The Feast Day of Saint Hubert

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐇𝐮𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐭

I went, as promised, to the Chapel of Saint Hubert in Tervuren, today being his feast day. It is an impressive building, but shut. There was no sign promising a later Mass and I was saddened by this. He is an important saint, patron of hunters and invoked for protection against rabies. And he’s one of ours, a legend.

I offer here The Legend of Saint Hubert, after Sandor Pierron, from La Forêt de Soignes, edited by René Stevens and Louis Van Der Swaelmen, 1920. Firstly the original text in French, then a ChatGPT translation into English.

𝑼𝒏𝒆 𝒅𝒆́𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒆𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒏𝒂𝒊̈𝒗𝒆 𝒍𝒆́𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒍’𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒆𝒏 𝒅𝒖𝒄 𝒅’𝑨𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒆, 𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒖 𝒆𝒏 𝑩𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒑𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒓 𝒖𝒏𝒆 𝒆́𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒆 𝒂̀ 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒗𝒂𝒊𝒏, 𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆́ 𝒆𝒏 𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒖 𝒍𝒂 𝑭𝒖𝒓𝒆, 𝒄𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒕 𝒓𝒖𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒖 𝒆́𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒊𝒕 𝒒𝒖𝒊, 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒂 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒄𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒆̀𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝑻𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒖𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏, 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒏𝒐𝒎 𝒂𝒖 𝒗𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒈𝒆, 𝒆𝒕 𝒔𝒆 𝒋𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒍𝒂 𝑫𝒚𝒍𝒆. 𝑫𝒆́𝒋𝒂̀ 𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒂𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒖 𝒑𝒂𝒓 𝒍𝒂 𝒇𝒊𝒆̀𝒗𝒓𝒆, 𝒊𝒍 𝒔’𝒆́𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒊 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒍𝒂 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒒𝒖𝒆.

𝑰𝒍 𝒇𝒖𝒕 𝒆́𝒗𝒆𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆́ 𝒂𝒖 𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒖 𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒂 𝒏𝒖𝒊𝒕, 𝒎𝒊𝒕 𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒂̀ 𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒆 𝒂̀ 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒍𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒅𝒖 𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒈, 𝒆𝒕 𝒈𝒂𝒈𝒏𝒂 𝒂̀ 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒗𝒂𝒍 𝒆𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒖 𝒑𝒂𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒖𝒙 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒍𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒅𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒆́𝒑𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝑭𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒆. 𝑰𝒍 𝒔𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒂 𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒐̂𝒕 ; 𝒍𝒆 𝒋𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒕 : 𝒄’𝒆́𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒉𝒆. 𝑯𝒖𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒕 𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒑𝒂𝒔 𝒎𝒊𝒆𝒖𝒙 ; 𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒔 𝑭𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒕 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒖𝒕 𝒂̀ 𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒕.

𝑳𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒔 𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒍𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆̂𝒕 𝒅𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆 𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒔 ; 𝒍𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒙 𝒆𝒕 𝒍𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒒𝒖’𝒂𝒖𝒙 𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒖 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕. 𝑰𝒍𝒔 𝒍𝒖𝒊 𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒍𝒐𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒔𝒂 𝒋𝒆𝒖𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒔𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒂𝒑𝒓𝒆̀𝒔 𝒖𝒏 𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒖𝒙 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒅𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒆…

𝑳𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒖𝒊𝒕 𝒅’𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒄𝒚𝒈𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒔𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒖𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒙 𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒔 𝒔’𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒄 𝒍𝒂 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒂 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒊 𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒆𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝒍𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒖, 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒍𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒅𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒍𝒆̀𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔 𝒍𝒂̀-𝒃𝒂𝒔, 𝒔’𝒆́𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒅𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒓 𝒍’𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒆́ 𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒖𝒙.

𝑺𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕 𝑯𝒖𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒕, 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒇𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒕, 𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒓 𝒆𝒏 𝒍𝒖𝒊, 𝒕𝒆𝒍 𝒖𝒏 𝒃𝒂𝒖𝒎𝒆, 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝒄𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒆́𝒔𝒊𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒇𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆 𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆̂𝒕. 𝑺𝒐𝒏 𝒂̂𝒎𝒆, 𝒋𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒊̈𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒆, 𝒆́𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒆́𝒆 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒂̀ 𝒍𝒂 𝒗𝒊𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒔, 𝒂̀ 𝒍𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒍𝒑𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒂 𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆. 𝑺𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒆́𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒑𝒍𝒖𝒔 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒆̂𝒎𝒆 𝒂̀ 𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒅𝒆 𝒍’𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒒𝒖’𝒊𝒍 𝒑𝒓𝒆̂𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒂𝒖𝒙 𝒎𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒃𝒋𝒆𝒕𝒔.

𝑬𝒕 𝒊𝒍 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒎𝒊𝒆𝒖𝒙 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒔𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒅𝒖 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆̀𝒓𝒆 𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍, 𝒄𝒂𝒓 𝒊𝒍 𝒚 𝒂𝒗𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒆́𝒕𝒆́ 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒔 𝒑𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒆́ 𝒋𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒗𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒅’𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒎𝒆. 𝑰𝒍 𝒔𝒂𝒗𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒍𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆̂𝒕 𝒗𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒆𝒖𝒔𝒆, 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒅𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒅’𝒐𝒎𝒃𝒓𝒆. 𝑰𝒍 𝒍𝒂 𝒗𝒊𝒕, 𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒍’𝒂𝒅𝒎𝒊𝒓𝒂 𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒔’𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒆𝒕, 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒔𝒂 𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆, 𝒊𝒍 𝒆𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒅𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝒍’𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒅𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆̀𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒆́ 𝒒𝒖𝒊 𝒆𝒇𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒖𝒏 𝒋𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒆́ 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒇𝒂𝒏𝒆. 𝑻𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒍𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒃𝒐𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒄̧𝒂𝒊𝒕 ; 𝒍𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒍 𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒄𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒒𝒖’𝒊𝒍 𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒆𝒗𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒅𝒆 𝒔𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒆 𝒆́𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒈𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒖𝒕𝒆́𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒆𝒕 𝒄𝒆́𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒔.

𝑬𝒕 𝑺𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕 𝑯𝒖𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒕, 𝒖𝒏 𝒑𝒆𝒖 𝒎𝒆́𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒂̀ 𝒍’𝒊𝒅𝒆́𝒆 𝒒𝒖’𝒊𝒍 𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒂𝒊̂𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒑𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒕 𝒄𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆̂𝒕 𝒐𝒖̀ 𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒅𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆̀𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒈𝒊𝒓, 𝒔’𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒕 𝒑𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒋𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒍𝒆 𝑺𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒆𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒚𝒆𝒖𝒙 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝒍𝒂 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒆́ 𝒔𝒚𝒍𝒗𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒊 𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒏𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒂𝒊𝒕 𝒅𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒓𝒆́𝒗𝒆𝒊𝒍 𝒍𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒆́𝒆 𝒅’𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒓.

A charming and innocent legend tells how the former Duke of Aquitaine, having come to Brabant to consecrate a new church at Louvain, travelled upstream by boat along the Fure, that narrow little stream which rises near Tervuren, gives the village its name and flows into the Dyle.

Already ill and weakened by fever, he had fallen asleep in the boat. He was awakened in the middle of the night, went ashore some distance from the town and, on horseback and supported by two servants, reached the house of his wife Floribane. He went straight to bed; daylight came: it was Sunday. Hubert was no better; his son Floribert hurried to his bedside.

Spring filled the forest with a thousand murmurs; birdsong and the bellowing of stags reached the sick man’s ears. They recalled the distant exploits of his youth and his conversion following a miraculous encounter while hunting… The sound of swans’ wings as they chased one another across the lakes mingled with the music of the breeze among the new leaves. There, within the framework of the soaring treetops, their mantle thickened each morning around trunks turned green by the dampness of the northerly winds.

The suffering Saint Hubert let all this deep and consoling poetry of the forest enter him like a balm. His soul, once pagan, had remained attentive to the life of things, to the pulse of nature. His faith was all the more tender for the attention he paid to the smallest things. And he perceived more clearly than others the splendours of the universal mystery, for he had once been immersed in it for many years before embracing Christianity.

He knew the forest to be vast and wondrous, full of silence and shadow. He saw it in his imagination, admired it without walking within it and, in his reverie, doubtless sensed the sacred character that would one day efface its profane past. All the woodland’s enchantment lulled him; the ceaseless swaying of the lofty treetops he could see from his bed seemed like gestures of heavenly protection.

And Saint Hubert, a little melancholy at the thought that he would never come to know this forest where so many monasteries were to arise, fell asleep for ever, praying to the Lord, his eyes filled with all the woodland beauty whose awakening glorified the surrounding countryside.

Amen.

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