"Our Lady of Belgium" (1916)

A little gem of a novel about Queen Elisabeth. Although tinged with the hagiographic tone typical of Great War literature, it offers a very touching and sensitive portrayal of Elisabeth's spiritual development.

Anna Sparre

The Swedish Countess Anna Sparre, Queen Astrid's best friend, was moved to write her memoirs of her friendship with Astrid by a touching anecdote. Fifty years after Queen Astrid's death, a young girl preparing to attend a 1920's themed party asked Anna for advice in choosing a dress. Anna told her to look through her boxes of old clothes to find something suitable. Each dress the girl pulled out evoked many memories for Anna, weddings, celebrations, images, melodies...Suddenly, her young companion seized a fine, muslin dress, patterned with flowers, so delicate it might have been woven by a spider. The girl was delighted and eagerly asked if she might wear this dress to the party. "No, not that one...it belonged to Queen Astrid," replied Anna. "Who was she?" asked the astonished girl. Anna was stunned. "You don't know who Queen Astrid was? But, my dear child, it's not even very long since she died."

Not long, perhaps, for Anna, but for her companion, only 19 years old, half a century was a long time...Anna softly brushed the dress against her face, as a swirl of memories rose before her. The last time she had seen Astrid, a week before her death, on vacation in the Alps with King Leopold, the Queen had been wearing this dress. Leopold had warmly admired her beauty: "Isn't she radiant? Like a butterfly. Ravishing." After the tragic car accident in Kussnacht, the King had given the dress to the Countess as a poignant memento of the Queen. Anna had long considered writing memoirs of Astrid, but had always hesitated to do so, finding the painful memory too close, or fearing she might not portray the Queen accurately. But now, at last, she was inspired to make the attempt, to keep Astrid's memory alive.

Trianon (2010)

A work of art in itself, Gareth Russell's superb review of Elena Maria Vidal's inspiring novel Trianon,  recently reissued, is not to be missed.

The Night's Dark Shade

I was delighted to read Elena Maria Vidal's latest novel, The Night's Dark Shade (2009). Like her earlier works, Trianon and Madame Royale, it is beautiful yet harrowing, vividly transporting the reader to other times and places and illustrating the dire religious, political and personal conflicts of the past while inspiring faith, hope and charity. In this case, we come face to face with the ravages of the Cathar heresy and the tragic and controversial Albigensian Crusade in 13th century southern France. Within this traumatic setting, beset with physical, moral and spiritual perils, Vidal sets forth the adventures of a lovely young noblewoman, the Vicomtesse Raphaelle de Miramande.

In Vidal's earlier novels, the protagonists were real people, and the plots closely followed historical events. In this book, the characters and their adventures are fictional, although inspired by the author's careful research and deep knowledge of the period in question. They spring from Vidal's rich imagination, spirituality and life experience. She weaves an intricate love story, in the highest sense of the term; not only a tale of romance and marriage but a portrayal of an earnest soul's purification in the love of God and man through joy and sorrow, suffering and triumph.

Raphaelle is an endearing heroine; tender, innocent, clever, brave and pious. She also has a deep capacity for passion and devotion which proves to be a dangerous blessing, nearly leading her to sacrifice her virtue for a forbidden love, yet ultimately enabling her to rise to remarkable heights of spiritual heroism in the face of cruelty, calumny, hatred and persecution.

After her father and her betrothed have been killed fighting in the Albigensian Crusade, the orphaned, vulnerable young heiress is obliged to leave her native Auvergne and travel to her uncle's castle in the Pyrenees to marry her cousin, Raymond. As if the loss of her loved ones and her home, and the perilous journey towards the unknown were not hard enough, the devout Catholic maiden soon discovers, to her horror, that her uncle's castle is a Cathar stronghold, ruled by her aunt, Lady Esclarmonde, a fanatical Cathar leader. The mysterious, sinister sect pours scorn upon all Raphaelle's most sacred religious and moral beliefs. Meanwhile, she is appalled by the poisoned fruits of Catharism. All in the name of the loftiest ideals, lust runs rampant, babies are murdered in the womb, the sick are starved to death....Does any of this sound familiar?

A harrowing series of adventures ensues, as Raphaelle struggles to break free of her betrothal to Raymond, himself a virulent Cathar. In a frightening betrayal of innocence and trust, those who ought to be Raphaelle's friends and protectors prove to be her deadliest foes. Her cold, ruthless aunt will stop at nothing to win her over to her purposes; when persuasion and imprisonment fail, she resorts to torture. Raphaelle also has to contend with Raymond's malice and violence, while her uncle, a weak Catholic, fails in his duty to defend her.

Raphaelle's traumatic experiences challenge, but ultimately strengthen, her religious faith. Through many trials, temptations and surprises, and some human failings, she matures into a worthy mother of a new family, and a worthy mother of her people, helping to heal a society shattered by heresy and warfare.

"She Walks in Beauty"

In a stirring article, quite poetic in itself, on the sorrows of Leopold III, Michael Geelan, to describe Queen Astrid, cites the opening lines of Lord Byron's "She Walks in Beauty" (1814). Intrigued, I looked up the quote and decided the whole poem suited Astrid perfectly:

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes :

Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

~The Complete Works of Lord Byron, 1841, p. 254

Happier Times

Marche-les-Dames is forever associated with the tragic death of Albert I and all the ominous consequences for the Belgian monarchy. Nonetheless, it is also the place where the roi alpiniste spent some of the happiest hours of his life. In her memoirs, the Russian sculptress Catherine Barjansky, a friend of the Belgian royal family, describes such a joyful outing:

I was working in the bungalow one day with the Queen when I received a telephone call from my husband, who was spending a week at Namur as the guest of the Baron Carton de Wiart, whose wife was one of the Queen's ladies in waiting. She was a violinist and extremely musical.

"You ought to come here," my husband told me. "It is divine. Why don't you ask the Queen to come with you?"

I laughed, and the Queen asked, "What is the joke?"

"Alexandre wants your majesty and me to come to Namur."

She smiled and with her light quick steps crossed the room and disappeared into the park. A few minutes later she returned, radiant, and declared, "Tomorrow morning I shall take Madame Barjansky and my violin and go to spend a day in Namur."

When I reached the palace at Laeken the next morning, there was another surprise. The King had decided to accompany us, and he was waiting in front of the palace with his blue Ford. It seems the Queen had telephoned to the baroness:

"I am going to bring Madame Barjansky and my chauffeur, and I would like to have my chauffeur join us for lunch."

"Of course, your majesty," the surprised baroness had replied.

"And I want your husband to show my chauffeur the cliffs on the Meuse River." The baroness laughed as she realised who the chauffeur was.

The King wore civilian clothes and one of the large hats made for him in Egypt. He drove extremely fast, faster than I have ever ridden before or since. As we crossed the bridge at the entrance to Namur, a detachment of soldiers was going over. They glanced at the car without recognizing the King. The Queen laughed. "Your army ignores you, my dear," she said mischievously.

The Baron Carton de Wiart owned a beautiful old castle on the bank of the Meuse, and we were very gay at luncheon. The only solemn face was that of the butler who served us.

After lunch, the King, the baron, his daughter, and a cousin of hers took a boat across the Meuse to climb the sheer chalk cliffs that bear the curious name of Marche les Dames. The Queen, the baroness, my husband, and a viola player went indoors to play quartets. It was a beautiful autumn day, and I sat down on the bank of the river with a pair of binoculars, watching the climbers on the other bank of the river. Even with these strong glasses, they were only small black silhouettes that appeared and disappeared. And I was afraid, so afraid that it amazed me to think the Queen could be playing serenely, without anxiety. Whenever any of the climbers disappeared from view my heart stopped beating.

It was all imagination, I thought. Of course there was no danger. There could not possibly be any danger. But there was danger, for six months later the King lost his life in those tragic mountains.

That afternoon we were all waiting as the mountain climbers rowed back across the river. For fun we waved a Belgian flag and sang the Brabanconne, the Belgian anthem. The baron and the girls were exhausted, tired, dirty, their clothes torn. The King was as fresh as though he were just starting. He did not even need to change his collar. Indeed, he seemed more rested than when he had started out, for mountain climbing was his favorite form of relaxation.

"Imagine!" the baron said, "He climbs a mountain the way I would walk down the street. He handled the ropes; he pulled us up; he is really amazing."

The giant King, pleased and smiling timidly, decided it was much too beautiful a day to go back to Brussels.

"We'll remain here at the castle for dinner," he decided.

At once the whole place began to stir with uneasy movement, because the King and Queen had been expected only for lunch.

It was midnight when we reached Brussels, again traveling at the same dizzy pace, and they drove me back home before going back to Laeken.

~Portraits with Backgrounds, 1947, pp. 147-149

Photograph of the Meuse in Namur, courtesy of Jean-Pol Grandmont

Leopold III and Jacques Brel

As described by Michel Verwilghen in Le Mythe d'Argenteuil, the beloved Belgian poet and singer Jacques Brel was among King Leopold's sympathizers. He visited the fallen monarch at the country estate of Argenteuil and dedicated these interesting and touching verses to him:

Je vous souhaite des rêves à n'en plus finir
  et l'envie furieuse d'en réaliser quelques-uns.
Je vous souhaite d'aimer ce qu'il faut aimer
  et d'oublier ce qu'il faut oublier.
Je vous souhaite des passions,
  je vous souhaites des silences.
Je vous souhaite des chants d'oiseau au réveil
  et des rêves d'enfants.
Je vous souhaite de résister à l'enlisement, à l'indifférence,
 aux vertus négatives de notre époque.
Je vous souhaite surtout d'être vous... 

After Leopold's death, the poem (today very well known) was found among his papers. The King's wife, Princess Lilian, long kept it safe in her purse, among her most precious documents.

On a related note, Leopold's daughter, Marie-Esmeralda, mentions in her memoirs that the King, for his part, also enjoyed translating and composing poetry. Unfortunately, though, I have never come across any of his work.

Riddles

Elena Maria Vidal has been posting articles on traditional fairy tales, and somehow this has inspired me to share my love of riddles. Here are a few, taken from Monika Beisner's illustrated book of riddles:

As long as I live, I eat,

But when I drink, I die.

***

The beginning of eternity,

The end of time and space,

The beginning of every end,

And the end of every place.

***

What has a mouth and does not eat?

What has a bed and does not sleep?

The Poetry of Emile Verhaeren

Above, we see a painting, by Theo van Rysselberghe, of Emile Verhaeren reciting his poetry. Born in 1855 into a Flemish, but French-speaking family, in Sint Amands, Belgium, Verhaeren trained as a lawyer at the University of Louvain but, after a short period in legal practice, decided to devote his life to literature. One of the founders of Symbolism, Verhaeren became one of the most prominent figures in Belgian literature. Always radical and flamboyant, he was a revolutionary firebrand in his youth, but, nonetheless, developed a close friendship with King Albert I and Queen Elisabeth of Belgium. World War I profoundly shocked Verhaeren's pacifist sensibilities, but his country's brave resistance to German invasion inspired a series of magnificent war poems. Verhaeren had a deep admiration and regard for the Belgian royal couple. When the King and Queen were holding out at La Panne, near the North Sea, in the last strip of Belgian territory free of German occupation, the poet wrote: 

 

Ce n'est qu'un bout de sol étroit

Mais qui renferme et sa Reine et son Roi

Et l'amour condensé d'un peuple qui les aime

Le nord a beau y déchainer le froid qui gerce et qui mord

Il est brûlant ce sol suprême

Sadly, Verhaeren did not live to see the return of peace and his country's liberation. He died tragically, by falling under a train, in 1916. 

A collection of poems by Emile Verhaeren may be found here.