Verslagen en mededelingen van de Koninklijke Academie voor Nederlandse taal- en letterkunde (nieuwe reeks). Jaargang 1981

[p. 184]

The Flemish contribution to world literature by
J. Weisgerber Fellow of the Academy

If it is true that the clever general is known by his skill in choosing his battlefield, I must be a very poor strategist indeed because the area I have selected for manoeuvring is by no means devoid of obstacles and pitfalls. Even the most innocuous words, we know, are misleading and a term such as ‘contribution’, for example, is certainly not easy to define. Moreover, it is always a tricky job to talk about languages in Belgium, especially about Dutch and French. All the same, this should not prevent us from doing so. On the contrary, prejudices are a challenge to the mind and, personally, I think it is good to explode some myths, no matter how time-honoured.

Clarification of meaning will be the first move towards our goal. Exactly what do we mean by ‘Flemish’? According to dictionaries, ‘Flemish’ is an adjective associated with a region (Flanders), the people who live there (the Flemings), and the language which is spoken by them. This, however, requires qualification because ‘Flanders’ can designate a medieval county, two provinces of the Belgian State, and more loosely the northern half of Belgium, that is the territory bounded on the south by the French-speaking area. The French, too, use the word, meaning by it a subdivision of the ‘Département du Nord’. Geographical ambiguities are paralleled by social distinctions. Most of the Belgians living in the North do speak Flemish but there are still - more particularly in the large towns - small groups belonging mainly to the upper classes whose native tongue is French. The fact that status and language were formerly so closely connected was even one of the major causes of the Flemish Movement, which preeminently gave expression to a craving for social and economic freedom. The philological aspect of the problem is not simple either. Of course, every language has its local forms of speech and the rule applies to this country as well. So Northern Belgium presents a wide variety of dialects but philologists contend that ‘Flemish’ refers only to some of them, other groups of dialects being peculiar to areas such as Brabant and

[p. 185]

Limburg. They also say that our standard language is Dutch but the trouble is that they are almost alone in calling it so - for many of us still call it ‘Flemish’ (‘Vlaams’). (While dialects are mostly used at home, Dutch - or ‘Flemish’ - refers to the official language of the press, the Civil Service, scholarship, literature, etc.).

Roughly speaking, we could say that ‘Flemish’ marks out all Belgian citizens who usually speak Dutch or a Dutch dialect. Two of the questions I have just raised, however, are more especially relevant to our topic. First, do we actually speak Dutch? As I have said, Belgian philologists are quite positive on that point. But the Dutch, I mean our neighbours who live just across the border and make up the most extensive market for our books, sometimes maintain we murder the language. Some of them even obstinately refuse to acknowledge what they call a kind of lingo and they argue - let us admit they are right up to a point - that differences of pronunciation, syntax, and vocabulary between their Dutch and ours are too striking for the two varieties to be regarded as identical. I am not going to discuss the matter but it is essential to emphasize the fact that this situation has given rise on both sides to some complexes and disagreements. One of them is that Flemish authors are sometimes praised in the Netherlands on account of qualities we are not so keen on - a certain kind of picturesque regionalism, for instance. Inversely, some of our best novelists are practically unknown to the Dutch. But let us rather see the bright side of things. The situation has considerably improved since the last war and at present our writers are not only widely read in the Netherlands but also frequently published in Amsterdam and The Hague - in spite of all that bickering about the propriety of sounds and words. After all, the gap between American and British English, Low and High German, or Canadian and Belgian French is certainly as noticeable and regional variations are no obstacle to mutual understanding. When all is said and done, Flemish literature is now well received in the Netherlands.

A moment ago, I referred to social conflicts in connection with the language or rather with the two languages used in this country. Of course, the French-speaking minorities in Flanders are ‘Flemish’ too and this is a second point I want to dwell upon. The Flemish Movement was a success in that it did away with the class distinctions that depended on whether you had a good command of French or not. At least, it did so to a great extent. To put it plainly, you no

[p. 186]

longer need to learn French nowadays to have access to your betters, to make money, to assume power, or to attain knowledge - and perhaps happiness. In a sense, more social justice was achieved by making Dutch the only official language in Northern Belgium and by depriving the language of the upper classes of its traditional prestige. Undoubtedly, it was unfair to identify the medium used by a small part of the population with a badge of wealth and authority. But, as the saying goes, ‘There is no rose without a thorn’. It is a well-known fact that some outstanding French writers were of Flemish origin. Verhaeren, Maeterlinck, Van Lerberghe, Georges Eekhoud, Georges Rodenbach, Max Elskamp contributed in a large measure to the extraordinary flowering of French Belgian literature about 1880 and many of them even became world-famous. At the same time, they popularized abroad some aspects of their sensibility - above all a certain blend of sensuality and mysticism which has almost become proverbial whenever foreigners are talking about Flanders. In actual fact, this trend is at most a reflection of either Symbolism or individual temperaments, even though it is sometimes also ascribed to our primitive painters. The tradition of Flemish literature in French has been carried on in the 20th century by such eminent writers as Franz Hellens, Marie Gevers, Jean Ray, Suzanne Lilar, Françoise Mallet-Joris, Guy Vaes and many others. Maybe it would not be exaggerated to mention in this connection a series of novelists, poets, and playwrights who were not born and bred in Flanders but felt nevertheless the fascination of its scenery, its history, and its people. I think more particularly of Charles De Coster and Michel de Ghelderode, both of whom made Flanders known as far as the United States and the Soviet Union. Now once the Flemish Movement had achieved its aim and the laws on the use of languages had started taking effect, things did not look promising for the development of French writing in Flanders. As a matter of fact, the language we often write best is not the one spoken at home but the one taught at school. Owing to social progress, the whole process of education is now taking place in Dutch so that native speakers of French will sometimes give up their mother tongue when taking up writing. Their choice is of no consequence as far as the quality of their poems or novels is concerned. It can even be a gain for Flemish literature but it certainly implies that it will not be so easy for them to get known abroad because Dutch is not a universal language. This makes us also more keenly aware of the paradoxical

[p. 187]

fact that Flanders has been mainly brought into public notice, at least from a cultural point of view, by her French-speaking authors. Needless to say, I do not forget the considerable contribution of painting, of which more presently. Meanwhile, we can notice a historical fact of the utmost importance, which is, however, often wilfully overlooked in present-day discussions about Belgium's political future, and that is the close interrelation and interpenetration of the two literatures and cultures. History can show us the way in politics. Regional government is probably a good thing - though the proof of the pudding is in the eating - but it should not lead to localism, provincialism, and parish-pump politics. No matter what system of government will prevail tomorrow in Belgium, let us not forget that we cannot tamper with history and geography by dint of laws and regulations. Instead of turning one's back on the neighbours next door, it is always more pleasant - and more profitable - to greet them with a smile. This is one of the lessons that can be drawn from the Flemish contribution to world literature, namely that we are interdependent.

To conclude this brief semantic survey, I should like to point out another meaning of the word ‘Flemish’, which is still to be found on and off in foreign publications. In this case, the term is used with reference to the entirety of the southern Low Countries (roughly speaking, Belgium before it became independent) and it has become so general as to apply to Walloon towns, painters, and writers. In 17th-century Italian parish registers, for example, we come across surprising definitions: ‘fiamengo di Namur’, ‘vallone fiamengo d'Aras,’ ‘fiamengo di Liegi’, etc. and, quite recently, I was struck by a similar instance in a French paper. It is obvious that this historical acceptation is now totally obsolete.

To sum up, I will say that our literature in its most limited meaning has hardly spread outside the Dutch-speaking area, i.e. the Netherlands and, up to a point, South Africa. Most Flemish authors who enjoy an international reputation wrote in French. The word ‘Flemish’ is widely used but it is generally connected with Verhaeren and Maeterlinck, or with painting and sports. This is a rather distressing conclusion but I think we ought to look facts in the face. Now the sore spot has been localized, it only remains to provide the cure.

One of the main hindrances is, of course, the language and in this respect Flemish writers are on a strictly equal footing with their

[p. 188]

Danish, Swedish, Hungarian, Rumanian, Polish, Czech, Portuguese, or Greek colleagues, since world literature, as this misnomer is commonly understood, chiefly consists of books written in the so-called international languages - English, French, German, Russian, and Spanish. Would translations help matters? Special efforts, sometimes sponsored by the Belgian and the Dutch government, have been made in this field. But is is not enough to publish books. Printing books which are left unread is sheer waste of energy. Mention might be made of several series: the ‘Bibliotheca Neerlandica’ published by Sythoff (Leyden) and Heinemann (London), ‘Le Plat Pays’ edited by Jacques De Decker and Pierre Brachin's anthologies, not forgetting the admirable translations made by Maddy Buysse. How many people read them? I wonder. What is needed, if we want to cross the threshold of indifference, is a change of heart, more curiosity on the part of foreign literary critics and editors of journals and magazines. The amount of translations is impressive, as appears for instance from Jean-Pierre Pepin's Essai de bibliographie des traductions françaises des oeuvres de la littérature néerlandaise depuis 50 ans (1918-1968); their influence remains negligible. I do not know of any Flemish best-seller in the United States or in Germany. Actually, apart from painting, Flemish culture is hardly ever referred to in foreign papers except in France and the Netherlands. As for that, it is also the case with French Belgian authors, whose credit has been going downhill compared to the attention they were given 50 or 60 years ago.

Do not think I am a downright pessimist. On the contrary. Indeed, I firmly believe that, in addition to our French-speaking writers, we have got something of great value to give to world literature. There is in the first place the influence of our painters not only on other painters but also on critics, poets, and novelists. Some fine poems by W.H. Auden and W.C. Williams were inspired by Brueghel, to whom Huxley too devoted a long essay in Along the Road and Baudelaire a few laudatory pages in his Curiosités esthétiques. Likewise, Baudelaire praised Jordaens and Rubens - ‘La Flandre a Rubens, l'Italie a Raphaël et Véronèse’ - while Diderot reckoned Rubens and Van Dyck among the great portraitists. However, let us not wander from the point for today we are preeminently concerned with literature.

I have already said how difficult it is to determine the significance of the word ‘contribution’. Since it means something given jointly

[p. 189]

with others, it also implies someone who takes. Gifts can be rejected or just ignored. At this stage, it seems advisable to make a distinction between actual and potential contributions. The former category in fact belongs to the field of comparative literature. It concerns influences exercised by Dutch-speaking authors and undergone by other countries. As we already know, evidence of such relationship is rather scarce. Few of our writers proved influential in Europe - with the exception of Ruusbroec and some of our mystics, provided they were translated into Latin, or of Vondel and Conscience who were read in Germany and in France, respectively. Other names could still be mentioned but lists of this kind, however short, are never beyond question: Vondel, who was born of Flemish parents in Cologne, spent his life in Holland and can be claimed by our Dutch friends as well. Strange enough, none of the poets and novelists who hold a foremost place in our Pantheon - Gezelle, Van de Woestijne, Van Ostaijen, L.P. Boon - has been included among the world's classics. Publishers' catalogues are illuminating in this respect. In the 1979-80 Penguin Booklist, for instance, world literature is chiefly represented by French, German, Italian, Spanish, and Russian works in addition to some Asian and African authors. Besides, Scandinavians like Ibsen and Strindberg still seem to be in fashion while only one Czech novel (Hašek's The Good Soldier Svejk) is advertised. From similar random tests in French and German catalogues it appears that the Poles Witkiewicz and Gombrowicz and the Norwegian Hamsun are popular whereas Flemish and Dutch writers are conspicuous by their absence - except Streuvels, Claes, and Timmermans who were translated into German. According to me, there are two reasons for this neglect. One is to be found in our own attitude towards our literature and the other, which is more or less related to it, in the nature of literary reception.

It is easy for us to complain that our classics are seldom given a chance outside the Dutch-speaking area. But what about their prestige within our frontiers? To start with, have we actually got ‘classics’? Are Vondel, Bredero, Hooft, Multatuli, Gezelle, Van de Woestijne, and Kloos standard authors from whom a whole artistic tradition took and is still taking its inspiration? Are they models to whom we turn as the French do to Racine and Molière, the British to Shakespeare and Keats, the Italians to Dante, and the Germans to Goethe, Schiller, and Hölderlin? It is not fashionable nowadays to praise the past; our century has become allergic to

[p. 190]

history - probably because it had to take an overdose of it. In any case, it is undeniable that our great 17th-century authors have not succeeded in keeping their ground against the rising tide of Modernism. Vondel certainly acted as a magnet for quite a long time although even in Amsterdam his attractive power could seldom compare with that of Shakespeare in Britain or Molière in France. The tricentenary of his death passed almost unnoticed in the Netherlands as well as in Flanders and there are no such contemporary remakes or adaptations of his tragedies as Edward Bond's Lear or Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. Characteristically, the plays Hugo Claus chooses to rewrite are usually Greek, Latin, English, or Spanish. In other words, our true ‘classics’ are foreign and we neglect our heritage so much that lesser authors are often out of print. While some of us may still read Hooft, Multatuli, and Gezelle with pleasure, their works are not regarded as a fount of wisdom and youth from which tomorrow's literature could originate. I am not advocating an improbable revival of Humanism. I just want to remind my compatriots of the fact that there is no good writing - however revolutionary as T.S. Eliot showed - without a tradition and that ours starts in the Middle Ages and not - as some people in this country seem to believe - in 1950. Hugo Claus, for one, is perfectly aware of that. Contempt of the past amounts to taking a vow of poverty, which is exactly the reverse of the impression any country wants to make on the foreign public.

On the cultural market you cannot convincingly advertise goods whose value you question. Our pusillanimity in this field is all the more puzzling as we are enterprising and successful exporters of painting and sometimes also of music. But it is not entirely our fault that our best writers do not attract notice in other countries. I have said that the language is a barrier though, after all, it did not prove one in the case of Ibsen and Strindberg or, more recently, of Witkiewicz, Cavafy, and Solzhenitsyn. By all accounts, Solzhenitsyn is a famous novelist, at least in the West, and this example shows how the machinery of literary reception really works. Talent is not enough, neither are translations. What is required in the first place is a certain predisposition or receptiveness of the foreign public, which can be fostered by totally extraneous considerations. I mean circumstances which have nothing to do with literature - politics, habits of thought, the prestige of a country and of its language (French in

[p. 191]

the 18th century, English in our time, German in Central Europe, etc.). To go back to Flemish literature, Pierre Brachin has argued that it flourished too late to spread in France, for instance. Whereas Russian and Scandinavian novels were the craze in Paris about 1885-1890, the wind soon chopped round and cosmopolitanism was succeeded by a wave of nationalism that kept foreign authors out. Now it is just at that time that our literature, after half a century of tentative efforts, was eventually coming into line with European trends. Unlike Verhaeren and Maeterlinck, who had made their debut some years before - besides, they spoke French and were published in Paris -, Van de Woestijne and Streuvels hardly caught attention in France. Matters did not improve later on for as Brachin observes,

(...) les impressions, surtout négatives, sont tenaces et les Français ont gardé, plus ou moins consciemment, la conviction qu'il y a une littérature scandinave, mais point de littérature néerlandaise.⁽¹⁾

Similarly, it will be noticed that some Czech or Polish authors are now popular in Western countries for purely non-literary reasons. As a matter of fact, leaving talent aside, the international reputation of an artist is often closely bound up with extraneous events. Various factors can account for Belgium's loss of political - and consequently cultural - prestige in the world since the war: the defeat of our army in May 1940, which exploded the 1914 myth of ‘gallant Belgium’, the colonial question, and more particularly our domestic quarrels over King Leopold, our system of education, and our language problem, which have given an impression of instability in spite of a thriving economy. Bigger countries have been through worse than that, I know, but they can afford it because their reputation is not so apt to fluctuate. To say the least, there is nothing nowadays that predisposes international opinion in favour of Belgian literature, whether Dutch or French, the less so as our writers - unlike our

(1) Pierre Brachin, ‘Que traduit-on du néerlandais en français?’, Septentrion, Vol. III, 1974, 3, pp. 5-10, p. 10. See also Paul de Smaele, ‘De Nederlandse letterkunde op de Europese weegschaal’, Dietsche Warande en Belfort, July-August, 1951, pp. 333-352; M. Rutten, ‘De Nederlandse literatuur in internationaal verband’, Spiegel der Letteren, Vol. XV, 1973, 3, pp. 187-210; and José Lambert, ‘De verspreiding van Nederlandse literatuur in Frankrijk: enkele beschouwingen’, Ons Erfdeel, Vol. XXIII, 1, January-February, 1980, pp. 74-86.

[p. 192]

painters - cannot boast a long tradition of outstanding achievements. It is extremely difficult to shake off stereotypes, to correct the fixed and conventional pattern which is believed to represent a country abroad. Most people think in terms of ready-made notions that allow of no critical judgment and which are hard to kill. It is always a strange experience, as Alice realized, to walk through the looking glass. Familiar things in ‘the old room’ look ‘as different as possible’ when we read about them in the foreign press. By some feat of legerdemain, the country we fancy we know so well is altered beyond recognition. Artists, writers, scholars, the things we most value have vanished into thin air and it looks as though a mass of 10,000,000 people consisted only of businessmen, Tour de France riders, Eurocrats, publicans, and language maniacs. Of course, I am making things look a bit worse than they are. Anyhow, the image is a caricature - even though it is not entirely undeserved. Are we not responsible, at least in some degree, for the distortion? Have we not sometimes displayed narrow-mindedness, a lack of common sense, dignity, and brotherly feeling, for instance when bickering over our respective languages? Let us pay serious attention to our own conduct. If we wish the others to change their minds about us, let us first change our own minds. The fact is, we have to cope with an almost insuperable difficulty if we want to compel recognition on the international literary scene. But difficulties should not deter us. With the help of the Dutch and Belgian ‘Arts Councils’, of American, British, French, and German translators and publishers, and of the scholars who teach Dutch literature all over the world, I trust we shall eventually assert ourselves and knock down the wall of ignorance, a wall built partly by ourselves partly by others, by prejudice, routine and, worst of all, indifference. Anyway, the situation is much better today than it was in 1950 or 1960.

But what about this contribution of ours, which has so far remained largely potential? Let us first remember that so-called ‘minor’ literatures have no less intrinsic merit than the others, due allowance being made for the amount of books published. In fact, our writers share their lack of international popularity with an overwhelming majority of foreign authors. For the ‘first-rate’ books that everybody reads are more or less the same everywhere and they represent only a very small part of world literature as a whole, in the literal sense of the phrase. So if we are unlucky, we are in good company. Making a virtue of necessity, we could even carry the idea to the point of

[p. 193]

asserting the exemplary character of Flemish literature. Its representativeness, however, is not only a negative one, it does not confine itself to this sad experience of common neglect. I have already pointed out the interpenetration of the French and the Dutch culture in Flanders. From this point of view, I should also mention the strong influence of German and, more especially since the war, of Anglo-Saxon literature. As they take a keen interest in what is going on outside the narrow limits of their native tongue, most of our intellectuals have developed a talent for languages. This seems to be characteristic of small communities in Europe. For as a rule, the language spoken by a large group of people living in a large area seemingly satisfies all their requirements and even tends to become identified with the language par excellence. The result is that most of these people do not feel the necessity of learning other tongues and that, having little experience of foreign customs, ideas, and arts, they grow indifferent, if not hostile, to them. Paradoxically, the more universal the language you speak, the less ready you are to welcome other cultures. Conversely, judging by the relative amount of translations, foreign books seem to be more widely read in Italy than they are in France or in the United States. In a sense, ‘minor’ literatures can be regarded as melting pots in which foreign trends meet and mix together. They are places where visitors from abroad can both feel at home and recognize some of the things they hold dear but, as it were, in a different shape, in a different guise. The scenery is at once familiar and strange. This double process of absorption and transformation of ideas and techniques is particularly striking in Flanders, which is, like Belgium for that matter, a crossroads, an epitome of world cooperation. This receptiveness of our writers, their ‘liberality of spirits’, a quality which stands out in sharp contrast to our political squabbles, is according to me one of their major assets. Yet, the example we thus give does not specifically pertain to literature and, besides, we are not alone in Europe in serving as a link between nations.

But in addition to the useful part they are playing on account of their belonging to a ‘minor’ literature, our writers also have quite a lot to offer to those who are fond of good reading. The problem I am dealing with today is in the first place one of aesthetic evaluation. Strong and numerous though they are, foreign influences do not necessarily stand in the way of originality. Naturally, our poets, novelists, and critics tackle the same questions in ethics, politics, and

[p. 194]

aesthetics as their French, German, and Anglo-Saxon colleagues do. Owing to the internationalization and the standardization which have accompanied the scientific and industrial revolution since the turn of the century, these issues have become somehow identical in all countries, at least in Europe and North America. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that in contemporary Flemish literature we come across such commonplaces as alienation, angst, women's lib, sex, pacifism, and so on and so forth - although the topics of the day are usually adapted to local circumstances and discussed without affectation or pathos. Do not forget we show special devotion to Eulenspiegel and Reynard the Fox, those two famous disparagers of sham and cant. But literature is not just a catalogue of themes; it is above all an art, an uncommon way of using words and of creating forms, whether pleasing or not. It is especially in this respect, I think, that our modern literature deserves attention. Surprisingly, in spite of his being one of the major European poets of this century, certainly the equal of Machado and Hofmannsthal, sometimes even that of Rilke and Valéry, Karel van de Woestijne is not so much as mentioned in the otherwise excellent Bibliography of Symbolism as an International (...) Movement published in the United States a few years ago (New York University Press, 1975). And how many French critics are aware that Herman Teirlinck used the second-person narrative in Zelfportret (The Man in the Mirror) as early as 1955, that is two years before Michel Butor's La modification? Or, more generally speaking, that the Flemish novel has been indulging since the 1930's in a variety of formal experiments which might interest not only foreign craftsmen but the general public as well? Applying musical forms to fiction - its so-called musicalization - is by no means a new device. It is already to be found in Thomas Mann's Buddenbrooks and in Huxley's Point Counter Point but few novelists have put the principle into practice as consistently and skilfully as Maurice Gilliams did in the opening chapters of Elias of het Gevecht met de Nachtegalen (Elias, or the Fight with the Nightingales). Almost at the same time ‘in the 1930's, Willem Elsschot wrote a series of stories about the failures and frustrations of a nondescript clerk, which derive their value not so much from their haunting description of mediocrity but first and foremost from their flawless composition and stylistic terseness. After the war Louis Paul Boon published a three-tiered saga (The Road to the Chapel and Summer at Ter-Muren) in which episodes of the main plot - the history of

[p. 195]

Socialism - are sandwiched between commentaries of the narrator and his friends on the work in progress and variations on themes such as Reynard the Fox and Jan de Lichte, a famous 18th-century highwayman. Simultaneity is also the principle at work in the composition of Boon's Menuet (Minuet) since its plot unfolds at the same time as a kind of long tape printed at the top of the page and consisting of apparently unrelated news items. One of the most thrilling experiments of Flemish fiction, however, is the ‘magic realism’ devised by Johan Daisne in De Trap van Steen en Wolken (The Stairs of Stone and Clouds) and De Man die zijn haar kort liet knippen (The Man Who Had his Hair Cut Short) and worked out by Hubert Lampo. While it bears a resemblance to some works by Gracq, Kasack, Borges, Ernst Jünger, and even John Cowper Powys, it has nonetheless an unmistakable flavour of its own. In this field Daisne undoubtedly produced something new and particularly impressive. At this point, I should also talk about Gerard Walschap, Ivo Michiels, and Ward Ruyslinck and stress the importance of poets like Paul van Ostaijen, Richard Minne, or Hughes Pernath. But it is time to round off a survey which lengthiness would probably not make more convincing. Yet, there is still one author to whom I wish to draw your attention, although some of you may already be familiar with his poetry, his novels, and his plays. I mean Hugo Claus, whose works now enjoy outside Flanders a success they largely deserve.

As you see, I started with the dark side of the picture since I spoke mainly about errors, misunderstandings, and prejudice. In fact, I did not spare the rod because I did not want to spoil the child. Turning now to Belgians and foreigners alike, I should like to repeat the message Byron once sent from Calais to England - ‘with all thy faults I love thee still’. To be sure, faults can be put right and it is never too late to turn over a new leaf. It will take time, a lot of time indeed, to achieve a ‘change of heart’ both in Flanders and abroad, to persuade some to give a better image of themselves in public affairs, and some to take an interest in writers who, though practically unknown to them, are nevertheless well worth reading. It is a matter of self-respect for the former, of justice for the latter. It is above all a matter of goodwill on both sides, of perseverance and of faith, which, as we know, can move mountains.