We went into the largest art gallery in the city, where are many choice works, and we greatly enjoyed them; but here too are more of Rubens’ plump angels, of anything but angelic proportions, and I am sure if our Sunday-school children at home should see some of them they would never sing, ‘I want to be an angel,’ any more. Here are more of Tennier’s beautiful productions, and fine pictures by Vander Weyden, Rhemi, Vander Meulen, and other noted Flemish artists, and the collections give good opportunities for studying the Flemish schools.
But the laces! These laces are the most tempting of all things. We go into houses that on the outside look like private homes, and are politely asked to be seated at tables, when the women in attendance take from boxes and drawers their stores of rich fabrics and spread them out for our eyes to feast upon: flounces, handkerchiefs, fichus, capes, collars, all of the finest make and of most exquisite designs. In the Royal Lace Manufactory we saw the bridal trousseau of some noble lady, so called, which was just completed, and the dress, made entirely of the finest duchesse lace, was a marvel of loveliness. We were taken into the rooms where the women were making the ‘dentelles,’ and after seeing their methods we shall never again wonder that duchesse and point laces are such costly fabrics. Nearly all the most valuable laces of the world are made here, and many women spend their entire lives in making a piece of lace to ornament some other woman made of the same perishable dust as themselves and of whom they are the equals. Ah me! We spent a short time in the Belgium Exposition, now open, and never before did I see in any one collection such a wilderness of rich, beautiful objects. A drive about the charming city, a short stop in the Botanical Gardens, and we are soon on the road back to Antwerp, with mingled thoughts of the paintings, gems, and laces back of us, and of Bonaparte and Waterloo, and the historic ground we are travelling over. We will save more time, and more money too, for Brussels in our next trip.
Antwerp, Friday, August 10th.—This has been a rainy day, but we ought not to complain, for we have had but few of them. We have been out all the day, and have seen this old city pretty thoroughly, although many parts of it now have a modern look. Yet numerous old historic landmarks remain. I hope you will not get weary of hearing about art and artists, for we are in the land of Rubens and in the very cradle of art here. We saw to-day the house Rubens lived and died in. He is buried in the church of St. Jacques, as are also his two wives. In this church is the picture of his ‘Virgin and Child,’ with several other figures on the canvas, all said to be likenesses of members of his family. In the museum are many works of all the noted old masters of the Dutch and Flemish school—for Antwerp gave birth to a long list of them—and here their works are treasured. Here is the noted ‘Le Christ à la Paille’—Christ dead, lying on a stone strewed with straw; and here too is Vandyk’s ‘Saviour on the Cross,’ which tells the whole sublime story. Of the more modern pictures, Lady Godiva is worthy of mention. The flesh tints are exquisite. She is represented as just letting drop a curtain, which is of a bright, warm color, and her attitude is so graceful that one looks at her again and again. Of the many exquisite paintings we have seen here, I will tell you when I see you, which will not be long now, God willing.
At noon it held up a little, so we took a drive about the town. Antwerp is the stronghold of Belgium, and there are immense fortifications about the city. The town has known great vicissitudes, and in old times terrible religious persecutions, but it is now in a most prosperous condition, and trades with all the large mercantile cities of the world, as the piles of all kinds of merchandise we saw at the wharves proved to us. The beautiful double-width black silks are manufactured here, and can be purchased at low prices. The shops are fine, and present a tempting display of articles.
I must tell you of a laughable incident that occurred to-day. E. and F. were walking in front of me, I lingering to look in the store windows, and carrying not only my own wrap, but one for F. also, over my arm. Two fine-looking ladies paused to look at us, for you must remember we are known as foreigners everywhere. One turned to the other and said, ‘Look, two foreign travellers and the lady’s-maid!’ I carry no more wraps!
Now, of only one more joy shall I tell you. The cathedral and its contents! We had looked again and again at its tall, graceful, delicate spire, rising high above the houses, and we had heard its sweet, soft bells before going in. But now we have seen its inside walls and the glories they hold. The interior of the edifice is comparatively cold and barren, but the paintings within are delightful and surprise enough for a life-time. I forgive Rubens for his unangel-like angels, that I have not liked, for these wonderful works here of his surpass anything on canvas I have ever seen. I was expecting to behold something unusual in ‘The Descent from the Cross,’ but not prepared for anything so miraculously beautiful and sublime. I could not tell to mortal my sensations upon first beholding this painting. I wonder now if it was a painting! There was Christ dead! His beautiful, pathetic face looked as if he had suffered, but it is now full of spiritualized peace and rest. Mary’s sorrowful face, at his feet, is wet with her falling tears. The loving and beloved John is near, and Magdalen extends her arms to take the body of her dead Master. These faces are all exquisite, sadly so, and yet one seems to see in them an expression of trustfulness, a spiritual hope, as if they saw something beyond the unspeakable sadness of the hour. The figure of our Saviour is touchingly real. The drooping of the precious head—the muscles relaxed—it is all Death; and never, before or since has the great, sad tragedy been so sublimely told. The colors are wonderful—rich, mellow, and harmonious; and we leave the cathedral with tears in our eyes, thinking only of Christ crucified, and for us.
Antwerp, August 11th.—My dear ——: My last words to you from a foreign land! We are shopping, packing, speaking our adieux, for to-day at three P.M. the Nordland sails, and we turn our faces toward our native land. We are glad to go, and we are sorry to leave.