi-
nitely. . “And now, Djodgy, we must be going, for you
are longing to see our nest. ”
Jan came with us. He walked behind with his sister. Lion
ran backwards and forwards, showing his joy by his wild leaps
and bounds, and chasing the small animals which he raised
among the rye.
Poppies and cornflowers already lit up the changing ears of
corn with their bright color, and white or brown butterflies flitted
above like animated flowers. We had followed a path which ran
across the cornfields, behind Ambroes farm, to the left of the
high road. Some minutes later we skirted a little oak wood,
and immediately behind it my father pointed our home out
to me.
Simple cottage! you haunt me still, above all in springtime,
when the air is warm and soft as on that memorable day.
Your white walls will ever be to me a sad though sweet and
loving memory.
The little house was simple and quiet as possible. There was
one story only, and it contained but four rooms. An out-house
with hen-roost, which would serve as a shed for the gardener,
stood on one side. Yana's brother had for the time being put
into it a pretty white kid, which bleated loudly at our approach;
he ran to set it free.
Fruit-trees covered the wall facing south. The inclosure, en-
circled by a hedge of beech, was half orchard, half pleasure
garden, and covered an area of three thousand metres. In front
of the house was a square lawn, divided by a path from the gate
to the front door. Leafy copses of plantain, chestnuts, American
oaks, and birches, offered delightful retreats on either side of the
house for reading or dreaming. As we went round the grounds,
my father explained with animation the improvements which he
projected. Here was to be a clump of rhododendrons, here a bed
of Orléans roses, there a grove of lilacs. He consulted me with
a feverish “Hey? " He was excited, unreserved; rarely had I seen
him in such high spirits. Since the death of my mother his
beautiful, sonorous, and contagious laugh had been heard no
more.
Chattering thus, we came to a mound at the bottom of the
garden, from which we could see a corner of the village; the
## p. 5199 (#371) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5199
over-
spire emerging from a screen of limes, the crossed sails of a
silent mill perched on a grassy knoll, farms scattered among corn-
fields and meadows, until the plain was lost in the horizon.
“Look, George,” he said, “this will be our world in future.
It will be good for us both to live here; for if I need
solace, you will gain equally. . . . No more confinement, my dear
little fellow; we are rich enough to live in the country as phi-
losophers. . . . And when I am gone . . . for one must provide
for everything. . . . " He stopped. I remember that a broken-
winded barrel organ ground out a polka behind the screen of
limes which shut off the village.
My father had suddenly become serious, and the solemnity of
his last words moved me deeply. Then that distant melancholy air
made me shudder. When he had finished speaking, he coughed
for a long time.
We were seated on the slope, our backs to the house, facing
the vast plain, the silence of which was rendered more
whelming by the jarring notes of the barrel organ.
“Father,” I murmured, as if in prayer, “what do you mean ? »
In reply he drew me towards him, took my head in his hands
and looked at me long, his eyes lost in mine; then he embraced
me, attempted to smile, and said :-
"It is nothing. I am well, am I not? Why do my family
worry me with their advice ? Indeed, they will frighten me with
their long faces and perpetual visits. . . , To-day at least I have
escaped from them. . . . We two are alone . . . free! Soon it
will be always so! ”
Despite this reanimation, an inexpressible agony wrung my
heart, and I made no effort to escape from this influence, which
I felt to be due to our deep sympathy.
Regret was already mingled with my delight; and on this
exquisite afternoon there was that heart-rending sense of things
which have been and will never be again — never.
I threw my arms round my father's neck, and made no other
reply to his last words. It required a mutual effort to break the
silence; neither of us made the effort. In the distance the organ
continued to grind out the tune as if it too were choked with sobs.
Thus we remained for long, until the day waned.
"Is it not time to go back, sir? ”
Yana's interruptions aroused us. Silently my father got up,
and with my hand still in his we passed through the graying
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5200
GEORGES EEKHOUD
country, where the twilight already created fantastic shadows. At
about a hundred yards from the house he turned round, and
made me look once more at the little corner of earth, the hermi-
tage which was to shelter us.
“We will call it Mon Repos! ” he said, and he moved on.
Mon Repos! How he lingered over those three syllables.
Even thus are certain nocturnes of Chopin prolonged.
When we reached Ambroes farm, we took affectionate fare-
well of Yana's family. My father thanked them for their wel.
come, and reminded them of his invitation. He gave Jan a few
further instructions about the garden; the lad stood cap in hand,
his dark eyes expressive of vivid sympathy.
Yet another au revoir"; then the carriage drove away, and
we turned our backs on the dear village.
Was it still the kermesse organ which obsessed me, lingering
above all other sounds, growing fainter and fainter but never
quite dying away? And why did I ceaselessly repeat to myself,
whatever the music, these three unimportant syllables “Mon
Repos” ?
The sun was setting when we reached the gates of the town.
Country masons, white and dusty, with tools over their shoulder
and tins hanging by their side, walked rapidly to the villages
which we had left behind. Happy workmen! They were wise
to go back to the village, and to leave the hideous slums of
West Antwerp to their town comrades.
A fresh breeze had risen which stirred the tops of the aspens.
The purple light on the horizon beyond the ramparts grew faint.
During the whole drive my father remained sunk in prostration;
his hands, which I stroked, were moist; now burning, now icy.
He roused himself from this painful torpor only to slip his hand
through my hair, and to smile at me as never friend has smiled
since.
Yana too looked sad now, and pretended that it was the
dust which caused her to wipe her eyes continually with her
handkerchief.
I was tired, overcome with so much open air, but I could not
fall asleep that night. I dreamed with open eyes of the events
of the day, of the farm, of good-natured Jan, of the happy meal,
of the kid, of the coming day when I should be boer Jorss," as
the kind fellow said. . . . I was happy, but from time to time
a fit of terrible coughing from the next room stifled me, and
## p. 5201 (#373) ###########################################
GEORGES EEKHOUD
5201
« You
me.
then I recalled the scene in the garden, our silence against the
jarring sound of the organ, and later these two words
« Mon
Repos. ” I did not close my eyes until the morning.
When I awoke, my uncle was already waiting for me. He
was an old officer and adhered to military time only.
“We must be off ! ” he said in his gruff, harsh voice.
must go back to work, my lad. ”
Must I go away again ? Why this week's separation ? What
did my uncle's authoritative tone mean in my father's house, in
our house? Why did Yana look at him respectfully but sullenly?
I did not guess the horrible but absolute necessity for this intru-
sion; it exasperated me.
What a bitter leave-taking! And that, too, for a week's sepa-
ration only. It was in vain that my uncle made fun of our tears.
I clung to my beloved father, and he had not the strength to repel
The impatient officer tore me at last from his embrace.
«The train does not wait! ” he grumbled. "Were there ever
such chicken-hearted people!
I was indignant.
“No, not at parting from you,” I said to my unsympathetic
relation, (but from him ! »
“Djodgy! Djodgy! my father tried to say in a tone of re-
proach. “Forgive him, Henry. . . . Au revoir! In a week's
time! . . . Be good ever. ”
This time Yana no longer tried to hide her tears. Lion
moved sadly from one to another, and his human eyes appeared
to say, “Stay with him. ”
But nothing would move my obdurate uncle.
We drove away
in the same carriage which had taken us the day before to
S'Gravenwezel.
We waved to one another as long as the carriage was in the
street.
In a week I should see him again!
In a week he was dead!
But I have forgotten nothing.
Thus it is, ever since then, that I love, I adore this Flemish
country as my heritage from him who loved it above all others;
from him, the sole human being who never wrought me any ill.
These vast pale-blue horizons, often veiled with mist or fog,
gleam before me again as that tearful smile which I caught for
the last time upon his dear face.
IX-326
## p.
