The Bells of Bruges E-Book

Georges Rodenbach

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Shortlisted for The Oxford Weidenfeld Translation Prize for 2008. The Bells of Bruges is a study of obsessive love which is steeped in the melancholy beauty of Bruges. There are three loves in the life of Joris Borluut, the town carillonneur of Bruges. He marries the fiery Barbara, whose dark beauty is a reminder of Belgium's Spanish heritage. Repelled by her harshness and violence, he starts an affair with her sister, the gentle, soulful, fair-haired Godelieve. When her sister discovers their affair, Godelieve enters a Beguine convent and Joris devotes himself to his first love, the old city of Bruges. it will appeal to lovers of Symbolist prose and fin-de-siecle fiction. Essential reading for anyone visiting Bruges.

Leseprobe

Dedalus would like to thank The French Community of Belgium for its assistance in publishing this book.

ABOUT THE TRANSLATORS

NICHOLAS ROYLE

Nicholas Royle is the author of five novels – Counterparts, Saxophone Dreams, The Matter of the Heart, The Director’s Cut and Antwerp – and one short story collection, Mortality. A novella, The Enigma of Departure, is forthcoming. Widely published as a journalist, he has also edited twelve anthologies. He lives in Manchester with his wife and two children and lectures in creative writing at Manchester Metropolitan University.

MIKE MITCHELL

Mike Mitchell is one of Dedalus’s editorial directors and is responsible for the Dedalus translation programme. His publications include The Dedalus Book of Austrian Fantasy, Peter Hacks: Drama for a Socialist Society and Austria in the World Bibliographical Series.

His translation of Rosendorfer’s Letters Back to Ancient China won the 1998 Schlegel-Tieck Translation Prize after he had been shortlisted in previous years for his translations of Stephanie by Herbert Rosendorfer and The Golem by Gustav Meyrink. His translation of Simplicissimus was short-listed for The Weidenfeld Translation Prize in 1999 and The Other Side by Alfred Kubin in 2000. He has translated the following books for Dedalus from German: five novels by Gustav Meyrink, four novels by Herbert Rosendorfer, three novels by Johann Grimmelshausen, two novels by Hermann Ungar, The Great Bagarozy by Helmut Krausser, The Road to Darkness by Paul Leppin and The Other Side by Alfred Kubin.

From French he has translated for Dedalus two novels by Mercedes Deambrosis and two novels by Georges Rodenbach.

I would like to thank Renée Birks for her willing help in sorting out some of Rodenbach’s more abstruse expressions. Any remaining mistakes are, of course, all my own.

Mike Mitchell

CONTENTS

Title

Dedication

About the Translators

Thanks

Introduction

Part One Dream

Part Two Love

Part Three Action

Recommended Reading

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

Bruges. Brugge. A museum piece, a town out of time. Known throughout the world by its French name, despite its being located in the half of Belgium that doesn’t speak French – or not willingly. Indeed, this hauntingly beautiful, historic town is the provincial capital of West Flanders, yet most of the world calls it Bruges, not Brugge, harking back to a time when French was the dominant language, at least among the middle classes.

During the city’s golden age, in the fifteenth century, Bruges was bustling with traders in wool, lace and diamonds, but when the Zwijn estuary began to silt up, trade moved 90 kilometres east to Antwerp. Bruges slowly died, then bravely geared up for its afterlife as a tourist attraction. British, French, German, American, Japanese – they all flock to Bruges.

Georges Rodenbach – Belgian novelist born Tournai 1855, died Paris 1898 – wrote the book on Bruges. It was he who pronounced the city dead. His 1892 novel Bruges-la-Morte painted an unforgettable picture of this strangely isolated, anachronistic town, cut off from the North Sea, geographically part of Flanders yet somehow separate, with its looping dead-end canals and winding narrow streets, its stepped gables and towering belfries. Pealing bells and crying gulls. A murder of crows around the Belfort, a train of jackdaws between the windmills and the ramparts. Sometimes you’ll get a waft of the sea, often, but not exclusively, along the canals, even the occasional hint of the sewers, but if the town has a more pervasive smell it’s a strangely sweet one. Waffles, perhaps, or chocolate. Continental cigarettes, patisserie.

You hear Bruges as much as smell it. The slap of rubber on stone as cars and, predominantly, bicycles negotiate the cobbled streets and leafy squares. The babble of the rabble, tourist hordes speaking in many tongues. The hoteliers and bartenders, ticket sellers and turnstile operators will answer you, it seems, in whatever language you use to address them, but if English is your mother tongue, don’t try speaking to the Flemings in French. You might as well address a Geordie in Gaelic.

You don’t have to take a trip to Bruges to get the most out of Rodenbach, but it certainly helps. They should stock him at the Eurostar terminal alongside the maps and guides. There’s no better place to read The Bells of Bruges than perched on a parapet by the canal outside Gruuthuse Palace or sitting comfortably in De Garre with a glass of draught Gouden Draak, the colour and consistency of melted muscovado sugar.

It would be a considerable understatement to say that Rodenbach’s 1892 work Bruges-la-Morte established the Belgian novelist as a writer with a sense of place. In it, the Flemish town becomes a character as important to the story as the principal personnages. The same is equally true of Le Carillonneur (1897), now translated into English for the first time as The Bells of Bruges.

Architect Joris Borluut wins a public contest to become the official town carillonneur. He is given the key to the belfry, and although happy to have won, feels a little like he has been given the key to his own tomb. Borluut is given to introspection and melancholy, and the people of Bruges, ‘resigned to the town’s decline, the stagnant canals, the grey streets’, are described as having ‘found a taste for the melancholy sweetness of resignation’. Yet when Borluut plays the carillon, they are revitalised – ‘an ancient heroism still slumbered within the race, sparks resided in the inertia of the stones’. Thus are key elements of the narrative cleverly and subtly foretold in the first chapter – and likewise on into the second.

Borluut receives the congratulations of his friends – antiques dealer Van Hulle, lawyer and Flemish nationalist Farazyn, and painter Bartholomeus – at their regular weekly meeting at Van Hulle’s house on Zwarteleertouwerstraat. Van Hulle’s house is ‘an ancient building with a double gable whose brick façade was storiated with a bas-relief above the door representing a ship, its sails billowing out like breasts’. No such house stands on Zwarteleertouwerstraat today, though many of those on the north-east side of the street are lovely old buildings with the distinctive stepped gables. Two houses in particular are studded with weathered faces of angels and seafarers that peep out of the brickwork. ‘The centuries were carrying out their dreary work of dilapidation, the posies withered, the faces eaten away by erosion, as if by leprosy.’ Borluut’s restoration of Van Hulle’s façade brings him fame – ‘Everyone went to see and admire the miracle of rejuvenation which still retained the essential oldness …’ – and an endless amount of further restoration work throughout the town, which, to Borluut, is a ‘poem in stone, an illuminated reliquary’.

Van Hulle has two daughters – fiery, earthy Barbara and the more celestial, ethereal Godelieve. For Borluut, who falls in love with each daughter in turn, both are represented by particular bells in the bell-tower: Godelieve is embodied in ‘the little bell whose pure song at that time was soaring, dominating every piece on the carillon’, while Barbara is symbolised by the great Bell of Lust (‘He had looked up into the bell as if he were looking up her dress’).

The bells are not alone in being used as figurative symbols in Rodenbach’s vision. The canals are useful, too: ‘She stood between them like a canal between two stone embankments. The embankments are face to face, nevertheless apart and will never unite, but the waters mix their reflections, merge them, appear to join them together.’

Fittingly, the canals find further employment, standing in for a commodity rather more abstract. ‘Her love, which he had thought superficial and ephemeral, persisted, reappearing here and there like the water of the canals in the town.’

Of course, Symbolism is not solely about representation. Through dialogue between Borluut and the painter, Bartholomeus, Rodenbach explores the life of objects. ‘“I wanted to show that these objects are sensitive,”’ says the artist, ‘“suffer at the coming of night, faint at the departure of the last rays, which, by the way, also live in this room; they suffer as much, they fight against the darkness. There you have it. It’s the life of things …”’ Borluut’s own insights into Bartholomeus’s character provide evidence of Rodenbach’s deeper interest. ‘His appeared to be a complex temperament. That was because he was close to the infinite. He naturally found mystical analogies, the eternal connections between things.’ Thus Rodenbach approaches the essence of Symbolism. A religious parade taking place in the town of Veurne towards the end of the novel offers further opportunity to explore the subject. ‘Indeed, all the symbols and emblems there were powerful, suggestive ways of putting things in a nutshell, allegories attesting to the Flemish sense of understanding the life of objects.’

The idea of objects having almost a life of their own is linked to Rodenbach’s insistence that the town is more than just an assemblage of stone and brick, something inert and soulless. Borluut, not for the first time, becomes a mouthpiece for his creator’s theories when he is carried away with enthusiasm for Bartholomeus’s paintings. ‘It was not so much painting as an apparition, as if the centuries-old walls had opened up and one could finally see what the stones are dreaming.’

Not only does the town reflect the emotions and inner lives of its inhabitants, but so too are the residents conditioned by the bricks and the stone and the hazy northern light and the water of the canals. Bartholomeus says: ‘“The aesthetic quality of towns is essential. If, as has been said, every landscape is a frame of mind, then it is even more true of a townscape. The way the inhabitants think and feel corresponds to the town they live in.”’

If the theory is revealed to be something of an idée fixe, it is not alone. The novel is a story, or several stories, of obsession. Van Hulle amasses a huge collection of clocks because he is obsessed by the idea of hearing them all strike the hour precisely at the same time, and indeed, as the hour rings out from the bell-tower. Farazyn is driven by his vision of the town reborn as the seaport of Bruges, while Bartholomeus devotes himself to painting.

Borluut is obsessed, at various times, by his love for Barbara, for Godelieve and for the town itself. The one place where he can indulge all three obsessions is in the belfry, the single most important location in the novel and an essential destination for all those visiting Bruges with a copy of this book in their pocket.

Viewed from across the Markt, the belfry or Belfort is a staggering sight. It looks almost organic, with its three distinct sections, each part growing out of the one before, like some kind of extravagant sprouting plant. And yet, at the same time, it could not be anything other than manmade and dizzyingly futuristic to boot: the world’s first 88-metre Gothic telescopic tower.

It’s an idea to go as early in the day as you can to avoid the crowds, although the experience of climbing the spiral steps retains an essential authenticity even when your progress is hindered by having to wait in doorways for people to pass. Climbing the tower, it’s still possible to feel, as Godelieve does, like a captive: ‘It was like an uphill exercise yard, a vertical prison.’

The carillon itself is played on a keyboard with pedals and large keys. In a small exhibit on the first landing, you can see the keyboard that would have been in use during the time when Rodenbach was writing.

A room closer to the top of the tower is dominated by the enormous brass cylinder, pierced and studded, responsible for playing the automatic carillon that precedes the striking of the hour. The mechanism may put you in mind of a large piano roll or a giant musical box, but in this room, where the wires for the bells are attached to the mechanism, Borluut felt ‘he was seeing the anatomy of the tower. All its muscles, its sensory nerves were laid bare. The bell-tower extended its huge body upwards, downwards. But this was where its essential organs were gathered, its beating heart, the very heart of Flanders, whose pulsations among the ancient cogwheels the carillonneur was at that moment counting.’

When you reach the top of the bell-tower, having climbed 366 steps, you discover, as Godelieve does, that it is worth the effort. The views of the town are spectacular, even in the northern light (‘a vibrant light such as you get in the north where a kind of grey gauze turns the sun to silver’), and it’s easy to appreciate how coming up to the top of the tower makes Borluut feel high above the world, giving him the illusion of being distanced from ordinary mortals. ‘It was his immediate refuge, wiping his mind clear, and he would hurry up to the top to wash his bleeding heart in the clean air, like washing it in the sea.’

Being right at the highest point in the town is one thing, but being up there when the carillon rings out over the canals and streets and stepped gables (‘stairs to climb up to the land of dreams’) is quite another, with the bells swinging right above your head, playing music as beautiful as it is deafening. You know that everyone within earshot is either looking in your direction or holding in their mind’s eye an image of the tower. The personification of the belfry – ‘Climbing it, Borluut was also raising himself up, becoming the belfry himself’ – makes perect sense.

Reading Bruges-la-Morte, you might think the 1892 novel represents the last word on Bruges literature. Not only will no one else steal Rodenbach’s crown, but he will be unlikely to surpass his own efforts should he attempt to do so. This fine translation of Le Carillonneur – an obsessive novel of obsession, an illuminating meditation on the nature of physical objects and human emotions – shows that he managed to do just that.

April 2007

PART ONE

DREAM

I

The Market Square in Bruges, usually deserted apart from the occasional passer-by, a straggle of poor children, a few priests or Beguines, had suddenly been enlivened by hesitant groups of people, gatherings forming dark blotches on the expanse of grey.

The contest for the office of town carillonneur had been set for the first Monday in October, the post having been made vacant by the death of old Baron de Vos, who had occupied it honourably for twenty years. It was to be filled that day, according to custom, by a public contest in which the townsfolk would decide the result by acclaiming the victor. That was why the Monday had been chosen, the weekday when all work ceased at noon, so that it shared something of the holiday mood of Sunday. Thus the choice could be truly popular and unanimous. Was it not right that the town carillonneur should be selected in that way? The carillon is, after all, the music of the people. Elsewhere, in the glittering capitals, public festivals are celebrated with fireworks, that magical offering that can thrill the very soul. Here, in the meditative land of Flanders, among the damp mists so antagonistic to the brilliance of fire, the carillon takes their place. It is a display of fireworks that one hears: flares, rockets, showers, a thousand sparks of sound which colour the air for visionary eyes alerted by hearing.

So a crowd was gathering. From all the nearby streets, from Wollestraat, from Vlamingstraat, parties were constantly coming to join the groups which had arrived earlier. On these shortened days of early autumn the sun was already starting to go down. It bathed the square in a golden light, all the softer for being the last of the day. The sombre building of the Draper’s Hall, its severe rectangle, its mysterious walls apparently made from blocks of night, was glowing with a warm patina.

And the belfry, looming over all, rising higher than the roofs, was still basking in the full light of the setting sun, standing face to face with it. That made it look pink, above its black base, as if it were wearing make-up. The light was running, playing, flowing, moulding the pillars, the pointed arches of the windows, the pierced turrets, all the irregularities of stone; at other places it rippled in lithe sheets, like flags of luminous cloth, giving an appearance of fluid movement to the massive tower which usually rises in tiers of dark blocks where there are shadows, blood, wine lees and the dust of centuries … Now the setting sun was reflected in it as if in a pool; and the gold disc of the clock face half way up looked like a reflection of the sun itself.

The whole crowd had its eyes fixed on the clock face, waiting for the hour to strike, but calmly and in almost complete silence. A crowd is the sum of the faculty that predominates in each member and in everyone here the ability to remain silent is the greatest. And then, people are happy to stay quiet when they are waiting in expectation.

Yet the townsfolk, poor and rich alike, had hurried there to witness the contest. The windows were full of onlookers, as were the crowsteps that formed slender stairways flanking the gables of the Market Square, which seemed truly aquiver with splashes of colour. The gold lion of Bouchoute House glittered, while the old façade to which it clings spread out its four stories, its flushed brickwork. Across the square the Governor’s Palace faced it with its stone lions, heraldic guardians of the old Flemish style, which had reproduced there a fine harmony of grey stone, sea-green leaded windows and slender pinnacles. At the top of the Gothic steps, beneath a crimson canopy, were the Governor of the Province and the aldermen of the town in their richly trimmed official dress, honouring with their presence this ceremony which is linked to those ancient memories of Flanders which are held most dear.

The hour of the contest was approaching.

The great bell kept on sounding its sonorous chimes. It was the Victory Bell, the bell of mourning, of glory, the Sunday bell which, cast in 1680, had resided up there since then and, like a great red heart, beat out the pulse of time in the clockwork of the tower. For an hour the great bell had been sending out its message to the four horizons, summoning. Abruptly the chimes slowed down, the intervals grew longer. A great silence. The hands on the clock face, which spend all day seeking then fleeing each other, were open at an obtuse angle. One or two minutes more and the hour of four would strike. Then, in the void left by the silence of the great bell, came the sound of a hesitant aubade, a chirping, the song of a nest awakening, scraps of melodic arpeggios.

The crowd listened. Some thought the contest had already started, but it was only the carillon operated mechanically by a copper cylinder lifting the hammers, working in the same way as a music box. The carillon can also be played by a keyboard and that was what the people would hear when the musicians joined battle.

While they were waiting, the mechanism of the carillon played the usual prelude to the striking of the hour: aerial embroidery, farewell garlands of sound thrown to departing time. Is that not the real purpose of the carillon? To create a little joy to offset the melancholy of an hour that is about to pass away?

Four strokes had just hammered the horizon, broad, deep-voiced strokes with distance between them, irrevocable, seeming to nail a cross in the air. Four o’clock! It was the hour set for the contest. Little swirls of impatience ran through the crowd…

Suddenly, at the balcony window of the Draper’s Hall, just below the console sculpted with foliage and rams’ heads on which the statue of the Virgin dreams, the very balcony from which the laws, ordinances, peace treaties and regulations of the commune were proclaimed, there appeared a herald clothed in purple who cried out through a megaphone and declared open the contest of carillonneurs in the town of Bruges, looking as if he were foretelling the future.

The crowd fell silent, furled its murmurings.

Only a few were aware of the precise details: that the municipal carillonneurs of Mechelen, Oudenaarde and Herenthals had entered, as well as others who might withdraw, not to mention unexpected participants, since it was possible to enter up to the last minute.

After the announcement from the balcony, the great bell rang out three times, like three strokes of the angelus, to announce the entry of one of the contestants into the lists.

Immediately the carillon started to play, a little confusedly at first. It was not the mechanical playing they had just heard, but free and full of caprice, they could sense a man’s hand awakening the bells one by one, hustling them along, chiding, patting them, driving them on in front of him like a flock. They set off in reasonably good order, but a stampede followed, one bell seeming to fall, others running off or digging their heels in.

A second piece was better in its execution, but the choice was unfortunate. It was a hotchpotch of ordinary tunes cobbled together, a patchwork, music which seemed to be performing on a trapeze at the top of the tower.

The folk gathered below could not understand it at all and remained cool. When it stopped, isolated applause broke out for a minute, sounding like washerwomen beating clothes by the edge of the water.

After a short interval the three angelus strokes rang out again from the great bell. The second contestant was heard. He seemed to be better at handling the instrument, but he soon had the bells out of breath by trying to make them produce the roaring of the Marseillaise or the archaic dirge of God Save the Queen. The result was again mediocre and the crowd, disappointed, were starting to think they would never replace old Baron de Vos who, over so many years, had made the carillon sound as it ought to.

The next test piece was even more painful to listen to. The contestant had had the ill-advised idea of playing tunes from operetta and music hall in a sharp, staccato tempo. The bells skipped, screamed and stumbled, laughing as if they had been tickled and seeming slightly drunk and mad. It was as if they were lifting up their bronze skirts and lurching into an obscene cancan. At first the crowd was surprised, then angry at what their beloved ancient bells were being made to do. They felt it was a sacrilege. Cries of disapproval gusted up towards the bell-tower.

Two other contestants who were still to play were seized with fear and withdrew. The contest looked like being a failure. Would the appointment of the new carillonneur have to be postponed? Before they took that step, the herald was sent out again to ask if there was anyone else who wanted to compete.

As soon as the announcement was made, a shout was heard as there was a stir in the front rows of the crowd gathered outside the Draper’s Hall. A moment later the old door creaked on its hinges. A man went in.

Uncertain, the crowd trembled, passing on vague rumours. No one knew anything. What was going to happen next? Was the contest finished? They weren’t going to appoint any of the contestants who had already been heard, that much was certain. Might another appear? Everyone was asking questions, standing on tiptoe, jostling the people next to them, looking up at the balcony, at the belfry platforms, where they couldn’t be sure whether it was human silhouettes that were moving or crows.

Soon the great bell was sounding out its three angelus strokes again, a warning, a traditional salute announcing a new carillonneur.

The crowd listened all the more closely for having waited and despaired, especially since this time the bells, ringing softly, demanded a deeper hush. The prelude was muted, a blend in which one could no longer distinguish bells alternating then coming together, it was a concert of bronze united, as if far off and very old. Music in a dream! It did not come from the tower, but from much farther away, from the depths of the sky, from the depths of time. This carillonneur had had the idea of playing some old Christmas carols, Flemish carols born of the race, mirrors in which it recognises itself. Like everything that has passed through the centuries, it was very solemn and a little sad. It was very old, and yet the children could understand it. It was very remote, very vague, as if happening on the borders of silence, and yet it was received by everyone, descended into everyone. Many eyes clouded over, without the people knowing whether it was from their own tears or from those fine, grey drops of sound falling into them…

The whole crowd of townsfolk was aquiver. By nature taciturn and pensive, it had sensed the obscure tissue of its dream unfolding in the air and appreciated its remaining unformulated.

When the series of old Christmas carols finished, the people remained silent for a moment, as if, in their thoughts, they had accompanied the bells back to eternity, those kindly grandams who had come to sing them stories of the past and tangled tales which everyone can complete in their own way…

Then there was a discharge of cries, a release of emotion, joy branching out, surging up to the higher tiers, climbing the tower like black ivy to bombard the new carillonneur.

He had become a contestant on the spur of the moment, by chance, at the last minute. Unhappy with the mediocre offerings of the contestants, he abruptly climbed the belfry to the glass chamber where he sometimes used to go to see his friend, old Baron de Vos. Was he the one who was going to replace him?

What now? He had to perform a second piece. The Christmas carols had been the little old ladies of the paths of history, Beguines kneeling beside the air. With them the people waiting below, far down below, had gone back to the times of their glory, to the graveyard of their past … Now they were ready for heroics.

The man wiped his forehead and sat down again at the keyboard, as intimidating as a church organ, with pedals for the big bells, while the little ones are activated by iron shafts rising from the keys – playing them is a craft, like weaving music!

The carillon rang out again. They heard the Lion of Flanders, an old folk song everyone knew, anonymous, like the tower itself, like everything that epitomises a race of people. The ancient bells were young again, proclaiming the valour and immortality of Flanders. It was truly the call of a lion from which, like the one in the Scriptures, there came forth sweetness. In the old days a stone heraldic lion used to top the belfry. With this song from the same age, it seemed about to return and emerge from the belfry as if coming out of its den. On the Market Square, in the last, fevered rays of the setting sun, the gold lion on Bouchoute House appeared to sparkle, to be alive, while the stone lions on the Governor’s Palace opposite extended their shadow over the crowd. Flanders of the lion! It was the glorious cry of the guilds and corporations in their days of glory. They thought they had it firmly tucked away in the ironbound coffers where they kept the charters and privileges from the old princes in one of the rooms of the tower … And now the anthem had arisen once more: Flanders of the lion! A rhythmic song, like a people on the march, chanted, both warlike and human at the same time, like a face in a suit of armour.

The crowd listened, breathless. They could no longer say whether it was the carillon sounding, nor by what miracle the forty-nine bells in the tower had become as one: the song of a people in accord in which the silvery small bells, the swaying heavy bells and the ancient great bells truly seemed to be children, women in cloaks and heroic soldiers all returning to the town that had been thought dead. The crowd was not wrong about that and, as if they wanted to precede this procession of the past that the song embodied, they took up the noble anthem in their turn. It spread across the whole of the Market Square. Every mouth was singing. The song of the people rose up into the air to meet the song of the bells, and the soul of Flanders soared, like the sun between the sky and the sea.

For a moment, a sublime intoxication had lifted up this crowd of taciturn people who, accustomed to silence, resigned to the town’s decline, the stagnant canals, the grey streets, had for a long time now found a taste for the melancholy sweetness of resignation. Yet an ancient heroism still slumbered within the race, sparks resided in the inertia of the stones. Suddenly the blood in every vein had started to flow more quickly. As soon as the music stopped, enthusiasm burst out, instant and universal, frenzied and wild. Shouts, cries, hands raised in a rolling sea of gestures above their heads, calls, uproar … The wonderful carillonneur! He was like a heaven-sent hero from a tale of chivalry, arriving last, unidentifiable in his armour, and winning the tournament. Who was he, this man who had emerged at the last minute, when they were already thinking the contest would end without a winner after the mediocre performance of the first carillonneurs? There were only a few, those closest to the bell-tower, who had been able to see him as he plunged into the doorway. No one had recognised him, no one had passed on his name.

Then the herald in his purple gown reappeared at the balcony window and cried, sonorous through his megaphone, ‘Joris Borluut!’ It was the name of the victor.

Joris Borluut … The name fell, came tumbling down from the tower onto the front rows of the audience, then ricocheted, flew, took wing, propelled from one to the next, from wave to wave, like a seagull over the sea.

A few minutes later the door to the Draper’s Hall opened wide. It was the red herald preceding the man whose name at that moment was forming on everyone’s lips. The herald parted the crowd, clearing a path for the victorious carillonneur to the steps of the Palace where the town authorities, who would invest him with his office, were standing.

Everyone drew back, as if in the presence of someone greater than them, as they do before the Bishop when he carries the relic of the Holy Blood in the procession.

Joris Borluut! And the name continued to soar round the Market Square, rebounding, knocking against the façades, thrown up to the windows, even up to the gables, thrown back endlessly, already familiar to everyone, as if it had written itself on the blank air.

Meanwhile the victor had reached the top of the Gothic steps, where he was congratulated by the Governor and the aldermen, who endorsed the people’s unanimous choice by signing the document appointing him town carillonneur. Then they handed him, as the prize for his victory and the sign of his office, a key decorated with ironwork and brass ornamentation, a ceremonial key, like a bishop’s crozier. It was the key to the bell-tower which, from now on, he would have the privilege of entering at will, as if he lived there or were master of it.

But the victor, as he received this picturesque gift, suddenly fell prey to the melancholy that follows any celebration. He felt alone and troubled by something indefinable. It was as if he had just accepted the key to his tomb.

II

At around nine o’clock on the evening of the contest Borluut went, as he did every Monday, to visit his friend, the old antiques dealer van Hulle. His house, in the Zwarte-Leertouwersstraat, was an ancient building with a double gable whose brick façade was embellished with a bas-relief above the door representing a ship, its sails billowing out like breasts. Once it had been the seat of the Corporation of Boatmen and the date of 1578 in a cartouche testified to its noble antiquity. The door, the locks, the leaded windows, everything had been knowledgeably restored in the old styles, while the brickwork had been uncovered and repointed with, here and there, the patina of the ages left intact on the stones. It was Borluut who had carried out this invaluable restoration for his friend when he was making his début, so to speak, hardly out of the academy where he had studied architecture. It was a public lesson, a lesson in beauty given to all those who possessed old homes and were letting them crumble away irreparably or were demolishing them to build ordinary modern houses.

Van Hulle, for his part, was proud of his home with its face from bygone days. It was exactly what was needed to go with his old furniture, his antique curios, he being less of an antiques dealer than a collector, only selling items if he was offered a good price and if it suited him. He did things as his fancy took him and had every right to do so, since he was well-to-do. He lived in the house with his two daughters, having been a widower for a long time. It was only by chance that he had gradually became an antiques dealer. It started with his love of the old things from the local area which he accumulated; earthenware jugs in deep indigo which were used for beer; glass-fronted display cupboards holding a Madonna in painted wood, dressed in silk and Brussels lace; jewels, necklaces, feather archery targets of the guilds from the fifteenth century; chests with curved sides of the Flemish Renaissance – all the flotsam, unblemished or scarred, of the past few centuries, anything that bore witness to the former wealth of his homeland. But he had bought things less to sell them on again in the way of business than out of love for Flanders and of old Flemish way of life.

Kindred souls recognise each other quickly in the middle of a crowd and come together. In any one age there is never a soul which is one of a kind, however exceptional the person may be. Every ideal must be realised, every thought formulated, which is why Fate makes sure it has several that are in accord, so that at least one will be realised. There are always a number of souls sown at the same time, so that the indispensable lily shall flower in one at least.

The old antiques dealer was a Fleming passionately attached to his Flanders. As was Borluut, who, through his craft of architecture had come to study and to love this unique city of Bruges, which in its entirety seemed a poem in stone, an illuminated reliquary. Borluut had dedicated himself to it, embellishing it, restoring it to all its purity of style; from the very beginning he had seen that as his vocation, his mission. It was not surprising, therefore, that he should meet van Hulle and strike up a friendship with him. Others soon joined them: Farazyn, a lawyer who would be the spokesman for the Movement, and Bartholomeus, a painter and devotee of Flemish art. Thus it was the single ideal that gave rise to their weekly meetings, which now took place every Monday evening, at van Hulle’s house. They came together to talk about Flanders, as if something had changed for the land, or were impending; they recounted their memories, enthusiasms, projects. Thinking the same way made them feel they shared a secret. It filled them with joy and excitement, as if they were in a conspiracy. Solitary men with time on their hands letting themselves get carried away, giving themselves the illusion of action, of playing a role in this grey life. Deluding themselves with words and fantasies. Yet their patriotism, for all that it was naive, was ardent; each in his own way dreamt of giving Flanders, of giving Bruges, a new beauty.

That evening there was rejoicing at van Hulle’s because of Borluut’s triumph. It had been an afternoon of art and glory when the town seemed reborn. It was the old Bruges, with the townsfolk gathered in the public square, at the foot of the bell-tower, the shadow of which was huge enough to contain them entirely. When Borluut arrived at the antiques dealer’s house, his friends clasped his hands and embraced him in a silent show of emotion. He had done well for Flanders. For they had all understood the reason for his unexpected intervention…

‘Yes,’ Borluut said, ‘when I heard them playing their modern tunes and their oompah-oompahs on the carillon, I was extremely unhappy. I trembled at the very thought that one of them might be appointed, that he would be officially allowed to pour his vile music down from the belfry, soiling our canals with it, our churches, our faces. I immediately had the idea of taking part in order to keep the others out. I was familiar with the carillon, having played it occasionally, when I went to see old Baron de Vos. And then, when you know how to play the organ … I really don’t know how I did it. I was mad, inspired, carried away…

‘The best part,’ said Bartholomeus, ‘was playing our old Christmas carols. It brought tears to my eyes, it was so sweet, so sweet, so far away, so far away … Sometimes men should hear their nursemaid’s songs again like that.’