THE CORDULA MONUMENT
Whoever pays a first visit to Zoersel Park will immediately be struck by a feeling of benign tranquillity which transpires from the park’s beautiful scenery. But perhaps an even stronger sensation for many will be the awareness of being surrounded by the history of the Kempen country, of almost actually partaking in it. For the calm sagacity of that history makes itself felt throughout: in the castle, obviously, the grand lanes and paths, the wealth of various domestic and especially exotic plants, the old wise trees, the treasure of which is the Lebanon Cedar at the western edge of the greens behind the castle – in short, the richness of and care for the past can be felt everywhere.
At the same time, one realises that there is no need to walk along the Forum Romanum, the Athens Acropolis, or the Brussels Market to stand firmly in Western European history. No, one understands that the same sensation can be experienced during a Sunday afternoon stroll in a park outside a simple and seemingly inconsequential Kempen village. For, just like many historians have studied the right dating and the precise meaning of everything they found in the Forum or on the Acropolis, lately all kinds of interesting information have been unearthed about the treasures of Halle Castle park, with the detailed reconstruction of the origin of the Castle and its predecessors as its natural highlight.
But this article neither aims at talking about the new castle, nor about the old, nor even about the origin of the comely manyflowered Solomon’s seal. This story will be about a small and at first sight insignificant monument, which is completely invisible to the average visitor of the park. The tiny monument, to wit, is located on the isle in the castle park’s pond and hardly discernible from the poolside. It stands desolately alone on this godforsaken flower isle, without any sensible or perceivable connection to the rest of the park. Even more remarkably, this memorial cannot be traced anywhere in the annals of the castle or the park. It simply cannot be found anywhere!
Whoever casts their eye on the monument will hardly be impressed by its beauty, although in its artlessness it does posses a certain inherent vigour. What, then, do we see on this monument? Well, we see a figure of a young woman in classical dress next to a rather older man, dressed in classical manner as well. Both are separated by what looks like a column, but which on closer look proves to be a kind of plateau, a table almost. Both figures stand somewhat pensively, stoically staring at nothing in particular. An intriguing sculpture indeed, but, as said, nowhere is there anything to be found in the official archives which could throw light on the origin and history of the monument, and it is only since very recently that we dispose of a few important clues which hint at its definitive placing and interpretation.
What has happened? Recently, a history student who was preparing his Master’s thesis on daily life on the sandy grounds in the Netherlands and Belgium shortly after the Industrial Revolution, when studying in the Jesuit Convent library in Nijmegen, discovered a short but stormy exchange of letters between one of the pastors who have worked in Halle, pastor Lievaerts, and the then ruling baron and builder of the castle, baron Engelbert Victor de Borrekens. For those who wonder how an exchange of letters like the one mentioned could end up in Holland: the pastor’s brother was a Jesuit priest who lived and worked in Nijmegen. After his brother passed away, he took care of his estate.
Well now, from these letters the remarkable origin of the monument can be reconstructed to a significant degree. Another important conclusion after reading the letters is that they make it quite comprehensible why the monument has not been entered in the official annals during this century.
Let’s start at the beginning. When the castle was newly built, around the turn of the century, the baron organised a series of grand and impressive festivities to show off his new domicile to his guests. One of those festivities was given for a rather special group, which needs some introduction. For the baron had set himself the task of stimulating ‘talent’. And especially stimulate ‘talent’, which couldn’t afford itself to develop on its own, by offering it education at the highest level. Artists, musicians, but also medical students, physicians, in short all kinds of young men of every discipline were granted a generous endowment by the baron.
The baron invited all of his proteges for a week to come and marvel at his new residence. Among them was a young painter who was described as Jean-Louis in the letters, but regrettably never with his last name, which has prevented us from finding out which painter we are dealing with until today. A short research in the Royal Library and the Royal Museum of Art has yielded no results, also because the name Jean-Louis was quite common at the time. And maybe the young man has never again taken up a brush and chose a more civilian occupation instead. Both the pastor and the baron describe this Jean-Louis with great affection: he was handsome, intelligent, courteous, very polite and blessed with great talent. He only had one flaw: he was extremely lazy. Lievaerts even writes that this indolence was the source of all distress that was to follow.
Obviously, all the baron’s proteges were male. At the time, it was unthinkable for women and girls to be encouraged in the same way. Still, especially the pastor thought that girls needed to be supported too and on his initiative the baron organised courses for daughters of the poor farmers who struggled for subsistence on the sterile sandy grounds around the castle. There, they could learn how to cook, sow, embroider and were taught hygiene and so on. One of the girls was the pastor’s favourite, although she is described with affection and respect by the baron as well. The pastor regarded her as an exceptionally clever and cheerful child who never complained and was always ready to help her fellow man. Her name was Lies, but the pastor – a great lover and advocate of Latin – called her ‘Cordula’, which in Latin means ‘little heart’, being the diminutive of ‘cor’, meaning heart. Lies was very happy with her new name, writes the pastor, although at home she simply remained Lies.
During the week of the festivities for the proteges, the courses for the girls continued as normal, so the adolescent boys took advantage of the opportunity to mingle with Kempen’s female beauty, even if it was from lower stock. “When it comes to female charms,” the baron writes slightly desperate, “class does not seem to make much of a difference anymore today.” And although both the baron and the pastor tried to prevent interchange, nature went about its own course. Thus, it came to a encounter between the lazy but handsome painter Jean-Louis and the clever Cordula. An encounter which all involved would recall for a long time. The festivities over, Jean-Louis went away and Cordula stayed. Soon, however, it emerged that the girl was pregnant from the painter. Notwithstanding, the boy emphatically denied, even in confession, having any part in the matter, and since obviously one did not dispose of blood or DNA-tests at the time the baron and the priest were helpless. When the child – a portly son - was born, it was immediately given away, as was customary at the time, to a fisherman’s family in Ostende who could use a good pair of hands. Cordula almost died for grief and left the Kempen where she was never seen again. She was almost certainly heard from for the last time from the German town of Aachen, thus the pastor writes.
The baron wanted to put away the whole accident, something often seen in higher circles, and returned to his normal doings. But he had not counted with pastor Lievaerts, who could not forget the sweet Cordula. He felt so much touched by what had happened, that, apart from numerous pleas for God’s mercy, he wanted to have a daily reminder of this tragic mishap. An aversion towards injustice and his caring soul made him abide. Suddenly, an idea struck him. He wrote the baron a letter – this letter has also been found in the Jesuit archive – requesting to raise a monument to Cordula on the grounds of the castle, so she would never be forgotten. The baron thought about it, but thought it too much. It was a dire story indeed, but it was merely about a farmer’s girl as well – the pastor should not forget that. One could hardly erect monuments commemorating such simple folks, now could one? For a moment, it looked like the debate would develop into a stormy argument, as the priest hurled a text from the Magnificat at the nobleman, stating “Deposuit potentes de sede et exaltavit humiles”, which means as much as “He will throw the powerful from their thrones and uplift the lowly”. And, behold, it worked, for a compromise was found at last. Perhaps inspired by the awareness of his own life’s transience, the baron conceded a little. A monument could be erected to the memory of Cordula, but without her name nor any direct reference to what had transpired, and on a place which would remain out of sight for the family and their guests.
The pastor thought long, and chose the spot on the isle where the monument still stands today. He brought in a sculptor and together they decided on the design. Soon, they agreed that it should have two figures, of a young woman and an old man in classical pose and garment. Perhaps the classicist scene, besides the fact that it was not an unusual style at the turn of the century, can be explained from the condition that too close a resemblance to Cordula or pastor Lievaerts should be avoided. Further, they should sadly gaze past each other, not only to symbolise the grief they had suffered, but also to depict the eternal incomprehensibility of things. For attributes, he gave her a knapsack, symbol of fertility, and a water kettle, symbol of perpetual trust in God. Then, there should be a tableland between them, so that flowers or other offerings could always be placed on the monument.
Lastly, the pastor had the sentence from the Magnificat carved onto the side of the tableland, the same he had used before against the baron: “Deposuit potentes de sede et exaltavit humiles”. When he had completed the monument, which was rather swiftly done, he bid the baron farewell, took leave from his parish and left the Kempen.
When, some time later, the baron had himself rowed over to the monument in order to have a closer look at it, he saw the line from the Magnificat and immediately ordered the text on the mighty and the base to be removed. He let the monument be, however, and after him no-one ever looked at it again. Until shortly, when the exchange of letters was recovered in Nijmegen.
Cordula’s son, who had thought he was a fisherman’s son from Ostende until his stepmother had told him the true story of his descent, has meanwhile begot offspring himself. And it is this son, Jan Kiekens, the former fisherman and now an old man himself, who can often be seen these days, rowing his boat in the neighbourhood of Zoersel and surroundings. His life’s objective, as he states himself, is to do anything necessary to, after all this time, grant his grandmother the historical truth that is hers. Only then, he may rest in peace.
Albert ter Heerdt
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