The Spell of Flanders
by Edward Neville Vose · English · Gutenberg #41830 · 683,868 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Spell of Flanders
Author: Edward Neville Vose
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THE SPELL OF FLANDERS
* * * * *
THE SPELL SERIES
_Each volume with one or more colored plates and many
illustrations from original drawings or special photographs.
Octavo, with decorative cover, gilt top, boxed._
_Per volume $2.50 net, carriage paid $2.70_
THE SPELL OF ITALY
By Caroline Atwater Mason
THE SPELL OF FRANCE
By Caroline Atwater Mason
THE SPELL OF SOUTHERN SHORES
By Caroline Atwater Mason
THE SPELL OF ENGLAND
By Julia de W. Addison
THE SPELL OF HOLLAND
By Burton E. Stevenson
THE SPELL OF SWITZERLAND
By Nathan Haskell Dole
THE SPELL OF THE ITALIAN LAKES
By William D. McCrackan
THE SPELL OF TYROL
By William D. McCrackan
THE SPELL OF JAPAN
By Isabel Anderson
THE SPELL OF SPAIN
By Keith Clark
THE SPELL OF FLANDERS
By Edward Neville Vose
THE SPELL OF THE HOLY LAND
By Archie Bell
THE PAGE COMPANY
53 BEACON STREET, BOSTON, MASS.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Cathedral of St. Sauveur, Bruges_
(_See page 47_)]
THE SPELL OF FLANDERS
An Outline of the History, Legends and Art of Belgium's
Famous Northern Provinces
Being the story of a Twentieth Century Pilgrimage in a
Sixteenth Century Land just before the Outbreak of the Great War
by
EDWARD NEVILLE VOSE
Illustrated
Boston
The Page Company
MDCCCCXV
Copyright, 1915,
by the Page Company
All rights reserved
First Impression, April, 1915
The Colonial Press
C. H. Simonds Company, Boston, U. S. A.
To
ALBERT I.,
King of the Belgians, the guiding star of a brave nation and
the hero of the Battle of Flanders in the Great War, this book
is dedicated
PUBLISHERS' NOTE
Lord Beaconsfield once said: "Flanders has been trodden by the feet
and watered by the blood of countless generations of British
soldiers." This famous passage--which has received a new confirmation
to-day--is typical of many references among English writers and
statesmen to Flanders as a general term covering all of what is now
known as Belgium. Among the citizens of that brave little Kingdom,
however, and among most Continental writers, Flanders is recognised as
being the name of only the northern part of Belgium. Small as that
country is, it has for centuries been bi-lingual, the northern portion
speaking Flemish, the southern French; and for centuries the history
of the Flemish provinces was as distinct from that of the Walloon
province to the southward as the early history of California or Texas
was from that of New England.
Although eventually united under one Government with the Walloons and
with what is now Holland, it was during the long period of their
semi-independence that the Flemings achieved many of the artistic and
architectural monuments that have made Flanders for all time one of
the most interesting regions in the world.
While this book, therefore, does not attempt to describe the whole of
Belgium, it does present a pen picture of the northern part of the
country as it existed almost at the moment when the devastating
scourge of the Great War swept across it.
FOREWORD
This book is the record of a vacation tour in the beautiful old
Flemish towns of Northern Belgium beginning in May and ending in July
of the Summer of 1914. The assassination of the Austrian Archduke
Ferdinand and his wife at Sarajevo took place while our little party
was viewing the mediæval houses and churches of Ghent and Audenaerde,
but in the many discussions of that event to which we listened there
was no whisper of the awful fate which the march of events was so soon
to bring upon one of the most charming, peaceful and happy countries
in the world.
Many of the descriptions in the following pages were written in or
near the towns described, and within a day or so after the visit
narrated. Then each old Flemish "monument" was in as perfect a state
of preservation as the reverent pride and care of the Belgian populace
and the learned and skilful restorations of the Belgian government
could together accomplish. The fact that since these accounts were
written many of these very towns have been swept by shot and shell,
have been taken and retaken by hostile armies, have formed the stage
upon which some of the direst tragedies of the world's greatest and
most terrible war have been enacted, will--it is hoped--give them a
permanent interest and value. As a painting of some famous city as it
appeared many years or centuries ago is of the utmost historical
interest, even though by an inferior artist, so these halting word
pictures of towns that have since been wholly or partially destroyed
may help the reader to recall the glories that have passed away.
In accordance with the plan described in the first chapter, the tour
of Flanders followed a decidedly zigzag itinerary, frequently visiting
some town more than once. The purpose of this was to follow, in a
fairly chronological sequence, as far as possible, the development of
Flemish history, architecture and art. The outline of the intensely
fascinating history of the old Flemish communes that has been thus
presented may prove of interest to many readers who have been thrilled
by the superb bravery of the little Belgian army in its defence of
Flanders against overwhelming odds. As these glimpses into the past
clearly show, the men of Belgium have engaged in a battle against
foreign domination from the earliest ages. That it was at times a
losing struggle never for a moment diminished the ardour of their
resistance, or the depth of their devotion to liberty and the right to
rule themselves. And when we consider how, during these centuries of
conflict, and in defiance of obstacles that would have daunted a less
strong-hearted people, the men of Flanders found the inspiration, the
patience and the skill to erect some of the noblest examples of
mediæval architecture, to create a school of painting that ranks as
one of the most priceless heritages of the ages, and to excel in a
half a score of other lines of artistic endeavour, we surely must all
agree that here is a people we would not willingly see perish from the
earth.
If to be neutral is to stand by and silently acquiesce in the
destruction of Belgium as an independent nation, then the author of
this book is not neutral. In every fibre of his being he protests
against such a course as a crime against liberty, against humanity.
Happily, from every corner of the United States come unmistakable
evidences that the American people as a whole are not, at heart,
neutral on this subject. The embattled farmers who stood on the
bridge at Concord and fired "the shot heard round the world" have
thrilled the imagination and stimulated the patriotism of every
American schoolboy, but no less heroic is the spectacle of the little
Belgian army under the personal leadership of its noble King standing
like a rock on the last tiny strip of Belgian soil and stopping the
onrush of the most powerful fighting organisation in the world. At
Nieuport and Dixmude and along the bloodstained Yser Canal, the men of
Belgium fought for the same cause of liberty for which our forefathers
fought at Bunker Hill. Whatever our sympathies may be with respect to
the larger aspects of the great world war--and as to these we may most
properly remain neutral--our national history and traditions, the very
principles of government to which we owe "all that we have and are,"
cannot but confirm us in the profound conviction that no conclusion to
this war can be just and right, or permanent, that does not once more
restore the Belgian nation and guarantee that it shall remain
completely and forever free.
On the other hand, while news of the damage done to some famous
Flemish church or Hotel de Ville causes the author sensations akin to
those that he would experience on learning of the wounding of a
friend, this book will contain no complaint regarding German
destruction of these monuments of architecture. At Ypres and Malines,
where the havoc wrought cannot fail to have been fearful, the damage
was done in the course of battles in which the most powerful engines
of destruction ever invented by man were used on both sides. Much as
we may deplore the results, we cannot blame the individual commanders.
At Antwerp, Ghent, Bruges and many other famous Flemish cities the
Germans appear to have made every effort to avoid wanton destruction
and preserve the most notable historic edifices. After the war is over
and we have learned exactly what structures have been destroyed, and
under what circumstances, we can justly place whatever blame may
attach to such a catastrophe where it belongs--but not until then. For
the present we can only hope that the damage may be less than has been
reported, and that in many instances it will be possible for the
Belgians--so skilful in the work of restoration--to reconstruct the
sections of famous buildings that have been damaged.
When the war is over many thousands of Americans and English will be
eager to visit the battle-fields of Flanders and see for themselves
the scenes of conflicts that will forever hold a great place in human
history. The author ventures to hope that this little book may be
found serviceable to such tourists as it contains much information not
to be found in any guide book. If it aids any of them--or any of the
far larger host of travellers whose journeys in far-off lands must be
made by their home firesides--to understand Flanders better it will
have achieved its purpose. It is one of the many ironies of the war
that towns like Ypres and Malines, which were rarely visited by
American tourists when they were in their perfection, will, no doubt,
be visited by thousands now that the clash of arms has brought them at
the same moment destruction and immortal fame.
EDWARD NEVILLE VOSE.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
PUBLISHERS' NOTE vii
FOREWORD ix
I. INTRODUCING FLANDERS AND THE FOUR PILGRIMS 1
II. VIEUX BRUGES AND COUNT BALDWIN OF THE IRON ARM 15
III. BRUGES IN THE DAYS OF CHARLES THE GOOD 30
IV. HOW BRUGES BECAME "THE VENICE OF THE NORTH" 54
V. DIXMUDE AND FURNES 78
VI. NIEUPORT AND THE YSER CANAL 94
VII. WHEN YPRES WAS A GREATER CITY THAN LONDON 116
VIII. COURTRAI AND THE BATTLE OF THE SPURS 146
IX. GHENT IN THE DAYS OF THE FLEMISH COUNTS 169
X. THE AGE WHEN GHENT WAS GOVERNED BY ITS GUILDS 192
XI. PHILIP THE GOOD AND THE VAN EYCKS 218
XII. TOURNAI, THE OLDEST CITY IN BELGIUM 242
XIII. THREE CENTURIES OF TOURNAISIAN ART 268
XIV. THE FALL OF CHARLES THE BOLD--MEMLING AT BRUGES 285
XV. MALINES IN THE TIME OF MARGARET OF AUSTRIA 311
XVI. GHENT UNDER CHARLES THE FIFTH--AND SINCE 344
XVII. AUDENAERDE AND MARGARET OF PARMA 367
XVIII. OLD ANTWERP--ITS HISTORY AND LEGENDS 393
XIX. THREE CENTURIES OF ANTWERP PRINTERS 411
XX. ANTWERP FROM THE TIME OF RUBENS TILL TO-DAY 438
XXI. WHERE MODERN FLANDERS SHINES--OSTENDE AND "LA PLAGE" 464
XXII. THE SPELL OF FLANDERS 480
BIBLIOGRAPHY 485
INDEX 489
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
CATHEDRAL OF ST. SAUVEUR, BRUGES (_in full colour_)
(_See page 47_) _Frontispiece_
MAP OF BELGIUM AND THE NETHERLANDS,
SHOWING THE OLD FLEMISH PRINCIPALITY _facing_ 1
BÉGUINAGE BRIDGE, BRUGES 35
TOMB OF MARIE OF BURGUNDY, CHURCH OF NOTRE DAME, BRUGES 51
PALAIS DU FRANC, BRUGES (_in full colour_) 59
THE BELFRY, BRUGES 63
THE MINNEWATER, BRUGES 71
SHRIMP FISHERMEN, COXYDE 93
TOWER OF THE TEMPLARS, NIEUPORT 99
AN ANCIENT PAINTING OF THE FLEMISH KERMESSE BY TENIERS 115
CLOTH HALL, YPRES 119
HOTEL MERGHELYNCK, YPRES 139
CHURCH OF ST. PETER, YPRES 141
STATUE OF PETER DE CONINCK AND JOHN BREIDEL, BRUGES 154
CASTLE OF THE COUNTS, GHENT 170
RUINS OF THE ABBEY OF ST. BAVON, GHENT 184
POST OFFICE, CHURCH OF ST. NICHOLAS, BELFRY AND
CATHEDRAL, GHENT 195
DE DULLE GRIETE, GHENT 208
WORKROOM, PETIT BÉGUINAGE DE NOTRE DAME, GHENT 210
"SINGING ANGELS," FROM "THE ADORATION OF THE
LAMB"--JEAN VAN EYCK 236
"GEORGE VAN DER PAELE, CANON OF ST. DONATIAN,
WORSHIPPING THE MADONNA"--JEAN VAN EYCK (_in full colour_) 239
GENERAL VIEW OF TOURNAI AND THE FIVE-TOWERED CATHEDRAL 256
THE BELFRY, TOURNAI 262
A TRIPTYCH OF THE SEVEN SACRAMENTS BY ROGIER VAN DER WEYDEN 272
SHRINE OF ST. URSULA, HOSPITAL OF ST. JEAN, BRUGES 296
AN ILLUMINATION BY GHEERHARDT DAVID OF BRUGES,
1498; ST. BARBARA (_in full colour_) 300
"THE LAST SUPPER"--THIERRY BOUTS 307
QUAI VERT, BRUGES 310
CATHEDRAL OF ST. ROMBAUT, MALINES 312
TOWER OF THE CATHEDRAL OF ST. ROMBAUT, FROM
THE RUELLE SANS FIN 318
_IN HET PARADIJS AND MAISON DES DIABLES_; TWO FIFTEENTH
CENTURY HOUSES, MALINES 333
PORTRAIT OF JEAN ARNOLFINI AND HIS WIFE BY JEAN
VAN EYCK 340
MAISON DE LA KEURE, HOTEL DE VILLE, GHENT 347
PORTRAIT OF THE DUKE OF ALVA BY A. MORO 352
"THE ADORATION OF THE SHEPHERDS"--HUGO VAN DER GOES 362
OLD GUILD HOUSES, QUAI AUX HERBES, GHENT 365
HOTEL DE VILLE, AUDENAERDE 370
WOODEN DOORWAY, CARVED BY VAN DER SCHELDEN,
HOTEL DE VILLE, AUDENAERDE 375
CHURCH OF STE. WALBURGE, AUDENAERDE 383
A FLEMISH TAPESTRY OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY 386
THE _VIELLE BOUCHERIE_, ANTWERP 399
"THE BANKER AND HIS WIFE"--MATSYS 403
"WINTER"--PETER BREUGHEL 405
"DRAGGING THE STATUE OF THE DUKE OF ALVA THROUGH
THE STREETS OF ANTWERP"--C. VERLAT 418
COURTYARD OF THE PLANTIN MUSEUM, ANTWERP 428
ANCIENT PRINTING PRESSES AND COMPOSING CASES,
PLANTIN MUSEUM, ANTWERP 436
"THE DESCENT FROM THE CROSS"--RUBENS 439
"COUP DE LANCE"--RUBENS 442
"_LA VIERGE AU PERROQUET_"--RUBENS 445
PETER PAUL RUBENS 448
"AS THE OLD BIRDS SING THE YOUNG BIRDS PIPE"--JACOB
JORDAENS 453
HOTEL DE VILLE, ANTWERP 456
THE "SALLE DES JEUX," IN THE KURSAAL OSTENDE 476
[Illustration: MAP OF BELGIUM AND THE NETHERLANDS, SHOWING THE OLD
FLEMISH PRINCIPALITY]
THE SPELL OF FLANDERS
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCING FLANDERS AND THE FOUR PILGRIMS
"Flanders! Why, where is Flanders?"
"There! I told you she'd ask that question. You'll have to start right
at the beginning with her, and explain everything as you go along."
We were planning our next vacation tour in Europe, which we had long
before agreed to "do" together this year. That meant a party of
four--the "Professor," as I always called him, and his charming young
wife, my wife, and myself. Like the plays in which the characters
appear on the stage in the order that their names are printed on the
programme, the arrangement I have just given is significant. The
Professor is always first, a born leader-of-the-way. And I am usually
last, carrying the heavy bundles.
Not that I am complaining. No doubt I was born to do it. Moreover, the
Professor and I have been chums since boyhood. We worked our way
through "prep" school and college together, came to New York together,
and--in a modest way--have prospered together. At least, we felt
prosperous enough to think of going to Europe. For some years he has
been the head of the department of history in an important educational
institution within the boundaries of the greater city, while I have
devoted myself to journalism--and am therefore dubbed "the Editor,"
whenever he wishes to refer to me as a personage instead of a human
being, which, happily, is not very often. Of the two ladies in the
proposed party I do not need to speak--not because there is nothing to
say, but because they can speak for themselves. In fact, one of them
has just spoken, has asked a question, and it has not yet been
answered.
"Flanders, my dear," said the Professor, speaking in his most
sententious manner--as if delivering a lecture in his classroom--"is
the most interesting and the least visited corner of Europe. It has
more battle-fields and more Gothic churches per square mile than can
be found anywhere else. In other parts of Europe you can see mediæval
houses, here and there--usually in charge of a smirking caretaker,
with his little guidebook for sale, and hungrily anticipating his
little fee. In Flanders there are whole streets of them, whole towns
that date from the sixteenth century or earlier--but for the costumes
of the people, you could easily imagine yourself transported by some
enchantment back to the days of Charles the Bold, or even to the time
of the Crusaders."
"Yes," I added, "and there is no region in the world where the history
of the past seems more real, more instinct with the emotions that
govern human conduct to-day, than these quaint old Flemish towns. You
stand in front of a marble skyscraper on Fifth Avenue and read a
bronze tablet that tells you that here the Revolutionary forces under
old Colonel Putnam, or whoever it was, delayed the advancing British
and covered General Washington's retreat. Now, does that tablet help
you to reconstruct your history? No, you are quite aware that the
fight took place when Fifth Avenue was open country, but your
imagination will not work when you try to make it picture that scene
for you right there on Fifth Avenue where the tablet says it happened.
"Now, it's different in Flanders. You read in the history about how
the burghers of Bruges, when the Duke of Burgundy, Philip the Good,
tried to overawe the city by placing an army of archers in the
market-place, swarmed out of their houses and down the narrow, crooked
streets like so many angry bees. There are the same old houses, the
identical narrow, crooked streets--a bit of an effort and you can
picture it all--and how the Duke and his archers were driven back and
back, while the burghers swarmed in ever increasing numbers, and the
great tocsin in the belfry shrieked and clanged to tell the valiant
weavers that their liberties were in danger.
"And take that other famous event, when they flung the murderers of
Count Charles the Good--who lived and died five hundred years before
the other Prince who, like him, was surnamed "the Good"--from the
tower of the very cathedral in which they had murdered him. Why, you
can climb the tower and look off across the same sea of red-roofed
houses and down upon the same square, paved with cruelly jagged
stones, as did the condemned men when, one by one, they were led to
the edge of the parapet and sent hurtling down."
"The point is well taken," interrupted the Professor, "only that
particular church is no longer standing--it was destroyed during the
French Revolution. But really that makes little difference--there are
plenty of other towers in Bruges that have witnessed stirring scenes.
And all over Flanders it is the same way--nothing is easier than to
make your history live again, for everywhere you have the original
setting practically unchanged."
"It's all very well for you men," observed Mrs. Professor, when her
husband and I paused to get our breath, "who admire, or pretend to
admire, battles and executions and that sort of thing, but if there is
nothing else to see except places with such dreadfully unpleasant
associations I, for one, don't want to go there."
"On the contrary," I hastened to reply, seeing that the Professor was
much disturbed at this unexpected result of all our eloquence,
"Flanders has a lot of things to interest the ladies. Think of its
famous laces and lacemakers--we can still find the latter at work in
places like Bruges, Malines and Turnhout--of its rare old tapestries
from Audenaerde and Tournai, and the fine linens of Courtrai. Then
there are wood carvings the like of which you will travel far to see,
and old Flemish furniture everywhere."
"To say nothing of the pleasure of learning a little more about the
great Flemish school of art in the very home towns of its most
celebrated artists," added the Professor, who was much elated to see
that the frowns were leaving the fair face of his better half.
"That's much better," she announced. "I've always thought fine
hand-made lace the most wonderful product of feminine patience and
skill, and I should certainly love to watch them make it."
"For my part," remarked the fourth member of the party, who had been
strangely silent during all this discussion, "while I like to learn a
little about the history of the old towns I visit, and see the fine
things--whether paintings, or town-halls, or lace or tapestry--for
which they are famous, what I like the best is to study the people
themselves. I mean the live ones, not those who are dead and gone that
our husbands are talking about. I love to sit on the sidewalk on
pleasant evenings and have dinner and black coffee while watching the
people of the town go by. It's better than a play. And on rainy days
there is always some quaint old-fashioned inn or café where the whole
scene looks like a painting by Jordaens or Teniers. The beamed ceiling
and the pictures on the walls are grimy with the smoke and steam of
countless dinners, the buxom landlady sits in state behind an array of
bottles of all sizes and colours and labelled at all prices, her
equally plump daughters wait on the tables, the very guests--including
ourselves--form a part of the picture. Why, it makes me want to be
back there again, just to think of it!"
"The Madame is right!" exclaimed the Professor heartily--all of our
friends call my wife "the Madame" because she speaks French as
fluently as English. "Our first object on this trip will be pleasure.
A little knowledge of the history of Flanders, of tapestry and
lacemaking, of architecture and art, may enhance our enjoyment of what
we see, because we will thereby understand it better and appreciate
its interest or beauty more keenly. But we are not going over as
historical savants, or as authorities on art--or pretend that we know
any more about such subjects than we really do--"
"Which is just enough to enable us to derive sincere pleasure from
seeing them, and having them explained to us, without troubling our
heads about this, that or the other element of technique," I
interrupted, completing the Professor's sentence for him.
"And the best part of the day will be, just as Madame says," added
Mrs. Professor gaily, "the dinners on the sidewalks, where we can
watch the people as they go about and tell each other of what we have
seen since morning. And, hurray! for the Flemish inns!"
"Well, as to Flemish inns," observed the Madame, "what I said related
to eating a dinner in one. When it comes to sleeping in them there are
other things to think of besides beamed ceilings and picturesque
interiors.
"A few years ago we had an experience at Antwerp that taught us the
folly of arriving at a great continental city late at night without
having hotel accommodations secured in advance. We had started at
eight in the morning from Hamburg, intending to stop at Antwerp just
long enough to transfer our belongings to a train for Brussels that,
according to the time-table, would leave fifteen minutes after our
train arrived. Now, from Hamburg to Antwerp is quite a long
ride--short as the distance looks on the map--and when we finally
arrived at our destination, half an hour late, it was long after
midnight and our train for Brussels had gone.
"We were both tired out, and hastily decided that we would put up at
Antwerp for the night and go on to Brussels in the morning. As we
emerged from the great Gare Centrale we found despite the lateness of
the hour, about a dozen red-capped hotel runners, each of whom
clamoured for our patronage. They all looked very much alike, the
names on their caps meant nothing to us as we were not familiar with
the Antwerp hotels, and we selected one at random. To our dismay we
discovered, when it was too late, that, whereas most of them had hotel
busses in waiting--into which they leaped and were driven off--our
cicerone was not so provided. He attempted to reassure us by saying
that the Grand Hotel de ---- was close by--a fact that produced the
opposite effect from that intended, as we knew that the immediate
vicinity of a large railroad station is seldom a desirable
neighbourhood.
"However, the other porters were now gone and, unless we were disposed
to sleep in the station, there was nothing to do but follow along. To
our further alarm our guide presently turned into a most
unprepossessing street on which several drinking places were still
open, or were only on the point of closing. Into one of these he led
us. After a short conference with the proprietress, who was sitting
behind the bar counting the day's receipts, he took a candle and a
huge key and led us out into the court, then up a flight of stairs
placed on the outside of the house, and through several narrow
passageways. But for the flickering candle everything was completely
dark, and when he finally ushered us into an immense room with a
mediæval four-post bed in its darkest corner we involuntarily looked
for the trap-door down which the murderous inn-keepers of the stories
were wont to cast their victims.
"Lighting a pair of candles on the mantelpiece from his, and wishing
us a civil '_Bon soir_,' our red-capped guide now left us--to our
great relief. Although we tried to dismiss our fears as childish, we
both felt more insecure and helpless than we cared to admit, even to
each other. None of our friends knew that we were in Antwerp. If we
disappeared they would hardly think to look for us there--and still
less on this shabby street, the very name of which we did not know.
"We barricaded the door against a sudden surprise, inspected the walls
with a candle for signs of the secret door (at the head of the
winding stairway up which the wicked innkeeper so often creeps upon
his prey, according to the chronicles) and at last, the fatigue of the
day overcoming our fears, we slept. It was broad daylight when we
awoke, and the street was alive with people--mostly cartmen and
peasants it seemed. With some difficulty we found our way down to the
room where we had seen the landlady the night before. She greeted us
warmly, our fears of the night had fled--and we sat down and ordered,
and enjoyed, a most excellent breakfast. The hotel was quite a popular
one, we learned, much frequented by people from near-by towns, and we
had never been safer in our lives. Yet, just the same, we both vowed
firmly that 'Never Again' would we take similar chances--and we never
have."
"I have thought of that incident more than once while talking over our
Flemish tour with the Professor," I observed, "and have decided upon
this plan. When we find a hotel that suits us all, as regards
cleanliness, cuisine and safety--or rather the sense of security, for
I daresay we would be safe enough in many that we would hardly care to
patronise--we will stay overnight in whatever town we may chance to be
visiting. If, on the other hand, we have not had time to find such a
place, we'll take a train back to Antwerp or Brussels, where there are
hotels that we know all about. We'll get second-class _billets
d'abonnement_ every two weeks anyway, so the rail trip will only cost
us our time."
"And are Antwerp and Brussels both in Flanders?" inquired Mrs.
Professor. "Between you, you have given me an idea that I should like
to visit Flanders, but you have none of you answered my question as to
where it is."
"I think I can answer you, my dear," replied her husband. "There are,
as you probably know, two little provinces in the northern part of
Belgium called East and West Flanders. The boundaries of the Flanders
of history and of art, however, cover a considerable wider area than
these two provinces. Over in France a considerable part of the
Department du Nord was for centuries subject to the Counts of
Flanders. On the other side, to the eastward, the cities of Antwerp
and Malines were for many centuries independent of the Counts of
Flanders, but their people spoke Flemish, their houses, churches and
town-halls were built in the best style of Flemish architecture, and
they became famous centres of Flemish art and learning. To my mind,
therefore, they both belong to Flanders. Brussels, however, while its
Hotel de Ville and Grande Place are splendid examples of Flemish
architecture, is more French than Flemish, and belongs to the Walloon
or French part of Belgium.
"Now, as the Editor here has proposed a plan which seems to me a good
one as regards our hotels, I will venture to suggest one as regards
our itinerary. It will make comparatively little difference which
towns we visit first, and as some are more closely identified with the
early history of Flanders than the others I propose that we visit
these older towns first. At the time of the Crusades Ypres, for
example, had two hundred thousand inhabitants when the population of
London was less than thirty-five thousand and Antwerp was an obscure
little town. Nieuport and Furnes were, at that time, the chief
seaports of Flanders. Now they are miles from the sea. Dixmude, near
by, was another important city of those olden days. Now all these
places are country villages--'the dead cities of Flanders,' they are
called, and scarcely a tourist from America ever visits them, although
they are fairly familiar to our English cousins.
"If we start our pilgrimage in Flanders with Bruges, which was the
first capital of the County of Flanders, and with these old
towns--all of which are hard by--we can plan our journeys
chronologically, so to speak, visiting first the monuments that date
from the twelfth to the fourteenth centuries, then those of the
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and so on. In that way we not only
can keep the little history we know straight, but we can trace with
our own eyes the gradual development of Flemish architecture and art."
This plan was unanimously voted to be a capital one--in theory, at any
rate--and thus it was that in our subsequent wanderings about
Flanders, under the guidance of the indefatigable Professor, we often
crossed our trail, and now and then visited the same place more than
once. In practice it did not accomplish quite all that was expected of
it by its learned originator--but what plan ever does, or ever will?
That it enhanced the interest of the trip manyfold we all agreed; it
often sustained our flagging zeal, and it helped us to know
Flanders--the Flanders of the past especially--far better than we
would have done in any other way.
CHAPTER II
VIEUX BRUGES AND COUNT BALDWIN OF THE IRON ARM
It is not the purpose of this veracious chronicle to recount the
doings and sayings, the incidents or lack of incident, on the voyage
across. Suffice it to say that in due season the good ship _Lapland_
turned its prow away from the white cliffs of Dover and straight
toward the low-lying shores of Flanders. As she crossed the North Sea
scores of fishing boats with brown sails hovered around her, while
throngs of seagulls soared overhead, or now and then dashed madly into
her foaming wake to grasp some morsel flung from deck or porthole, or
fight fiercely with each other for its possession. Presently, in the
haze ahead, a faint outline of land could be distinguished, and soon
we could see through our glasses the heaped up dunes that mark the
battle line between the North Sea and the fertile Flemish polders
behind them. Here and there the shore was strengthened by rows of
pilings to keep the waves of Winter from washing it away. As a
"sight," however, it was dreary and uninviting enough--not at all like
the picturesque headlands of Merrie England we had been looking at
only a few hours before.
Now, for a time, the ship kept its course parallel to the shore, but
at a distance of a mile or more. Gradually the coast became more
inhabited, and soon we could see a row of stone and brick buildings
facing directly on the beach which some one said was Blankenberghe. No
doubt there were other rows of houses behind the first, but either
they were lower, or in the haze our glasses could not distinguish
them. Then the panorama of the Flemish coast unrolled a little further
and we saw the long curved breakwater of Zee-Brugge, with its white
lighthouse. This is an artificial port connected with the ancient
capital of Flanders by a ship canal. Entrance to the canal from the
sea is effected by a large lock which was faintly visible. Another
beach city, Heyst, next appeared--the ship seeming to stand still
while the shoreline marched slowly past. Then came a smaller place,
which from our maps we concluded must be Knocke. Here the coastline of
the present Kingdom of Belgium ends, the little River Zwyn--once
famous as the channel up which one hundred and fifty ships a day made
their way to Bruges in the days of its greatness--forming the
boundary.
The Dutch are apparently not interested in sea bathing, for there were
no more watering places. In fact the whole coast seemed to be dead and
deserted, and we were glad when the _Lapland_ began to turn her prow
inland. We were now in the broad estuary of the Scheldt, and soon the
tiny city of Flushing appeared. It was over on the other side of the
ship and we all scampered across to take our first "near look," as
Mrs. Professor expressed it, of the land we had come to see--for
Flushing belonged for centuries to the great overlords of Flanders,
the Dukes of Burgundy and their successors. It looked very small and
compact from the towering deck of the big liner, but also very quaint
and interesting, and we all agreed that as a sample of what we had
come so far to see it was the reverse of disappointing.
Soon the propellers of the _Lapland_ began to revolve again and the
little Dutch city slowly slipped out of sight in the fast gathering
gloom of a coming shower. As night came on the engines presently came
to rest once more and we anchored to await daylight and flood tide
which, the officers said, would come together. At four o'clock the
following morning the Professor and I were on deck in order to miss as
little as possible of the voyage up the "greyest of grey rivers," as
the Scheldt has been called. The _Lapland_ had started while we were
asleep, and we were already in Belgium. This circumstance disappointed
the Professor not a little as he had set his heart on seeing the
remains of the Dutch forts at the boundary line that for nearly one
hundred and fifty years--from the Treaty of Munster in 1648 to the
French occupation in 1794--closed the river to ocean commerce.
Meanwhile, grass grew in the streets of the all but deserted city of
Antwerp. The French tore down the hated forts and for nearly forty
years the ships from oversea went up the river unmolested. Then came
the Revolution of 1830 and the establishment of the Kingdom of
Belgium, whereupon the Dutch proceeded to impose heavy navigation
duties upon all ships passing through the lower part of the river.
While this did not stifle the trade of Antwerp, it seriously crippled
it, since the duties formed a handicap in the keen competition for
traffic between the Belgian port and those of Holland and Germany
farther to the eastward. It was not until 1863 that the Belgian
Government was able to arrange a treaty whereby all river dues were
abolished in return for the payment of a lump sum of 36,000,000
francs--of which only one-third was paid by Belgium, as other powers
were interested in obtaining freedom of navigation on this important
river and gladly contributed the remainder. The imposing monument by
Winders on the Place Marnix at Antwerp, which was erected in 1883,
commemorates this important event, to which the port owes its present
prosperity.
As the _Lapland_ slowly steamed up the river we could look down from
her lofty decks upon the broad and intensely cultivated plain,
stretching as far as eye could penetrate in the misty distance. Here
and there we could see compact little groups of farm buildings,
usually arranged around a central courtyard and with their outer walls
well-nigh windowless, as if the peasant proprietors still counted on
the possibility of a siege such as their ancestors no doubt often had
to sustain against the wandering marauders and freebooters who for
centuries infested the country. Along every road and canal, and beside
nearly every cross-country path, we could see long lines of trees set
out at regular intervals and cutting the landscape into sections of
varying sizes and shapes. Now and then a little hamlet could be seen,
with its red-tiled roofs nestling close together and a tiny church
steeple rising from the centre. Often the roofs of the houses nearest
to the river were below the top of the high dykes which here enclose
the Scheldt on either side. Close to the banks an occasional fort
commanded the river--outlying links in the great chain of
fortifications that was thought to be impregnable until the huge
German siege guns so quickly battered it to pieces.
Presently some one with a keener vision than the rest cries that the
spire of the Cathedral of Antwerp is in sight and we all crowd forward
and peer eagerly through the mist until at last we make out vaguely
the shape of that marvel of Flemish architecture rising above the flat
plain. At each turn of the river it draws nearer and we can see more
clearly its delicate tracery of lace-work carved in stone, while one
by one other spires loom up through the grey dawn.
The traffic in the river becomes more dense as we proceed slowly
onward--huge red-bottomed tramp steamers with their propellers half
out of the water and churning furiously in a smother of foam, clumsy
canal boats with Flemish or German names lying at anchor close to the
banks, barges with dingy brownish sails and all manner of strange
cargoes. Then, suddenly, we swing around the last turn and the entire
city lies before us, its houses with their high peaks and dormer
windows rising tier above tier, while at the left we catch glimpses
through the lock gates of the vast inner docks with their hundreds of
masts and funnels. Curiously enough the view to the right is entirely
different--the green fields and farmsteads stretching in this
direction from the very edge of the river as far as the eye can see.
But now we are warping up against the Red Star Line pier and all eyes
are gazing down upon the motley crowd that has assembled thus early in
the morning--it is not yet seven o'clock--to welcome the new arrivals
from America. The customs inspection proves to be a mere formality,
half of our trunks and bags are chalk-marked by the obliging inspector
without lifting a tray or disturbing any of their contents. A
commissionaire is waiting to bear them away to the cabs and, after
generously bestowing five cents on this worthy for his trouble, we are
off for the Gare Centrale--for the Madame has decreed that we must all
proceed forthwith to the home of a certain Tante (Aunt) Rosa, not far
from Brussels, where we can get our land legs safely on before
starting on our tour under the guidance of the Professor.
Throughout the morning it has rained heavily at intervals, and as the
_rapide_ for Brussels steams out of the station the grey clouds are
pouring down their contents in torrents. This circumstance disturbs us
not at all, for we have agreed to pursue our course regardless of the
weather and are prepared for anything short of a flood or blizzard.
And right here it may be as well to state that any one who proposes to
travel in Flanders must make up his or her mind to ignore the vagaries
of the weather altogether. At Brussels the weather records show that
it rains more or less during three hundred days in each year, and
while there are many days when the showers are brief, and some periods
when it is clear for several days, it is better to come prepared for
anything. Somewhere in the direction of the English Channel there
seems to exist a vast cloud factory, for day after day one sees the
huge cloud masses rolling slowly eastward or southward across the
country. Usually they are high overhead, with frequent intervals of
brilliant sunshine, and the showers few and far between. At other
times the clouds hang low and dark and the rain falls steadily, not in
furious driving showers such as occur frequently during the summer
time at New York, but with a monotonous continuity that is the
despair of travellers who are equipped only for fair weather. It is no
exaggeration to state that one may look out of his hotel window upon a
cloudless sky and find that by the time he has descended to the street
it is raining. Happily the reverse is equally possible, and frequently
we looked out of the window while at breakfast at pouring rain and
dripping roofs, only to find by the time we were ready to go out of
doors that the shower was over, the sky clear and the sidewalks nearly
dry. It is this rapid alternation of showers and sunshine that makes
Flanders the land of flowers and vegetables, giving the former their
brilliant colouring and the latter their indescribable succulence and
freshness.
Another tip for the would-be traveller in Flanders is to come well
prepared for cold weather even in June, July or August. The nights are
always cool, and the prevailing winds are from the north or the
northwest--the former cold, the latter wet. Many Americans contract
serious colds because they come clad only for hot weather. Warm
underwear, on the other hand, is best for the Flemish summer climate,
with overcoats and wraps for evening wear. Raincoats, it is needless
to say, should be in every suitcase--even for a day's outing, while a
very handy article indeed is a _parapluie-canne_, or umbrella cane,
such as can be purchased in Brussels for ten francs and upwards.
In less than three-quarters of an hour our fleet train was rolling
into the Gare du Nord at Brussels; but Madame was in a hurry, so we
became for the time birds of passage only and in another hour were
already entrained again and speeding toward the steaming dinner that
she assured us la Tante Bosa had awaiting us. Of the reception that we
found when we arrived at last, and of the dinner which was presently
spread before us, there is no need to say more than that the latter
proved to be all that we had been led to anticipate. Served in the
true Belgian style--customary alike in Flanders and in the Walloon
provinces--it occupied our attention for the greater part of the
afternoon, the courses following one another leisurely, with intervals
between during which the men folk strolled about the garden and
smoked. Two days later we started on the Professor's itinerary,
completely refreshed after the fatigue of our voyage; and after a bit
of shopping at Brussels, our pilgrimage into the heart of Flanders
began.
It was a little after noon when we reached the old city of Bruges,
and while we were eating our luncheon the Professor explained
briefly the origin of the city and of the County of Flanders. In
order to understand the kaleidoscopic history of Flanders it is
necessary to forget entirely the Europe of to-day. Throughout the
Middle Ages Europe was sub-divided into hundreds of separate
sovereignties--duchies, counties, principalities large and small,
whose rulers bore a score of titles. These, as a rule, acknowledged
allegiance to some higher prince, while the most powerful yielded
deference only to some King or Emperor. But this allegiance was
usually a very shadowy affair, and the actual government rested
absolutely in the hands of the local Count, or Duke, or whatever else
his title may have been. The history of Flanders is, therefore, in a
sense, the history of its Counts, for as their power waxed or waned
the country itself grew powerful or weak. Gradually, however, the
great cities of Flanders acquired from the earlier and better Counts
rights and privileges that made them, in many respects, sovereign
powers, and the most fascinating and instructive part of the history
of Flanders is the record of the brave struggle made by its burghers
to maintain their liberties in the face of a steadily advancing tide
of tyranny and oppression.
The first Count of Flanders, who won his title and his domains during
the period of storm and stress that followed the breaking up of the
great empire of Charlemagne, was a Flemish chief, called Baldwin of
the Iron Arm. He chanced one day to see Judith, the beautiful daughter
of Charles the Bald, the son of Charlemagne, fell in love with her,
and carried her off for his bride. Judith had been previously married
to Ethelwolf, King of Wessex in England, when he was a very old man;
and had taught her stepson, who afterward became Alfred the Great,
much of his learning. The old King Charles, her father, for a time
opposed the marriage with Baldwin, but finally it was celebrated with
much splendour at Auxerre in 863, and Baldwin was thereupon given the
title of Count of Flanders. On his return, Baldwin built a great
fortress on an island formed by the intersection of the River Roya
with its little tributary, the Boterbeke. This was called the Bourg,
and soon contained within its strong walls the nucleus of the future
city of Bruges.
Mrs. Professor interrupted at this point to ask if the name Bruges was
derived from Bourg, to which our learned friend replied that it was
not, but that most historians ascribed the name to the bridge (in
Flemish, brigge) from the island to the mainland; while some take it
from the purple heather (brugge) which grows plentifully hereabout,
and in August can be seen alongside the railway tracks and in great
clusters by the country roadsides.
The first afternoon's programme was to discover as much as we could of
the old Bourg of Baldwin of the Iron Arm. Not much of it is left in
the Bruges of Albert the First. The Roya still runs where it did in
the days of the first Counts of Flanders, but only along the Dyver, a
terrace of middle-class residences, can it be seen by the tourist.
Since the eighteenth century it has been vaulted over for much of its
course through the city, and the Boterbeke runs through subterranean
channels for the entire distance from where it enters the city limits
to its junction with the Roya at the corner of the rue Breidel. It
flows close to the Cathedral, or possibly beneath it, and directly
under the Belfry, which is built on piles. For part of its course it
runs, like a subway, under the rue du Vieux Bourg. The only building
in modern Bruges that dates from the first Baldwin's time is the crypt
of St. Basil, under the Chapel of the Holy Blood. Here, or assuredly
hard by, the founder of the long line of Flemish Counts, and his
beautiful and talented Countess, no doubt worshipped; and, in the
main, the little chapel probably looks today very much as it did a
thousand years ago. In one corner, apparently outside of the original
outer walls of the structure, the concierge showed us a miniature
model of the ancient castle of the first Counts of Flanders as
archeologists have reconstructed it, with the little Chapel of St.
Basil adjoining it. On the opposite side, and near the entrance, is a
smaller chapel which some authorities state was the one built by old
Iron-Arm, the main structure dating from the middle of the twelfth
century. Be this as it may, here is unquestionably the very oldest
relic of the ancient Bourg and one of the oldest places of worship in
all Flanders.
After our inspection of St. Basil we decided to devote the rest of the
afternoon to tramping around the streets of the Vieux Bourg, or, in
other words, the section of the city within the circle of picturesque
old quays that mark the approximate boundaries of the island-fortress
where the first Counts of Flanders laid the foundations of their
power. To be sure, none of the houses now standing date from a much
earlier period than the fifteenth century, but all were so quaint and
charming that we cared little for the archeologists with their dates,
and felt ourselves transported without an effort to the days when
might made right and the whole world was governed by the simple law
that "he may take who has the power, and he may keep who can." We
little dreamed, as we journeyed about amid these peaceful
surroundings, that within a single month the world was to revert to
the rule of might once more; that, to quote from Kipling's noble poem,
stricken Belgium, and, indeed, all civilisation could say:
"Our world has passed away,
In wantonness o'erthrown.
There's nothing left to-day
But steel and fire and stone.
"Once more we hear the word
That sickened earth of old--
'No law except the sword,
Unsheathed and uncontrolled.'"
CHAPTER III
BRUGES IN THE DAYS OF CHARLES THE GOOD
To those for whom the past possesses elements of romance, of mystery
and of fascination that our more prosaic and orderly modern world
lacks, Bruges offers endless opportunities for enjoyment. To be sure,
the streets are a bit more crowded than they were twenty years ago,
and one sees more frequent groups of people, carrying little
red-backed Baedekers and evidently intent on seeing all the "sights,"
than formerly. But these are evils of which all old travellers
complain, as one compares notes with them at the hotel after the day
is over. One caretaker told us, with evident pride, that thirty
thousand tourists visited Bruges in 1913. If one divides this total by
three hundred and sixty-five, and the result again by the score or
more of places that every tourist wants to see, it will be perceived
that the number in any one place at the same time is not likely to be
excessive. In point of fact our little party was almost invariably
alone, save when we encountered a party of "personally conducted"
travellers rushing at break-neck speed from place to place.
If, after seeing all the "points of interest" enumerated by the
faithful red-coated guide, philosopher and companion above mentioned,
one should stray down one or another of the narrow, crooked streets in
the older parts of the town he is certain to find bits of mediæval
Bruges here and there so well preserved and perfect that if the few
passers-by only wore the picturesque costumes of the olden days the
illusion would be complete. Take, for example, the rue de l'Ane
Aveugle, the Street of the Blind Donkey, with its attenuated sidewalks
along which a tight-rope walker could hardly advance without stepping
off, its roadway too narrow for two blind donkeys to pass abreast, and
its charming archway from the Hotel de Ville to the Maison de l'ancien
Greffe Flamand; or the rue du Poivre, with its tiny one-story houses,
many of them with one room down-stairs and one overhead--the latter
lighted by the quaintest of gable windows--surely we have stepped
backward half a dozen centuries, for nothing like this could have
continued to exist until the prosaic present!
In fact these queer little one-story houses abound in all parts of the
city, and the Madame was constantly darting across the roadway to peer
within whenever she saw a door ajar. She generally returned highly
indignant that any one could think of existing in such narrow
quarters. "I'd as soon live in a tomb!" she exclaimed, nodding in the
direction of one little house which consisted of one room and only
one, being devoid even of the attic room with its customary dormer
window. Inside sat an old lady, gazing tranquilly out of doors and
doing nothing whatever. Indeed, as the Madame pointed out, there was
little enough to do as far as housework was concerned. In the morning
everybody in Flanders washes the stone floors of their living-rooms,
and frequently the sidewalk and out to the middle of the street as
well. This done, the housework for the day is over, except for
preparing the meals. We had hoped to see old ladies by the score
sitting at the doorways making lace, but on only one street--the rue
du Rouleau--did we catch a glimpse of any, and they went indoors as we
approached them. It was only the estaminets that we could inspect
within. Whenever we found what appeared to be an exceptionally old
house that bore the legend "Hier Verkoopt men drank" the Professor
and I often used to go in and order a glass of _Vieux système_, simply
to get a look at the interior. If, as sometimes happened, mijnheer and
his vroue were very accommodating and kind, we summoned the
ladies--despite the fact that the sign without appeared to mean "for
men only"--and together we explored the old house from garret to
cellar.
More than once, as we journeyed about among these delightfully old and
quaint surroundings, the longing to see some one whose costume would,
in a measure, suggest the period when these structures were built came
back to us. "Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Professor, as we sat one afternoon in
a particularly cosy corner of one of the oldest interiors we had yet
seen, "if two or three knights in armour--or in their lovely costumes
of velvet, silk and old lace--would stalk in and sit down at that
table over there it would make the picture complete." We found,
however, one spot in Bruges, dating from the twelfth century, in which
even the costumes were unchanged. This was the Béguinage, close to the
Minnewater and the ancient city ramparts--a city of the past where,
shut off by high brick walls from the noise and bustle of the outer
world, peaceful figures clad in sombre grey and white move noiselessly
about as if the big figures on the calendar read 1114 instead of 1914.
Except for two institutions of the kind in Holland, Belgium is the
only country in Europe in which these Béguinages have survived--all of
them in Flanders. No institution of the present day recalls so vividly
the conditions that existed at the time when Flanders was the name of
a wild marsh country peopled by yet wilder men. In 877 the Emperor
made the title of Count of Flanders hereditary--the oldest title of
the kind in Europe. Baldwin II, son of Baldwin of the Iron Arm and the
beautiful Judith, married Alfrida, the daughter of Alfred the Great.
The second Baldwin was renowned chiefly for his work in fortifying the
towns of Bruges, Ghent, Ypres and Courtrai as a means of protection
against the robber chiefs who still--despite the energetic warfare of
his father--infested this entire region. The necessity for protection
against robbers, and occasional incursions of savage Danes from the
North Sea, caused population to flock speedily into these walled
towns, and thus laid the foundation for the wonderful civic
development of the next four centuries. The son of Baldwin II,
Arnulph--often called Arnulph the Great--continued the policy of
strengthening the cities, and also established or restored nearly a
score of monasteries and convents for the protection of men and women
against the many dangers of that lawless age. The famous chapter of
St. Donatian's at Bruges was one of these, and while the Béguinage
dates from a somewhat later epoch in the town's history, it admirably
exemplifies many of the principles that made these early religious
orders the strongholds, not only of piety in a period of
semi-barbarism, but of learning and civilisation.
[Illustration: BÉGUINAGE BRIDGE, BRUGES.]
The Béguinage at Bruges is much smaller than the famous Grand
Béguinage at Ghent, which so many tourists visit, but is far more
ancient--its arched gateway dating from the thirteenth century and its
gloomy and barn-like chapel from 1605. How old the houses are no one
seemed to know, but probably many of them are older than the chapel.
The little bridge by which one enters its quiet precincts was first
built in 1297, of wood, according to the records, but its present
picturesque stone arches date from 1570--a respectable antiquity, even
for Bruges. We found several of the little houses untenanted for some
reason, but even the empty ones were spotlessly clean. The Béguines
live in small communities or "convents," under the superintendence of
a Lady Superior called "de Juffer"; or in "houses" where two or three
live together. In the convents there are usually about twenty inmates.
Each has her little cell, but these we were not permitted to see. We
did, however, inspect the kitchen and dining-room of one of the
convents--and the large sunny workroom, in which the Béguines were
assembled. Each was chatting aloud as she worked, but whether in
Flemish or Latin we could not tell. On every face there rested the
same expression of absolute peace and quietness, nor did a single one
betray the slightest interest or curiosity at our presence.
In the early annals of Bruges no story is more dramatic than that of
the murder of Charles the Good. It is, in fact, the theme of the great
Flemish novelist Hendrick Conscience's most famous book, _De Kerels
van Vlaanderen_, and has been told by several contemporary
chroniclers. When Charles became Count of Flanders the feudal system
was slowly displacing the anarchy that had resulted from the breakdown
of all centralised government as the Norsemen swept over northern
Europe. Charles was an ardent believer in the new order, but was
opposed in his policy of building up a strong feudal state by the
Karls, a class of free landholders of Saxon descent, who stubbornly
refused to swear allegiance to any feudal over-lord. The greatest of
these was the house of Erembald. Desiderious Hacket, the head of the
family, was Châtelain of Bruges, ranking next to the Count himself;
while his brother Bertulph was Provost of St. Donatian, the principal
ecclesiastical position in the County, and chancellor of the Count.
The head of the feudal lords was Tancmar, Lord of Straten. Between the
powerful houses of Erembald and Straten there was a deadly feud, which
culminated in a challenge to mortal combat delivered to Walter, a
nephew of Tancmar, by Richard de Raeske, a baron allied by marriage to
the house of Erembald.
To the amazement of all Flanders the challenge, delivered in the
presence of Count Charles and all his court, was refused. Walter, whom
the historians call "the Winged Lie," proclaimed that he would fight
only with a free man, and that the Lord of Raeske, by wedding a serf,
had become a serf himself. This was in accordance with a law recently
promulgated by Charles, but the house of Erembald, perceiving that
its very existence was threatened by the charge, fiercely repelled the
accusation and was supported not only by all of the Karls, but by most
of the feudal nobility as well--the latter no doubt fearing lest one
of their own houses might be attainted in a similar manner at any
moment.
The country was plunged into what was virtually civil war, when
Charles was suddenly summoned by his feudal over-lord, the King of
France, to come to his aid at Clermont. On his return, assured of the
King's powerful support, Charles undoubtedly meditated the complete
overthrow of the Erembalds, whom he had steadfastly claimed as his
vassals since "the Winged Lie" had denounced them as serfs. He arrived
at Bruges late in the evening, and early the following day, March 1,
1127, repaired to St. Donatian to hear mass. It was a foggy morning
and the Count went almost unattended. Hardly had he knelt before the
altar when a party of followers of the attainted house of Erembald
swarmed into the church and he was struck down before he had time to
rise, much less to defend himself.
If, in his lifetime, the Count was a dangerous foe to the Erembalds,
in his death he proved to be far more deadly. As his body lay on the
stone floor of the great church, clad in the crimson robe the
chroniclers so often allude to, and surrounded with flaming torches,
the heads of the house hastily consulted as to what was to be done
with it. To inter the body at Bruges would be to risk an outbreak of
popular passion at the murder, and it was decided to secretly convey
it away. This plan was rudely frustrated by a mob of citizens who
forcibly prevented the removal of the body, which was therefore laid
to rest with imposing ceremonies in the very church where the Count
had been assassinated.
Meanwhile the story of the murder spread far and wide, and, in a few
days, a huge host was marching on Bruges from every part of Flanders.
For a time the burghers stood by the Châtelain and the Provost, but
when the city was entered by stratagem and the Erembalds driven back
into the Bourg the mass of the citizens went over to the side of the
avengers. After a short defence the Bourg in turn was captured--its
defenders failing to guard one small gate by which their enemies
entered unopposed--and the remnant of the Erembalds fled into the very
church that had been defiled by their kinsmen's crime, St. Donatian.
Here, for a time, they were left in peace while the victors pillaged
the rich palaces in the ancient Bourg.
The day before the capture of the Bourg Bertulph, the Provost managed
to escape and fled to a little village near Ypres. Here, after
remaining in hiding for some three weeks, he was captured. The next
morning he was brought to Ypres, walking on foot all the way, although
a horse was offered him. That he was going to his death he well knew,
and asked for a priest to whom he confessed. The old man--who had been
"a soft, luxurious prelate," proud and haughty in his days of
power--made his last journey like a martyr. As the prisoner and his
captors neared the gates of the city a great throng came forth to meet
them, beating the Provost with their staves and fists and pelting him
with the heads of fish. Arrived in the market-place he stood amid the
huge jeering throng, not one of whom looked with pity on him, and
there, for his greater shame, he was fastened naked to a cross like a
common thief. On his refusing in a steadfast voice to reveal the names
of any of those implicated in the Count's murder, "those who were
assembled in the market-place to sell fish tore his flesh with their
iron hooks, and beat him with rods, and thus they put an end to his
days."
The news of this tragedy was brought to the little band still being
besieged at St. Donatian and caused great grief and terror. Of the
very considerable army of Erembalds and their partisans who had taken
refuge in the Bourg only thirty now remained, most having been killed,
while some no doubt had escaped. King Louis, with a host of French
knights, had joined the men of Flanders in the attack and it was seen
that further resistance was hopeless. The only terms were instant
surrender or instant death, and as they looked across the country from
the church tower they could see no hope of succour and surrendered.
After keeping them prisoners for a fortnight, Louis directed that all
save one, who was of somewhat nobler lineage than the rest, should be
flung from the tower of the now thrice historic St. Donatian. This
sentence was duly carried out. The cruel soldiers told the condemned
that they were about to receive a proof of the King's mercy and they
remained ignorant of their terrible fate until, one after another,
they stood on the lofty tower overlooking the city for a brief moment
and were then dashed down headlong to the jagged pavement below. The
bodies were denied Christian burial and thrown into a marsh outside of
the city, and it is related that for many years thereafter "no man
after nightfall would willingly pass that way."
The house of Erembald was well-nigh annihilated during this short, but
sanguinary, war. The sole survivor of the band captured in the church
was beheaded by King Louis as soon as he crossed the French frontier,
while most of the great names in the family were heard of in Flanders
no more--some having perished in battle, others in exile. Only one,
Hacket the Châtelain, returned after the cry for vengeance had died
down, was placed on trial for the murder, proved his innocence, and
eventually recovered much of his former power and wealth. The charge
of serfdom was never raised again, and his descendants for many
generations stood high in the rolls of the Flemish nobility.
The church of St. Donatian no longer stands, having been destroyed
during the French Revolution. In the small museum of antiquities in
the Halles adjacent to the Belfry we were shown some stone railings,
carved in imitation of rustic woodwork, that the concierge assured us
had come from the ruins of the famous church. From a painting made in
1710 the student can obtain a fair idea of the appearance of the
structure, which can hardly be said to have been imposing externally.
It stood opposite the Hotel de Ville, and the statue of Van Eyck in
the centre of the little shaded square is said to mark the spot where
Charles the Good fell at the hands of his assassins. The stones with
which the Cathedral was built were carried away, and some of them were
used to build a château a short distance outside of the city.
According to the peasants in the neighbourhood, ill-luck has always
followed those who lived there. If so, the spirit of the murdered
Count would seem to have been as dangerous in the nineteenth century
as it was in the twelfth.
Every morning here at Bruges, and elsewhere throughout our pilgrimage,
the Professor and I sallied forth between five and six o'clock to
explore as many of the by-ways and quaint out-of-the-way corners as we
could before breakfast. The sun rises in Belgium long before five, in
fact it is light as early as three in the summer time, but we found
very few people astir, and those who were up were usually engaged in
the morning scrubbing of floors and sidewalks--a fact that made us
keep pretty much to the middle of the road on these expeditions.
Cleanliness is certainly honoured next to godliness in Belgium, for
this morning ablution of the premises is universal--the big department
stores at Brussels observing the custom as faithfully as the tiniest
_estaminet_ in the remotest hamlet. Every one, rich and poor, performs
this rite, and the tourist could safely eat his breakfast off the
doorstep of any house when it is over. Nor is the rest of the interior
neglected, for every pot and pan that we could see within the little
houses as we passed their doors shone with a lustre that bespoke
perpetual polishing. On the other hand, the good vroue herself, or her
maidservant, was not so clean, and it is in this respect that the
people of Holland are superior, for they somehow manage to keep
themselves as immaculate as their little houses.
It was at Bruges that the Professor had his first experience with the
Belgian species of barber. Instead of the massive reclining chair,
with which all Americans are familiar, one finds in all parts of
Belgium, save the big tourist hotels and resorts, stiff little
arm-chairs with immovable head rests that look as if they could never
serve the purpose for which they are intended. In point of fact they
do fairly well, once one becomes accustomed to them. Razors in
Belgium, however, are almost invariably dull--especially with the lady
barbers who abound in the smaller villages. Avoid these sirens if you
value your skin, for they certainly will slice off a bit of it. On
Sundays and holidays, it appears, their husbands officiate, but week
days the better half does her best to accommodate the public--but her
best is none too good, and the experience is usually a painful one for
the unwary tourist.
The shave over, the barber says, "S'il vous plaît, monsieur," or its
equivalent in Flemish, motioning meanwhile toward a small wash basin
that is placed in front of the chair. To the uninitiated this is
somewhat bewildering, but the professor desires that monsieur will
kindly wash his own face. The ablution performed, he proceeds to rub a
piece of alum over the face, after which he sprays it with perfumed
water, then dries and powders it much in the manner of the American
barber. When one becomes accustomed to this performance--which costs
two to three cents in the villages and five to ten cents in the large
towns--he is apt to prefer it to the American method. Certainly it is
vastly superior to the hot towel torture so deservedly caricatured
some years ago by Weber and Fields. In the smaller villages of the
industrial provinces we found that the first and second class
distinction that one encounters everywhere in Belgium extends even to
the barber's chair. The rough clad workman is simply shaved--a few
fierce scrapes with the razor and it is all over--and is left to wipe
off the remnants of lather as best he can, usually with a red bandanna
handkerchief. For this the charge is only two cents--the alum, the
spraying and the powder being reserved for first-class patrons only.
On our way back to the hotel from these early morning promenades the
Professor and I kept on the look-out for some _patisserie_ where
_brioches_ or _cuches au beurre_ could be had with a pot of coffee.
This formed our usual breakfast for, it may as well be admitted right
now, we did not feel that we could afford the extravagance of a
three-franc breakfast at the hotel. The ladies were ready to join us
by eight o'clock--before that hour it would be useless to look for a
place open for business--and we conducted them to the _patisserie_ we
had discovered. The _brioche_, it may be remarked, is a light spongy
preparation--half cake and half biscuit--while the _cuche au beurre_
is apparently made from a kind of light pie-crust, rolled thin and
built up in several layers with butter between. When served fresh and
hot from the oven the latter is most delicious, but when cold it is as
tough and soggy as a day-old griddle-cake. The usual charge for these
delicacies was five centimes (one cent) each, and as three made a very
substantial meal, and the coffee cost three or five cents per cup, our
total expenditure for four people was less than two francs. If, as
often happened--in addition to getting everything hot and
delicious--we were served on little tables out of doors with a view of
a cathedral or Hotel de Ville thrown in, we felt that we were getting
a very good bargain indeed.
Of the Bruges of Charles the Good the most important existing monument
is the great Cathedral of St. Sauveur, which was rebuilt by him after
having been partially destroyed by fire in 1116, the work being
completed in 1127. Probably very little of the structure as we see it
to-day dates from this period, as the edifice has been enlarged and
restored many times, much of it dating from the fourteenth and part
from the sixteenth century--the era when architecture in Flanders
flourished as never before or since. The tower was begun in 1116,
continued in 1358, and its upper portions added during the last
century, so that nearly eight hundred years elapsed before it was
finally completed in its present form. Many writers speak of this
tower as clumsy and unsightly, but to me it is one of the most
majestic and stately structures in Flanders. At any rate, there is no
other tower like it, and the way in which it lifts its castle-like
mass of tawny brick high above the tiny houses that surround it is
profoundly impressive. The lower part of the tower is Romanesque,
being, no doubt, the portion erected under the supervision of Charles
the Good. The rest is Gothic, if so unecclesiastical a style can be so
denominated.
The interior of St. Sauveur dates in the main from a much later period
than Charles the Good, and as we visited this interesting edifice
several times an account of its later constructions and paintings will
be found in a chapter devoted more particularly to the art treasures
of Bruges. It is not the purpose of this book to weary the reader with
detailed descriptions of this and every other "monument" in Flanders.
For those who are interested in architectural details there are
numerous works written by experts and discussing exhaustively--if not
exhaustingly--every feature of technical importance. Our little party
was not learned and these random jottings will therefore record only
such facts as seemed interesting to the average American visitor. Nor
would it be possible to attempt a detailed account of the pictures and
sculptures, either at St. Sauveur or elsewhere. Many of the great
Flemish churches are literally museums of early Flemish art and a mere
catalogue of their contents would fill many pages. For the most part
the works are of mediocre merit, but nearly every church possesses one
or more masterpieces--which the uninformed visitor can generally
distinguish by the fact that a charge is made to uncover them. At
times this practice becomes a bit annoying, particularly when--in
addition to paying the fee--one has to hunt around for half an hour to
find the sacristan, who may live two or three blocks away; but, after
all, it is the tourist who is under obligation for the privilege of
visiting the churches when they are closed to the general public, and
all the fees in Flanders add only a trifle to the expense account of
one's tour.
In St. Sauveur on the occasion of our first visit we were especially
interested in a curious painting of the Crucifixion located in the
Baptistry and said to be the earliest picture of the famous Bruges
school in existence. The savants assign a date prior to 1400 to this
work, the author of which is unknown.
The name of Charles the Good is also associated with the Church of
Notre Dame, part of the present structure dating from his reign. The
bulk of the edifice was erected during the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries. The spire was begun in 1440, torn down and rebuilt, being
finally completed nearly a century later. There is a legend that the
architect, in despair over the fact that it leans considerably to the
east, threw himself from its summit. At present it is one hundred and
twenty-two metres in height, which is said to be the greatest
elevation ever attained by a structure of this kind built of brick. It
can hardly be described as beautiful, the dark red of the top portion
being out of harmony with the rich tawny grey of the lower part, but
it forms a splendid feature in the sky-line of the city. Perhaps the
most charming view of it is that obtained from the opposite side of
the Lac d'Amour. Another excellent point of view is from the Dyver
with the outline of the tower, reflected in the still waters of the
Roya.
The interior of this church is, like the tower, built of brick, only
the great supporting pillars being of stone. The general effect of
the interior is greatly marred by a wooden rood-loft that separates
the nave from the choir. In this church there is an interesting
"Adoration of the Magi" by Daniel Seghers, a painter of the later
Antwerp school, who became a Jesuit but continued to practise his art
and was especially renowned for the flowers and butterflies with which
he adorned his pictures. This work, which was finished in 1630, is
thought by many to be the artist's masterpiece. Another notable
treasure is the statue of the Virgin and Child by Michael Angelo,
executed in 1503.
[Illustration: TOMB OF MARIE OF BURGUNDY, CHURCH OF NOTRE DAME,
BRUGES.]
The most famous of the possessions of Notre Dame, however, are the
superb tombs of Charles the Bold and his daughter Marie of Burgundy,
to be seen only by paying a small fee to enter the chapel in which
they are placed. That of Marie is the older, and by far the finer of
the two, and consists of a sarcophagus of black marble upon which
rests a life-sized recumbent figure of the famous princess--"the
greatest heiress in Europe"--who died at the age of twenty-five as a
result of an injury received when hunting in 1482, less than five
years after her marriage to Maximilian who later became Emperor. At
the command of her son, Philip the Handsome, this masterpiece of
stone and bronze was begun by Pierre de Beckère in 1495 and completed
in 1502. Around the altar-tomb are exquisitely carved statues of
saints and angels, with twining plants and scrolls and the heraldic
shields of all the provinces and not a few of the cities within
Marie's wide domains. The figure of the princess lies above all this
with her hands folded as if in prayer, a crown upon her head and two
hounds lying at her feet. The bronze has been cunningly carved to
represent the finest lace and richly gilded until it seems to be pure
gold. The body of Charles the Bold was brought from Nancy in 1550 at
the command of Charles the Fifth, his grandson, and eight years later
the funeral monument was begun by order of Philip II. It was completed
in 1562, and is designed in imitation of that of Marie. The figure of
"the terrible Duke" is shown clad in armour, with his helmet at one
side and a lion crouching at his feet.
"Here, in this little chapel," said the Professor, "one can see the
beginning and the end of the most interesting period in the long
history of Bruges, the alpha and omega of her greatness. At the time
of Charles the Good the little Bourg on the Roya was slowly emerging
from obscurity and beginning to assume the aspect of a great capital.
For three hundred and fifty years its power and fame grew until 'the
Venice of the North' was everywhere recognised as one of the most
beautiful and brilliant cities in the world. Then suddenly, almost
within the span of a single generation, the fickle sea abandoned it
and it became the quiet inland city that it is to-day, living largely
upon the memories of its splendid past. When the beautiful Marie was
brought home to the Princenhof, dying from her fall at Wynandael, the
decline had already begun, and when the remains of her father were
placed beside her here in Notre Dame the end had already come and the
city's merchants and prosperity had departed."
CHAPTER IV
HOW BRUGES BECAME "THE VENICE OF THE NORTH"
After the murder of Charles the Good had been so thoroughly avenged,
the King of France sought to foist one of his own underlings upon the
people of Flanders, but they would have none of him, and he fell
fighting before the gates of one of the Flemish cities. Dierick of
Alsace was the popular hero and became Count on the death of this
rival. The King of France sought once more to interpose, but the
burghers of Bruges retorted proudly: "Be it known to the King and to
all princes and peoples, and to their posterity throughout all time,
that the King of France hath no part in the election of a Count of
Flanders."
Of all the Counts of Flemish blood Dierick proved to be the greatest
and the wisest who ever ruled over the land. During his long reign of
forty years (from 1128 to 1168) and that of his son, Philip of Alsace,
who ruled until 1191, the country prospered and grew rich. Both
princes encouraged commerce, industry and the arts, and were liberal
in their policy toward the cities. It was during this Golden Age of
Flemish history--the longest period of happiness the country ever
knew--that municipal charters were granted to the cities of Bruges,
Ghent, Ypres, Furnes, Gravelines, Nieuport, Dunkerque and Damme.
While the memory of Dierick of Alsace deserves to be fondly cherished
by the people of Flanders as that of a wise and liberal ruler, his
most famous exploit was bringing back the relic of the Precious Blood
from Jerusalem. Like most princes of his time, Dierick joined in the
Crusades, but, unlike many of them, he left his government so strong
and secure that no harm came to the country during his absence. It was
the second Crusade, and Dierick departed in 1147, and returned in
1150, bringing with him this relic, a portion of the most precious
possession of the Holy Church of Palestine, consisting of a small
crystal vial filled with what was alleged to be the blood of Christ,
preserved by Joseph of Aramathea who prepared the body for burial.
Deeming himself unworthy to bear so holy a relic, the Count entrusted
it to his chaplain, who never parted with it until the returning
crusaders delivered it to the chaplains of the court who placed it in
the chapel built by Baldwin of the Iron Arm, where it still remains in
its original receptacle.
On the 2nd of May every year from 1303 until now--save for a brief
interruption during the stormy times of the French Revolution--the
city of Bruges has celebrated its possession of this holy relic by the
great Procession of the Holy Blood. At first simply a religious
ceremony, the procession gradually took on spectacular features such
as the Flemings love, including representations of the Apostles, the
Nativity, King Herod, and so on. At present _La Noble Confrerie du
Precieux Sang_, or Honourable Society of the Holy Blood, is a very
wealthy and aristocratic organisation, even its affiliated members--of
whom there are several thousands, of every nationality--esteeming
their connection with it a great honour.
During the French Revolution mobs stripped the chapel of everything
that could be torn down or broken, leaving it such a wreck that the
municipal authorities were considering tearing it down, but were
happily prevented from doing so by Napoleon. The lower chapel was,
however, used as a jail for drunken and disorderly persons--and even
as a pound for stray dogs--until 1818. The upper chapel meanwhile was
roofless and windowless, a sad wreck of so ancient and famous a
structure. Both have since been restored, the lower--or Chapel of St.
Basil--being now just as it was in 1150, and, in the opinion of many
critics, "the most beautiful and perfect specimen of Romanesque
architecture in Europe." We had already inspected the lower chapel
while exploring the Vieux Bourg of Baldwin of the Iron Arm our first
day at Bruges, but had not spent much time in the upper one. Here the
most interesting object was naturally the chasse, or casket,
containing the holy relic after which the chapel is named. This is on
one side of the little museum of the chapel and is of silver-gilt,
standing four feet, three inches high. It was made in 1617 by a
silversmith of Bruges and, while not regarded as a masterpiece of its
kind, is very graceful and elegant. The chapel itself is richly
decorated and has some excellent stained glass windows, all of this
work dating from the middle of the last century.
Adjoining the Chapelle du Saint-Sang is the Hotel de Ville. This
structure is a very fine example of Flemish municipal architecture,
dating from the last quarter of the fourteenth century. Here the
Counts of Flanders formerly took the oath to respect the rights and
privileges of the city, this formality taking place in the last window
to the right. Originally there were statues of former princes on the
façade and six of these were coloured by Jean Van Eyck in 1435. All
were destroyed during the Revolution. Part of the interior is still
used by various government officials, while up-stairs the tourists
usually visit the ancient Salle Echinivale, or Council Chamber. This
was restored in 1895 and decorated with a series of twelve mural
paintings representing notable scenes in the history of the city. Of
these eleven are by Albrecht de Vriendt, and the last by his brother,
Julian, the first artist dying just before his work was completed. As
these pictures form an interesting epitome of the history of the city,
the subjects are given herewith:
1.--Return of the Brugeois from the Battle of the Golden
Spurs at Courtrai in 1302.
2.--Foundation of the Order of the Golden Fleece by
Philip of Burgundy at Bruges in 1430.
3.--Dierick of Alsace bringing the Holy Blood to the
chapel of St. Basil in 1150.
4.--The interior of the ancient Hospital of St. Jean.
5.--Magistrates of Bruges renewing the privileges of the
Hanseatic League.
6.--Count Philip of Alsace granting a charter to Bruges
(1190).
7.--Magistrates visiting the Studio of Jean Van Eyck
(1433).
8.--The printing by movable type in Bruges by Jean
Britto in 1446.
9.--Count Louis of Maele laying the foundation of the
Town-hall (1376).
10.--Jacob Van Maerlant, father of Flemish poetry, born
at Damme.
11.--The Free-fair.
12.--Opening of the new Zwyn canal in 1404.
[Illustration: _Palais du Franc, Bruges_]
One of the most interesting of the almost innumerable mediæval
buildings in Bruges is the Palais du Franc which, with its many quaint
turrets and gables, overlooks the fish market on the Quai Vert. The
associations and history of this sumptuous bit of sixteenth century
architecture date from the twelfth century--1190 to be exact--when
Philip of Alsace granted a charter to the region stretching to the
northward from the city to the sea, and from Aardenburg (now just
across the Dutch frontier) to Dixmude. This wide tract of territory
was called the Franc or Liberty of Bruges, and comprised ninety-one
parishes and the towns of Ostende, Blankenburghe, Eccloo, Lissweghe,
Aardenburg, Sluys and Dixmude. Of these only the first two are known
to the tourists of the present day, while one must needs search the
map very closely to find one or two of the others at all, but in the
time of Philip all were busy centres of trade and industry. This was
the hereditary land of the Karls, whose revolt against the attempt of
Charles the Good to force them under the feudal yoke cost that monarch
his life.
The charter was called the _Keurbrief_ and laid the foundation for the
administration of a code of justice that, rude as it was, meant
liberty for those who otherwise would have been utterly at the mercy
of any feudal lord or wandering knight. It was the _Magna Carta_ of a
large part of the Count's dominions and even its stern eye-for-eye and
life-for-life doctrine was tempered by equivalents in cash that might
be paid. The life of a Karl was worth twice as much as that of a monk
or priest, while for each injury there was an appropriate fine. He who
broke a dyke must lose the hand that did the damage, besides
forfeiting all his goods; for false weights the penalty was a fine of
three livres for each offence. Fencing one's property against game
entailed branding with a red hot iron, or trial by the Count--who
might confiscate the goods of the guilty party, but his life and
liberty were to be safe. This cruel game law was not repealed for
nearly three centuries, and must have entailed much hardship. On the
whole, however, the charter was liberal for its day, and the country
under it flourished exceedingly--a sure evidence of wise laws.
The Keurbrief was administered by the Magistrates of the Franc in the
Palais du Franc, which was therefore a sort of special court. The
present edifice is not the one erected by Philip, or used by him for
the purpose, but dates from the early part of the fifteenth century.
Part of it is still used as the Palais de Justice, but that part of
the present structure is for the most part modern. The most
interesting portion of the edifice, and the only one shown to
tourists, is the Court Room containing the magnificent Cheminée du
Franc, or chimney-piece, erected in honour of the Ladies' Peace
negotiated by Margaret of Austria while Regent of the Netherlands in
1529. The work was executed from designs by Lancelot Blondeel, a
painter of Bruges, and was completed in 1530. The fireplace itself is
of black marble, surmounted by a frieze in white marble containing
four bas-reliefs representing the history of the chaste Suzanne. One
cannot but wonder what was the connection of thought that suggested
this story in conjunction with the commemoration of the Treaty of
Cambrai, but at all events here it is. The reliefs are of varying
excellence, the one showing Suzanne about to be seized by her aged
admirers being very sharp and clear, while the fourth which shows the
culprits being stoned to death is rather indistinct.
The upper part of the monumental chimney is of oak and occupies almost
the entire side of the room. In the centre stands Charles V,
represented as a Count of Flanders, nearly life size and finely
carved. At his right are statues of Maximilian and Marie of Burgundy,
and at the left Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile--these
being the Emperor's ancestors on his father's and mother's sides
respectively. On the throne behind the Emperor are the busts of Philip
the Handsome and Joanna of Spain, his father and mother, and below
these are the portraits in small medallions of Charles de Lannoy, who
won the victory of Pavia where Francis I, the King of France, was
captured, and Margaret of Austria, who negotiated the treaty. As the
last mentioned portrait is almost invisible in the shadow of the
Emperor it hardly seems as though the chimney-piece does justice to
the loyal and talented woman whose successful diplomacy the entire
work is intended to commemorate. As an example of sixteenth-century
wood-carving, however, and as a most important historical monument,
this chimney-piece is by no means the least interesting of the many
things to be seen at Bruges.
[Illustration: THE BELFRY, BRUGES.]
Unlike most tourists, the Professor seemed to be in no hurry to
inspect the famous Belfry, although we had passed it a score of times
during our stay. Facing the Grande Place, and towering three hundred
and fifty-three feet into the air, it could not be overlooked, while
its loud chimes--which rang every quarter of an hour, and can be heard
for many blocks around--insured that it could not be forgotten.
Moreover, we more than once took our evening meal at a little
restaurant just across the Place from it and saw its graceful
octagonal parapet on one occasion outlined against the fast-flying
grey clouds of a summer storm and the next day against the blue sky of
one of the few perfect June days it was our fortune to enjoy. "Too
soon," he said, in answer to our inquiring glances--"the Belfry
belongs to the period of Bruges' splendour, while the buildings we
have seen thus far date from the formative period when she was still
little more than a fortress on a marsh."
The original structure dates from the very early Counts of
Flanders--possibly from the time of the first Baldwin--but was
practically destroyed by a fire in the year 1280. It was then that the
present edifice was begun, at a period when the commercial and
industrial importance of the city was already very great. The city's
seal and archives were stored in a strong room within the belfry
walls, where four wrought iron doors secured by ten locks and ten keys
guarded them against abstraction by the emissaries of some Count who
might desire to curtail the privileges of the city. Eight of these
keys were kept by the deans of the eight leading guilds--the butchers,
bakers, shoemakers, tailors, weavers, brokers, carpenters and
blacksmiths--who thus virtually controlled the government. This room
the Professor desired to see above all else in the old structure. We
found the four wrought iron doors, but the archive chamber no longer
contains archives or the city's seal. It was a most interesting old
room, nevertheless, and one that ought to particularly interest the
builders of the elaborate burglar-proof and earthquake-proof vaults
that extend below so many great banking houses in America. Alas!
neither the four doors nor the ten locks rendered this ancient
strong-room for the protection of the city's liberties proof against
the cunning and power of tyrants, and the precious charters it once
held were gradually taken away, despite the stout handiwork of one
Erembald, blacksmith, who received eighty-one pounds for forging the
doors in the year 1290.
To reach the bells one mounts a steep, dark staircase which is said to
contain four hundred and two steps, although we did not count them.
The chimes are claimed to be the finest in Europe, and comprise
forty-nine bells weighing in the aggregate fifty-six thousand, one
hundred and sixty-six pounds. They were cast by George Dumery in 1743
and are noted for their soft tone. The _tambour_ which operates the
chimes that ring every quarter of an hour weighs nineteen thousand,
nine hundred and sixty-six pounds and is pierced by thirty thousand,
five hundred square holes in which are fixed the pegs that pull the
strings commanding the hammers hanging outside the bells. By altering
the position of these pegs the tunes can be varied, but the programme
played while we were in the city was as follows:
At the hour: "Rondo, 15th sonata," by Mozart; at the quarter past: "Le
Carillon de Dunkerque," a popular air; at the half: "The Day of
Happiness," by Mozart; at the three-quarters past: "The Three
Drummers," a Flemish popular air. The official bell-ringer is M. Toon
Nauwelaerts, a native of Lierre, where his ancestors have been
bell-ringers for more than a hundred years. Although a young man, M.
Nauwelaerts won an international competition of bell-ringers organised
by the city of Bruges in 1911.
The view from the summit of the Belfry is one of the most superb in
Flanders, especially if the visitor is so fortunate as to have fallen
on one of those days when the clouds roll in great fleecy masses of
dazzling white that form a wondrous background for the grim grey tower
of St. Sauveur and the tapering red spire of the cathedral. As one
looks down upon the sea of tiny red-roofed houses far below he is
transported in fancy to the time, centuries ago, when watchmen peered
off across these very parapets day and night to sound the alarm of an
approaching foe, or announce the approach of their mighty Count or
some noble visitor. In so doing he can realise what the old Belfry has
meant to the city on the Roya. "For six hundred years," wrote M.
Gilliodts, one of the city's learned archivists, "this belfry has
watched over the city of Bruges. It has beheld her triumphs and her
failures, her glory and her shame, her prosperity and her gradual
decay, and, in spite of so many vicissitudes, it is still standing to
bear witness to the genius of our forefathers, to awaken alike
memories of old times and admiration for one of the most splendid
monuments of civic architecture which the Middle Ages have produced."
The best time of all in which to study and admire the external aspect
of this noble structure is when the sun is sinking to rest and its
rays fall slantingly across the sombre pile of tawny brick, touching
up its projections here and there with high lights that contrast
sharply with the deep shadows behind them, and listen--as did so often
our poet Longfellow--to the wonderfully sweet chimes as they ring the
quarter hours:
"Low and loud and sweetly blended,
Low at times and loud at times,
And changing like a poet's rhymes
Ring the beautiful wild chimes
From the Belfry in the market
Of the ancient town of Bruges."
The Halles themselves, of which the Belfry is the chief ornament, are
notable for their considerable size, forming a rectangle one hundred
and forty-three feet broad and two hundred and seventy-six feet deep.
The archeological museum in one wing--which is in course of removal
to the Gruuthuise Palace--enabled us to see the interior of the
structure, the extent of which indicates the volume of business that
was transacted there when Bruges was known as "the Venice of the
North." The great commercial activity of Bruges during the period of
its prosperity, from the twelfth to the fifteenth centuries, was due
primarily to the fact that the Counts of Flanders decreed that it
should be the sole port of entry for the entire country. The burghers
quickly perceived the priceless value of this privilege, and by their
enterprise and liberality made the city the foremost metropolis in
Europe in the volume and variety of its international trade. With
London its relations were especially intimate and cordial, each city
granting to the merchants of the other privileges that in those days
were almost unheard of. For example, the merchants of Bruges in time
of war were granted forty days of grace in which to dispose of their
property and provide for their personal safety. On one occasion, while
a war was actually going on, they were given a special truce of ninety
days in which to traffic freely with the subjects of the King of
England. The reason for these unusual favours was that Bruges was the
great market where the wool of England, on which the prosperity of
the country depended, was disposed of. Not infrequently the archives
record instances where the Kings of England treated with the chief
magistrates of Bruges on terms of complete equality, as if with a
sovereign power.
Nor was England the only country represented in the market places of
Bruges during this period. The Doges of Venice often treated directly
with the Burgomasters of the Italian city's Flemish rival, while the
powerful Hanseatic League established here their chief establishment
for the Netherlands. The list of the "Nations," as the groups of
foreign merchants were called, makes curious reading at the present
day. There were English, Scotch, French, Lusitanians, Castilians,
Venetians, Genoans, Florentines; merchants from Aragon, Biscay, Lucca,
Milan, Lombardy and Navarre. The German merchants from the Hanseatic
towns of Lubeck, Hamburg, Cologne, Dantzig and Bremen numbered no less
than forty houses in the year 1362, while the Italian and Spanish
firms resident in the city were still more numerous. Many of these
concerns were among the foremost trading and banking houses of the
Middle Ages, with mercantile transactions extending into every part of
the known world and strong enough financially to loan money to
princes. When the Duke of Pembroke was captured by Du Guesclin in the
Hundred Years' War between England and France it was in Bruges that
his countrymen borrowed the seventy thousand pounds demanded as
ransom.
As befitted the first mercantile city in the world, business methods
were more advanced at Bruges than anywhere else. It is claimed that
the first insurance policies ever drawn up were devised and signed in
Bruges about the year 1300. A form of registration of land titles was
in use there as early as the fifteenth century. Its Bourse, or central
exchange for merchandise of all kinds, is claimed to have been the
first ever established.
In a single day in the year 1456 no less than 150 foreign vessels
arrived at Bruges through its canals and the River Zwyn, and while
these were, of course, small craft as compared to those of the present
day there was then no port in the world that could boast of an equal
quantity of shipping. Industrially, the town was no less important,
having some fifty thousand artisans belonging to fifty-two different
guilds.
The silting up of the Zwyn, rendering the approach and departure of
shipping difficult and uncertain, started a downward movement that
in less than a century destroyed all of this great activity and
prosperity. Had it come alone it is probable that the sturdy merchants
of Bruges would have found a way to overcome this adverse factor to
their continued success, either by digging a new channel to the sea or
by dredging, but misfortunes--as is their proverbial wont--did not
come singly. In 1488, as a result of a conflict between the city and
Maximilian, the stores and exchanges were closed for three months and
all business came to a standstill. Seven years later it was said that
nearly five thousand houses stood vacant and abandoned, no one caring
either to buy or rent them. One by one the great merchants of the city
closed their counting-rooms and went away; one by one the artisans
departed. The last of the "Nations" to desert the declining city was
the Hanseatic League, which stood by it loyally until 1516, when it
removed its offices to Antwerp, by that time the acknowledged
metropolis of the North.
[Illustration: THE MINNEWATER, BRUGES.]
The Minnewater, or Lac d'Amour, is--apart from its exquisite
beauty--of interest as another memento of the city's former commerce.
This was the chief harbour for shipping, and, no doubt, was thronged
with sailing craft, while its banks must have swarmed with merchants
checking their arriving or departing cargoes, stevedores carrying
bales and boxes to and fro, clumsy wagons and carts for transporting
merchandise to the warehouses of the city and all the varied noise and
bustle of a great seaport. It is strangely silent and deserted now,
and the grass grows tall around the round tower built in 1398 by Jan
van Oudenaarde, and the white swans float slowly and majestically
beneath the black arches of the adjoining bridge which is eight years
older than the tower. It is said that he, or she, who stands on the
central arch of this bridge at midnight and expresses a desire will
have the wish fulfilled, but we did not try it. Before leaving this
charming spot, however, we went along the banks of the little lake to
a point where, looking back, we had the round tower and the bridge in
the middle distance, the lake in the foreground, and the towers of the
city on the horizon. This view is, without doubt, the finest the old
town affords.
The visitor to Bruges who is interested in the past should devote at
least half a day to a pilgrimage to Damme, distant about an hour's
walk along the canal that leads from the new port of Bruges to the
sea. In 1180 this now all but forgotten town was made an independent
commune with two burgomasters, and for two centuries thereafter it
enjoyed a great and increasing prosperity. It became the chief
entrepôt for the great commercial city of Bruges during its period of
splendour, and most of the leading merchants maintained offices there.
Its warehouses were crowded with merchandise from every corner of
Europe--wines from France and Spain, beer from England, wool from
Scotland, silk from Italy, all manner of cloths and stuffs, spices of
all kinds, metals of every variety known to the metal workers of those
days, rare and precious goods of every description.
To-day the very scene of all this mercantile activity has vanished.
Gone are the busy warehouses, the docks and wharves, even the very
harbour in which--according to ancient chroniclers--a score of ships
of the largest size then built could anchor easily. All that remains
is a diminutive Grande Place surrounded by several ancient edifices,
and the ruins of a huge church. In the centre of the Place is a modern
statue of Jacob van Maerlant, called "the Father of Flemish Poets."
Fame has surely never played any more astounding trick than that out
of the great host who lived in this busy commercial town in the days
of its prosperity--portly burgomasters, skilled in winning the
plaudits of the populace; shrewd, far-sighted merchants grown rich
from the commerce with distant lands; skilled artisans and craftsmen
in a hundred guilds--all, all are forgotten, while an obscure poet,
whom very likely many of those who knew him derided as a fool, is
alone remembered as the one great man of Damme.
Facing the Grande Place is the ancient Hotel de Ville, which, in
addition to being the most notable monument of the dead town, is also
an estaminet where the living can get a little refreshment. The main
floor of this edifice is divided into three large rooms. The first one
is the estaminet, with its array of bottles and its beer pump
contrasting most incongruously with the remaining vestiges of its
ancient grandeur.
Adjoining this is a large, irregular and unfurnished room, bare of
ornamentation save for two corbels, or Gothic brackets, which support
the main rafters of the ceiling. These are of wood, elaborately
carved. One represents Van Maerlant in his study, seated at a desk,
with what M. Havard calls a "chaste Suzanne" bathing in a tub over his
head. The other shows King David with his harp, and is embellished
with sundry other figures.
The remaining room is by far the most interesting, for it was here
that Charles the Bold publicly betrothed Margaret of York. The room,
which is officially termed the _Salle des Délibérations_, or Council
Hall, has a fine old fireplace said to have been restored during the
seventeenth century. It is decorated with two female figures in hoop
skirts and bears the motto "_Parcere subjectis et debellare
superbos_." This quotation from Vergil (Æneid 6:853) sounds rather
pompous and out of place in the council chamber of this now completely
vanquished and ruined city, and must have seemed so even in the
seventeenth century, but it may have been a survival of an inscription
placed over the original fireplace in the days when Damme dared to
close its gates even against the men from Bruges itself, and the
puissant Counts of Flanders had to use force to compel it to open
them.
It was in the year 1468 that this room in which we are now standing
had its one great day and became, for a brief space, the setting of
one of those splendid mediæval scenes that bards and novelists so
fondly recall, and that--in our age of up-to-date inventions--the
moving-picture men are so busily reconstructing and re-enacting. The
Princess had landed at Sluys, near the mouth of the River Zwyn, where
the Duke of Burgundy paid her a brief visit in secret--possibly to see
what she looked like, for this was a marriage of state and intended to
further his far-reaching ambitions. Probably if she had been as homely
as a witch the wedding would have taken place just the same, but as
the reverse was the case the preliminary inspection must have been
very gratifying. The following day the royal lady and her company rode
to Damme in a fleet of barges gorgeously decorated with gold, rich
velvets and rare silks. Here she was lodged in this very Council
Chamber of the Hotel de Ville, and here the Duke came in great state
to perform the public ceremony of betrothal. The wedding ring was
given in the presence of the English Bishop who had accompanied the
Princess, and Charles announced that he would await her presence on
the morrow at Bruges, where the wedding itself was to be celebrated in
the Cathedral.
The wedding procession as it departed for Bruges the next day must
have been another brave sight for the proud citizens of Damme. The
bride, reclining in a litter borne by four white horses, wore a
magnificent gown of cloth of gold, a crown on her forehead, a jewelled
necklace, and a mantle clasped with precious stones. Around her
pranced her ladies of honour, mounted on white horses gaily bedecked
with crimson satin. Immediately behind this picturesque group came
five decorated chariots bearing a score of beautiful ladies from the
English court, and following these came the guard of honour, or
escort, provided by the Duke--a squadron of counts, barons and
knights, with their faithful squires, their horses covered with gold
and silver, the riders resplendent in bright coloured velvet and rich
lace. The good people of the Middle Ages dearly loved a pageant, and
this surely was one to rejoice the heart of every citizen of Damme,
for here was the pride of the chivalry of all Europe--fair ladies and
brave men from oversea and from every corner of the great Duke's wide
dominions--thronging the Grande Place as the procession formed, and
then falling into their respective places as the long line passed out
through the city gate and proceeded on the straight, tree-lined
_grande route_ that led to Bruges.
CHAPTER V
DIXMUDE AND FURNES
The tourist who desires to get away from the main thoroughfare of
European travel, to explore out-of-the-way corners, and discover for
himself wonders and beauties that the learned Mr. Baedeker never heard
of, cannot do better than to turn away to the westward from the great
Ostende-Brussels express route and visit the all but forgotten cities
of Dixmude, Furnes and Nieuport. All but forgotten, that is, in June,
1914. The world has heard of them since, and it will be many hundreds
of years before it forgets them again! These little places, which when
we visited them were nothing but sleepy and quiet country towns, were
great and prosperous cities in the period when Bruges was slowly
rising toward its zenith, and the Professor therefore decreed that
they must come next on our itinerary. We accordingly spent an evening
studying the _correspondences_, or connections, of the State Railway
and the _chemin de fer vicinal_, or local steam tramway, and started
at daybreak the next morning.
Right here it may be said that the Belgian State Railway did its best
to compensate us for whatever shortcomings we found in the weather or
in the country generally. Perfect its service can hardly be said to
have been, but it was excellent and amazingly cheap. Our party
purchased every two weeks _billets d'abonnement_ that cost us just
forty-one francs each, or about $8.00, and entitled us to ride on any
State-owned railway line in the country day or night for fifteen days.
These were second-class, the third costing twenty-three francs, and
first sixty francs. The last, by the way, is a useless luxury, as on
the local lines the first-class compartments are identical with the
second-class except for a white tidy placed at the back of the
cushions. Frequently there was not even the tidy, but the sign,
"_Reservé_--_Voorbehouden_," converted an ordinary second-class
compartment into first-class--a distinction that gave the traveller
very little for his money, save the privilege of riding alone.
On the main express routes that radiate outward from Brussels in every
direction there were a number of _rapides_, or fast express trains,
that made very good time indeed--a speed of a kilometre per minute
being about the average. On the international express trains, some of
which are first-class only, the speed was somewhat higher, but these
we never had occasion to use. After the _rapides_ came the express
trains, generally marked "_direct_" or "_semi-direct_," according to
whether or not they made any intermediate stops before reaching their
final destination. These were only moderately fast, and, if they did
stop anywhere, lingered so long that the time gained by their previous
speed was largely lost. Then came the type of local train called
_omnibus_ or _ordinaire_, that stopped at every station. To the
American these trains would seem astoundingly slow, even for a land
that is never in a hurry. Each stop is dragged out, minute after
minute, until it seems certain that either a terrible accident must
have occurred ahead, or the train crew has gone on strike. Actually,
more than once, we did see part of the crew returning from an
estaminet hard by whither they had gone to have a friendly glass.
Finally, however, the red-capped station master blows his whistle and
the train reluctantly pulls away. To make a trip of sixty kilometres
(forty miles) by one of these trains took, on more than one occasion,
two hours and a quarter, and the train arrived on time!
This last point is a feature of the Belgian railway trains. They are
almost invariably on time, and lateness is a matter for strict
examination on the part of the officials and severe penalties for
those responsible. However, there does not seem to be much credit
attached to being on time when the schedule allows for a stop of from
two to fifteen minutes at each station. The man primarily responsible
for the movement of the trains is not the conductor or engineer but
the _chef de gare_, or station-master. He, or his deputy if the
station is a large one with many trains, must be on hand when each
train pulls in, and give the signal for its departure. His dark-red
cap, embroidered with gold braid, is therefore in evidence at every
station, and until this high functionary gives the word no train
moves. As it is, each leaves exactly on time--but not a second before,
no matter if every passenger has been in place and the doors slammed
and fastened for the last five minutes!
The foregoing description of the Belgian State Railway refers, of
course, to the service as it existed down to the end of July. Since
then the destruction of tracks, bridges and tunnels by one army or
another has put most of the system out of operation. One of the
saddest phases of the war is that every one of the thousands of
employés of the Belgian State Railway--from the highest supervising
official to the humblest track walker--was working faithfully and
efficiently, and planning the future of his frugal life, upon the
assurance that promotion and an old-age pension would reward his zeal.
This obligation toward its employés the Belgian Government has ever
faithfully observed, and in the course of our travels we met many
middle-aged men who told us that they were looking forward to the day
when their terms of duty would end and they would be pensioned on half
pay to enjoy a few years of well-earned repose. Probably not one of
these men ever seriously dreamed that an event could occur that would,
in the course of a few swift weeks, blot out the record of his life
work, and deprive him of all opportunity for promotion, for pension,
and even for employment. No doubt the death toll of the battles on the
plains of Flanders has been heavy among these courteous, capable and
industrious men--many of whom were liable for military service in time
of war--but let us hope that peace, when it comes, will bring to each
survivor his old post again, with the old good service record
unforgotten, and that he will receive the pension he rightfully
expects and that his country would gladly give--at last.
To those who enjoy rambling through the byways of history there is no
town richer in associations, yet less spoiled by the visits of the all
but ubiquitous tourist, than Dixmude. At present this little city is
situated fifteen miles from the sea, yet all the ancient chroniclers
aver that prior to the thirteenth century it was a seaport with a
commerce overseas and a not inconsiderable fishing fleet. As one looks
across the miles and miles of pleasant fields, interspersed with
waving windmills and tiny villages, this part of the ancient city's
history seems utterly incredible, but it is too well authenticated to
be disputed. Ten times, so the histories tell us, Dixmude was besieged
and bravely defended by its citizens. More than once it was destroyed
by fire and rebuilt, but at last the blight that destroyed the
prosperity of its larger and more powerful neighbours, Ypres, Bruges
and Ghent, struck at the heart of its industries as well and it sank
by imperceptible degrees into its long sleep.
Like the abode of the Sleeping Princess, of whom Tennyson wrote, one
might almost fancy that all life had stopped centuries ago at the
wave of some magic wand. The summer's sun and winter's rain and snow
of half a thousand years have left but the faintest traces on its old
houses and its great parish church of St. Nicholas. The pride and joy
of this church is its altar screen, or _jubé_, said to have been
designed by Urban Taillebert, the architect of the Church of St.
Martin at Ypres and many other celebrated works of around the year
1600. There is also an "Adoration of the Magi" by Jordaens, and the
usual collection of minor works of art. To us, however, this old
church was far more interesting externally than within, its huge clock
tower resembling nothing else that we had seen in Flanders or
elsewhere. The Grande Place, from which one can obtain a fine view of
the old church with a row of Lilliputian houses nestling below it, is
big enough to accommodate all the present inhabitants of the town in
one corner. In its prime Dixmude is said to have had thirty thousand
inhabitants, and all the room on the Place was, no doubt, needed on
market days, but it does not have a fifteenth of that number now, and
the wide, grass-grown expanse of cobble-stones is entirely deserted.
The _jubé_, or altar screen, already mentioned, is the one great
"sight" of the little town, and every one asks without fail whether
you have yet seen it. It is assuredly well worth seeing, being
wonderfully graceful and dainty, and, perhaps, the finest thing of its
kind in Northern Europe. The other famous _chef d'oeuvre_ of Dixmude
is culinary instead of artistic. This is a kind of brioche called
_zieltjenskoeken_, or _gateaux d'ames_--a sort of "soul cooky," as it
were. Twice a year, on certain religious occasions, the inhabitants of
Dixmude consume vast quantities of these confections, which are
claimed to possess the property--if eaten on the prescribed days--of
delivering one's soul from purgatory and sending it straight to
Paradise. We were unfortunately unable to verify this, as our visit
did not come on the right day, but we found the butter of
Dixmude--which has enjoyed a great reputation for centuries--to be all
that was claimed for it, although the Professor insisted on putting a
shake of salt on his, to the great horror of the maid who served our
dinner.
Had some Madame Thebes told us what the near future had in store for
this sleepy and quaint old city we would have spent days instead of
hours in it, but last June its importance did not seem to justify
giving it a chapter so we planned to visit Furnes the same day.
To-day the name of Dixmude has been heard to the farthest ends of the
world, its great square echoes to the tramp of armed men, its old
church--after standing for so many centuries--is said to have fallen
before the withering storm of shrapnel and shells that for days rained
down upon its defenders. It has been taken and retaken by each side in
the gigantic combat more than once. It is asleep no longer, forgotten
no longer; and, in years to come, reverent visitors from many nations
will visit what may remain of the ancient town. For these the chief
interest will not lie in the walls of the ruined church or the relics
of the departed _jubé_, if any there be, but out in the open, pleasant
fields where, in trenches that the kindly hand of nature will
gradually obliterate, the brave men of four nations met in one of the
fiercest and bloodiest death grapples of the great war.
But last July both Madame Thebes and the cannon were silent, so again
taking our faithful _omnibus_ after the dinner--which we obtained at
one of the little restaurants overlooking the Grande Place--we next
journeyed northward to Furnes, which is only a few miles distant
across the flat Flemish plain. Furnes, according to the antiquarians,
dates from as early as the year 800, and its day of greatness had
come and gone centuries ago. Its crooked streets, quaint gabled
houses, and picturesque corners seemed more mediæval than any place we
had visited--surpassing even Dixmude in this respect. It was here, by
the way, that Leopold I was welcomed to the country when he arrived
after being chosen to be the first King of the Belgians in 1831. The
Hotel of the Nobele Rose, near the Grande Place, is said to have been
the Palace of the Countess Gertrude of Flanders in 1093, and if so,
must be one of the oldest houses in Flanders. The widow of Count
Philip of Alsace is also said to have resided here in 1218. More
celebrated, in years to come, than any of these incidents, will be the
fact that Furnes was for many months of the Great War the headquarters
of the brave Belgian army, and the place of residence of Belgium's
heroic King.
The great annual event at Furnes is the famous Procession, which takes
place the third Sunday in July. It dates from 1100 or thereabouts,
when, according to the legend, Count Robert of Flanders was on his way
back from the Holy Land, bringing with him a piece of the true cross.
His voyage across the Mediterranean, through the Straits of Gibraltar
and past the stormy Bay of Biscay, was without incident, but as he
was nearing home a fearful storm in the English Channel threatened to
send his frail bark to the bottom. The waves were running mountain
high and all the party expected each moment to be their last when the
Count suddenly bethought himself of his holy relic and vowed that, if
his life were spared, he would present it to the first church of which
he might see the spire.
Immediately the storm ceased, the wind died down, the sea became as
smooth as a mill-pond, and as the happy mariners looked toward the
shore of their dear Flanders a ray of sunlight fell upon the tower of
Ste. Walburge in Furnes. To this church, therefore, in fulfilment of
his vow, Count Robert presented the relic, now doubly precious by
reason of this miracle. To commemorate this event the canons of the
church organised a procession which took place every year and was
marked by various historical representations of the return of Count
Robert. About 1650 an act of sacrilege committed by a soldier, who was
publicly executed for his crime, led to the procession taking on
certain penitential features by way of expiation on the part of the
city for this sin. From that time on the procession has included
representations, for the most part by peasants dressed up for the
parts, of Abraham and the Prophets, the Flight into Egypt, the Visit
of the Three Wise Men to the Cradle at Bethlehem, so often painted by
the artists of the Flemish school, the Stable and the Birth of Christ,
the Court of Herod, Jesus in the Midst of the Doctors, the Penitent
Magdalen, the Entry of Christ into Jerusalem, the Feast at Cana, the
Garden of Olives, the Betrayal of Judas, and a series of scenes
representing the crucifixion, burial and resurrection. Following these
tableaux come the penitents, walking masked and barefooted, clad for
the most part in brown Capuchin robes, and singing or chanting certain
lines in Flemish. Many of the leading actors in the tableaux have
"speaking parts," all of them in Flemish and delivered with varying
degrees of histrionic skill to the crowd that lines the streets. The
whole performance, apart from its great antiquity, is of interest as
being a local and original representation of the Biblical story--a
sort of Flemish passion play, less refined and artistic than that of
the Swiss peasants of Oberammergau, but none the less conscientious,
earnest and sincere.
At one time Furnes ranked next to Ghent and Bruges among the cities of
Flanders in official importance, if not in population and industry,
its _châtellenie_ comprising fifty-two villages. In 1297 it was
besieged by Robert, the Count of Artois, who fell five years later at
the great battle of Courtrai. At Furnes the French arms were
successful and the city was captured and sacked, "more than two
thousand houses being burned in two days," according to the
contemporary chronicles. Philip the Bold, the first of the Burgundian
Dukes to rule over Flanders, rebuilt its fortifications, and the city
was deemed worthy under Philip the Good to be designated as the place
of residence of the French Dauphin, who subsequently became Louis XI,
when that remarkable young man was in exile through his father's
displeasure. It may well have been here that the wiliest and most
unscrupulous of all the Kings of France planned that tortuous and
secretive policy that--steadily pursued year after year--brought the
powerful House of Burgundy low at last and made France one nation
instead of two or three.
The quaint old Grande Place of Furnes, while smaller than that of
Dixmude, is equally picturesque. On one side is the old Meat Market,
dating from the first quarter of the seventeenth century; and hard by
is the _Maison des Espagnols_, or House of the Spaniards, formerly
used as a town-hall and erected in the thirteenth century. The
present Hotel de Ville also faces the Place and is well worth a visit,
although none of its rooms are sufficiently notable to merit a
detailed description. The ancient _Châtellenie_, now used as Court
House, was begun in 1612--the year the Hotel de Ville was
finished--and is chiefly memorable as the meeting-place of the Spanish
Inquisition. This body held its sessions in the antechamber on the
first floor and not in the main hall, which is decorated by a mural
painting by de Vriendt representing Philip the Fair swearing to
observe the rights and privileges of the city. The establishment of
the Inquisition by his namesake and grandson, Philip II, affords a
ghastly commentary on the manner in which that monarch kept the
similar pledges with which he began his reign. Another fine old
edifice on the Grande Place is the Belfry, square for half its height,
then octagonal, and finally surmounted by a bulbous spire, heavy and
clumsy, but none the less exceedingly quaint and picturesque. Not a
few of the ancient houses around the Place and in the adjacent streets
were sufficiently mediæval to have merited a visit had our stay in
this fine old Flemish town been longer; but, so far as we could
learn, none possessed any particular historical interest.
Besides Ste. Walburge, already mentioned--which was evidently planned
to be a cathedral, but of which only the choir was ever
completed--Furnes possesses the church of St. Nicholas, which has a
noble square tower, also unfinished. Both churches are disappointing
within, although the former is, no doubt, of great interest to
architects as an example of the ogival style, while the latter is
Gothic and dates from the fourteenth century. The choir stalls in St.
Walburge are notable examples of the Flemish woodcarvers' art,
although far less ancient than the church itself.
If the time of your stay is midsummer, as it will be if you come to
Furnes to see the Procession, do not go away without a day on the
dunes at Coxyde. This beach is less well known, as yet, than those at
Ostende, Heyst and Blankenburghe farther to the east but it is
increasing in popularity very rapidly. A land company, with head
offices at Brussels, is engaged in erecting summer houses among the
dunes which look too American in architecture and manner of
construction for this country where houses are generally built as if
intended to last a thousand years. A little _chemin de fer_
_vicinal_ runs from Furnes to Coxyde. In addition to the splendid
beach and the dunes, which have a dreary grandeur that is always
fascinating, the shrimp fishermen, or _pecheurs de crevettes_, will
make the short trip well worth while.
[Illustration: SHRIMP FISHERMEN, COXYDE.]
These weather-beaten men, with their rough oilskin hats and suits, are
the modern representatives of an ancient Flemish industry--shrimp
fishing having been carried on along these coasts literally from time
immemorial. They are very picturesque, both while at work on horseback
dragging in their nets, and while lounging along the shore, pipe in
mouth. Jean Delvin has a fine painting representing them in the Museum
at Ghent, while one of the most powerful of Meunier's statues is
devoted to the same subject.
CHAPTER VI
NIEUPORT AND THE YSER CANAL
When the war is over, and the era of commemoration begins, Belgium, if
she is free, should erect at Nieuport, close to the great locks that
mark the outlet of the Yser Canal--or at some point along the canal
where the fighting was the fiercest--a monument higher than that at
Leipzig where the Germans recall their victory over Napoleon, higher
than the great lion that guards the field of Waterloo. At its summit
should stand a heroic-sized figure in imperishable bronze of a Belgian
infantryman, one of the round-capped "demons" whose indomitable will
and unwavering courage held this last bit of Belgian soil against
overpowering numbers for days. It was here that Germany's magnificent
rush from Antwerp to the Channel ports was stopped, and it was the
last remnant of the little Belgian army that, turning on its foe like
a lion at bay, hurled back every assault until the little Yser Canal
ran red and until, at last, the great reinforcing hosts of the allies
came.
The little straggling town of Nieuport, peaceful and sleepy as it
looked last summer, is not a stranger to battles and sieges. In the
time of William the Conqueror Lombartzyde, now a little hamlet on the
_chemin de fer vicinal_ behind the dunes from Nieuport to Ostende, was
the shipping port of this region, but great storms filled the harbour
with sand and the citizens established a "New Port" on another branch
of the Yser in 1160. It was fortified three years later, and for
several centuries was one of the strong towns defending the Low
Countries on the French frontier. Its strategic importance made it the
scene of many battles and sieges. It was destroyed by the English and
their allies, the men of Ghent, in 1383. The lonely tower or Donjon of
the Templars, standing on the edge of the town, is all that remains of
a monastery of that order which was ruined at that time.
The city itself, however, was quickly rebuilt, and among other
memorable sieges beat off a great French force in the year 1489. In
1568 the Spanish, under Condé, beat a French army commanded by Turenne
not far from the city. Another famous fight before the walls of the
old town took place in the year 1600 during the long war between Spain
and her revolted Provinces. Count Maurice of Nassau, at the head of
twelve thousand men from the United Provinces, had invaded Flanders,
which still remained under the power of Spain, and marching rapidly
from the Scheldt past Ostende, proceeded to besiege Nieuport. The
Archduke Albert, hastily raising an army of fifteen thousand
Spaniards, advanced unexpectedly on the Dutch, who were taken
completely by surprise. Perceiving that he was caught in a trap, Count
Maurice--in order to give his men the courage of despair--ordered the
Dutch fleet to withdraw, and told his soldiers that they must either
conquer or "be prepared to drink all the water behind them."
Meanwhile an advance guard of the Dutch army was driven back by the
advancing Spaniards who, thinking they had met the whole army, sent
couriers to Bruges and Ghent announcing the victory. Bells were rung
to celebrate the Archduke's supposed success which, as the event
proved, was a strategic victory for Nassau as it delayed the enemy
several hours. It was three o'clock in the afternoon when the
advancing Spaniards found themselves face to face with the main army
of the republic, drawn up on the very beach outside the city walls.
Perceiving their sturdy ranks and unyielding front the Archduke
hesitated, but the Spaniards urged him not to let them lose their
prey, whom they regarded as hateful rebels and heretics.
Thus encouraged, the Archduke gave the order to advance and the battle
soon became general. The fate of the day was decided by the artillery
of the Dutch which, by a fortunate order of their far-sighted
commander, had been lifted off from the sand and mounted on platforms
made from boughs, brush and such timber as was handy. That of the
Archduke, mounted in haste directly on the beach, embedded itself in
the sand at each discharge until it became useless, while that of the
republicans became more accurate and deadly. At the same time the rays
of the setting sun falling directly in the eyes of the Spanish
soldiers, who were facing westward, blinded them and caused them to
fire wildly. The Archduke performed prodigies of valour, having two
horses killed under him and being himself slightly wounded, but as
darkness began to fall on the bloody beach Count Maurice ordered a
charge by a force of cavalry he had held in reserve. This fresh force
proved irresistible, the Spanish lines began to give way on all sides,
and the retreat quickly turned into a rout. Even the proud Archduke
had to seek safety in flight, and the day, which had begun so
auspiciously, ended in one of the greatest disasters of the disastrous
war.
Nieuport and its sister cities in this, until lately, half-forgotten
corner of Flanders were, in former times, renowned for other contests
happily less bloody than these famous battles. Here, during the Middle
Ages, flourished a group of societies devoted to rhetoric. In place of
the still more ancient tourneys, where armed knights fought with lance
and sword, these "Chambers of Rhetoric" held annual contests of
oratory. From one end of Flanders to the other the movement spread;
and these debating societies did much to cultivate a regard for
learning and dialectic skill among the mass of the population. Sternly
suppressed by Alva, implacable foe of every form of free thought,
these societies were revived after the Spanish scourge was withdrawn,
and some of them continue to the present day.
The visitor who wandered around the long, slightly hilly streets of
the Nieuport of last July would have had little trouble in locating
plenty of the "monuments" of its famous past, although the beach has
now receded two or three miles to the northward and pleasant fields
extend along the edge of the wide marshes which then were probably
part of the sea. A curious old lighthouse with a pointed tower stands
about midway between the present town and Nieuport _Bains_, as the
beach town is called, showing where the coastline lay some three
hundred and fifty years ago. Even this spot is now too far inland for
the light to be seen at sea and a new lighthouse has been built on the
rampart of dunes that runs, like a miniature mountain range, almost to
Ostende toward the east, and westward to Coxyde and beyond.
[Illustration: TOWER OF THE TEMPLARS, NIEUPORT.]
Our first visit at Nieuport was to the Tower of the Templars, a huge
square pile of brick standing in the midst of a potato patch. This
prosaic environment detracted not a little from the sentimental
interest of the edifice, and we were unable to get into the structure,
although one of the gens d'armes of the village was said to have a key
to the low wooden door at its base. Equally disappointing was a visit
to the ancient _Halle aux Draps_, or Cloth Hall, now used on certain
days as a local butter market. Here again, the door was locked and no
one seemed to know who had the key. Curiously enough, although
situated very close to the French frontier, we found in this little
town and its neighbours, Dixmude and Furnes, very few people who
understood French. Flemish is the universal language hereabouts
apparently, but it was only on this little trip that we were at all
inconvenienced by our inability to speak it. Elsewhere in
Flanders--even at Ypres and Audenaerde, where our friends said we
would have trouble--we were able to make our French universally
understood.
On the Grande Place, close to the Cloth Hall, we found a little inn,
called the Hotel du Pelican, where the Professor proposed that we
should get some liquid refreshment. We failed, however, to obtain any
response to our raps and thumps on the door, and concluding that the
establishment must be run for pelicans only we took ourselves and our
patronage elsewhere. The Church of Notre Dame, which stands just off
the Grande Place, we found to be a most quaint and interesting old
structure dating, it is said, from the thirteenth century. While less
imposing externally than St. Nicholas at Furnes its massive square
baroque tower was very striking, and formed a fine picture in
conjunction with the more slender tower of the Cloth Hall hard by. The
approach to the main entrance of the church was beneath some lofty
trees and we did not see a solitary human being either outside of the
edifice or within it. This church has an interesting _jubé_ or rood
loft, a fine wooden pulpit, and we also noticed a curious winding
stairway that seemed to lead upward within one of the pillars at the
intersection of the transept and the choir. As the tower is not built
at this point, but at one end of the edifice, it was quite a mystery
where this stairway went and what its purpose might be, but as it
seemed exceedingly narrow and dark we did not explore it, nor did we
find any one to whom we could apply for information about it.
It was in this church, by the way, or possibly in one of those at
Dixmude or Furnes, that the Madame developed a violent antipathy to a
certain painting that seems to be one of the most cherished
possessions of nearly every church in Flanders. As old Cotton and
Increase Mather delighted in scaring and harrowing their audiences
with word pictures of the tortures of the burning fiery pit, so nearly
every old Flemish artist seems to have delighted in portraying most
vividly the sufferings and martyrdoms of the saints, and one subject
in particular appears to have caught the fancy of every one of them.
This was the beheading of John the Baptist. At times the head is shown
rolling in the dust or mire of the street, at times it is represented
as being served on a platter--but to one and all of these works of art
the Madame objected. This circumstance added not a little to the
happiness of Mr. and Mrs. Professor, who were continually contriving
to lead her artfully around to inspect some new wonder, which proved
to be another representation of this agreeable scene. As works of art
they were nearly all atrocities, but as jokes on the Madame they were
one and all great successes, and it was really surprising how many of
them there were.
The Hotel de Ville, a somewhat commonplace looking structure, is said
to contain a small collection of paintings, but we were unable to make
any of the phlegmatic gens d'armes whom we found lounging close by
take enough interest in our questions to inform us where admission
might be obtained. In fact the whole town seemed singularly
uninterested in tourists, apparently caring not a bit whether they
came or stayed away. While the war will undoubtedly change this, still
any one desiring to visit it will do well to make the trip from
Ostende or Furnes, returning for the night to some point where hotel
accommodations are more adequate. In our case we went over to Ostende,
where there are many good hotels. No doubt a pleasant week or month
could be spent in this corner of Flanders, but for such a stay the
best plan would be to go to one of the many little seaside resorts
between Coxyde and Ostende for one's hotel or pension, and explore the
hinterland from there.
The ride by the little _chemin de fer vicinal_ from Nieuport to
Ostende is a very interesting one. At the outset the line crosses the
huge locks that join the canals to Ostende and Furnes with the tidal
river Yser. There are seven or eight bridges in all, the different
canals and channels being separated by tiny islands. Had Madame Thebes
only suggested that we explore the Yser Canals while we were there
last July how much more interesting this part of the book would be!
Unfortunately they looked then much as hundreds of other Belgian
canals had looked and we gave them only a passing glance. While the
newspapers in their accounts of the great battle of Flanders usually
spoke of the Yser Canal as though there was but a single canal, in
reality there are three canals that flow into the tiny Yser River at
this point. One of these runs parallel with the coast to Ostende, and
then onward to Bruges and beyond; the second runs behind the range of
dunes westward to Furnes, where it divides and crosses the French
frontier in two branches, one going to Bergues and the other to
Dunkerque. It is the third branch that achieved immortality in the
Battle of Flanders. This runs straight inland, at right angles to the
other two, following the tortuous channel of the old river much of the
way to Dixmude. A short distance beyond Dixmude the canal ceases to
follow the River Yser, which here flows eastward from a source well
across the French boundary, and ascends the Yser's smaller tributary,
the Yperlée, to Ypres. It did not seem like very much of an obstacle
from a military standpoint, but brave hearts can make the most of a
small advantage. Below the big locks the little river runs in its own
bed to the sea. Here the tide was out the day of our visit and a few
small fishing boats were lying tipped over sideways in the mud, while
two or three English ladies were busily sketching the not
over-picturesque scene. There will be a great many people sketching in
this vicinity by and by!
About two miles from Nieuport the train passes the church of
Lombartzyde, within which is a statue of the Virgin known among
mariners far and wide as the _Bonne Mére de Lombartzyde_, and who is
devoutly believed able to protect the faithful seaman from perils by
sea, to aid the farmer in his harvest, to cure the sick and succour
the distressed. Many are the little ships, patiently carved by fingers
hardened by toil and exposure, that have been reverently hung before
the good Virgin's shrine. There are perhaps fewer now than formerly,
but faith in her protection and power is still strong and will
probably always continue to be so, for the Flemings are intensely
loyal to the church.
Not a few of those who visit these little towns, rich in mementoes of
the past, but otherwise apparently very sleepy and dull, wonder what
the inhabitants do for amusement. No one who has ever spent a Sunday
in a Belgian country village need ask this question. From one end of
the country to the other, in the Borinage or mining provinces of the
southwest as well as in the Flemish counties of the north, the male
population devotes the greater part of the day to what may
unhesitatingly be termed the Belgian national sport--archery. In the
early part of the Middle Ages Flemish archers were as famous as the
longbowmen of Merrie England, and on many a hard fought field they
gave a good account of themselves. Curiously enough, the archery
societies into which they formed themselves for practice have survived
all the wars and changes of the centuries, have continued in spite of
the invention of gunpowder and the perfection of firearms--an industry
in which Liége, in southern Belgium, has led all other cities--and
seem to be as vital a part of the national life of the country as ever
they were. The fact that the bow and arrow is an anachronism troubles
your Belgian peasant not at all; he shoulders his long bow as
cheerfully on a Sunday morning as if he were carrying the latest model
of smokeless powder repeater, with Maxim silencer and all modern
improvements, instead of a weapon that was out of date and useless
five hundred years ago.
As practised in Belgium, archery contests are carried on in two ways.
There is first what is known as the _Tir á l'oiseau_ or _Perche_. In
the centre of the village green of the smaller towns, and in some open
space in the suburbs of the larger places, the traveller cannot fail
to notice what looks like a flag pole, the top of which, however,
tapers to a slender point, from just beneath which four short arms
point upward diagonally, while three cross arms are placed
horizontally below them. On these are fixed the _oiseaux_, or
birds--blocks of cork covered with tinsel or gaily-coloured paper,
each with a tuft of feathers stuck at the top. The archers gather
below the pole and shoot upward, aiming at the "birds" and
endeavouring to knock them off cleanly. Each shoots in turn, and the
prizes--which have been duly announced by posters for days
beforehand--go to those capturing one of the "birds," the value
varying according to its position. In the contests entitled "_Tir du
Roi_," the archer bringing down the last bird wins the largest prize
and is called the "_Roi_," or King, and as by that time the archers
have one and all consumed a goodly portion of their favourite
beverages there is general hilarity--especially if the victor is a
popular favourite. Immemorial custom decrees that the King should deal
liberally with his subjects and dispense in libations whatever sum he
may have gained as a prize, after which he is usually escorted, or if
necessary carried, home in great state with a band in advance and all
the members of the contest following in a disorderly, but jolly,
crowd.
The second form of contest is known as the "_Tir au berceau_," and
consists of shooting at a target. The birds, in this case, are
fastened about the bull's eye. The archers stand at a distance of one
hundred metres from the target, which is usually placed at the rear of
a walled court or garden. Generally a series of wooden arches placed
at intervals along the line of fire serve to arrest any arrows that go
wild, while the back of the target is reinforced strongly with straws
about a foot long laid lengthwise with the line of the shooting and
packed under great pressure. There is invariably a public café or
estaminet attached to the places where archery contests _au berceau_
are conducted, while such places are always found close by the spot
where a _Tir á l'oiseau_ takes place. Between shots the men consume
liberal quantities of lambic, faro, or the beer of some neighbouring
brewer, and discuss politics or the news of the day. A circumstance
that renders disorders comparatively rare is that each archery society
consists of men of a single party. The Catholics have their favourite
places that are patronised exclusively by Catholics, while the
Socialists in the southern provinces, where that party is strong, have
their own societies and places of rendezvous. The clergy are heartily
interested in the Catholic contests, giving liberal prizes and
attending in considerable numbers to cheer the victors and console the
vanquished.
During the early part of the war numerous references were made in the
despatches to the marvellous accuracy of the Belgian riflemen. To one
who has attended scores of these archery contests it is not surprising
that the Belgians are good shots. Out of date though the bow and arrow
is, yet the sport cannot fail to train the eye and hand, and constant
rivalry in such a pastime has made the Belgians literally a nation of
sharpshooters. On one occasion the writer and a friend took a couple
of shots with a carbine in one of the little shooting galleries that
accompanied a village kermesse. We both missed. A young man standing
by, who worked in the village sugar mill, politely asked which of the
various pipes and other objects we were aiming at. We indicated one of
them and, zip! his bullet had shattered it. Half a dozen shots in
quick succession at different objects we pointed out proved equally
accurate. It was an exhibition of marksmanship such as one frequently
sees on the stage in the United States, but being made by a casual
bystander in a village street it was most impressive. Nor was the lad,
as I took pains to inquire, noted particularly for his skill in this
direction--having seldom won prizes in the official contests.
All ages join in this sport, the small boys erecting diminutive poles
in the fields around the villages, where they imitate their elders
with toy bows and arrows, while men of seventy or eighty take their
turn with beardless youths in the prize competitions. While I was
visiting in the Borinage two years ago the uncle of my hostess
shouldered his two-metre bow and started off to a "meet" despite his
eighty-seven years. What is more, his hand had lost none of its
strength and firmness, and his eyes none of their keenness, for twice
while I was present he brought down one of the "birds," and I later
learned that he had won one of the principal prizes. Only the year
before he had been crowned "King" at one such contest, and the first
time he ever won that coveted honour was when he was sixteen--or
seventy-one years before. I doubt whether there is any athletic game
in the world of which the devotees can point to a longer record of
success.
This fine old athlete had two brothers older than himself alive at the
time, the combined ages of the three aggregating two hundred and
eighty years. One of them, aged ninety-four, recently expressed some
anxiety as to what would become of him in the event of the death of
the daughter with whom he was living.
"What will I do if Amèlie should die?" he asked of one of his other
daughters.
"Why, papa, then you would come and live with me," she replied,
adding with a flash of characteristic Belgian humour, "and when I am
dead you'll go to live with Fèlicienne" (a grand-daughter still in her
'teens). As this provided safely for his future for at least another
fifty years, the old gentleman was greatly relieved, feeling perhaps
that if he survived Fèlicienne her children would by that time be old
enough to take care of him.
While archery is everywhere the dominating pastime of the working
class it is by no means the only form of popular amusement. The
bicycle has not yet gone out of vogue in Belgium, and societies exist
in hundreds of cities and communes for the encouragement of bicycle
racing. The day of our arrival in the village where Tante Rosa spread
for us the banquet mentioned in the second chapter, we were so
fortunate as to witness the final sprint of a twenty-five kilometre
race. A score of contestants had pedalled ten times over a course
consisting for the most part of roadways paved with ragged
cobble-stones, the rest being dirt roads filled with mud puddles owing
to a recent rain. The riders, as they rushed by, were literally
covered with mud and had evidently struggled hard to gain one of the
five prizes which aggregated, as we afterwards learned, the
munificent sum of eighty francs, sixteen dollars, of which the winner
received thirty--six dollars!
Another favourite form of recreation is the racing of pigeons, and
societies for the promotion of this sport exist in every part of the
Kingdom. Frequently the birds fly from one end of the country to the
other and many examples of remarkable speed have been reported, the
winners bringing comparatively high prices:
No better idea of the variety of popular amusements can be given than
to take the programme of one little commune that I had an opportunity
of copying, entitled "_Fêtes Communales de 1914_"--this announcement
being printed in French and Flemish. While many of the events were
evidently organised by various societies the officials of the commune
assumed responsibility for the proper conduct of the contests, and
either provided the prizes or contributed a substantial sum toward
them, the rest being raised by a fee exacted from each contestant
which varied from one franc, thirty centimes for the smaller events to
five francs for the more important ones. With one hundred contestants
this would yield one hundred and thirty francs, to which the commune
usually added fifty, making one hundred and eighty francs available
in all. For the chief events the prizes aggregate 1,000 to 2,000
francs--quite a respectable sum for a commune of six thousand
inhabitants. The difference between archery contests _au berceau_ and
_à la perche_ has already been explained. The programme, much
abbreviated, follows:
Sun., Apr. 19.--Archery contests, both au berceau and
perche.
Sun., Apr. 26.--Archery contest, au berceau, and rifle
contest (carbines).
Fri., May 1.--Fête du Travail (Labor Day) Archery
contest and popular ball on a public
square in the evening--dancing in
the street, rain or shine.
Sun., May 10.--Rifle contest.
Thurs., May
21.--Archery contest.
Sun., May. 24.--Annual Fair with archery contests of
both kinds, rifle contest and grand
concert in evening with two bands.
Sun., May 31.--Kermesse, with archery contests of both
kinds and a popular out-door ball in
the evening.
Sun., June 7.--Bicycle Race--outdoor course around
the village ten times, 25 kilometres.
Sun., June 14.--Archery contest au berceau and Tir du
Roi (perche).
Sun., June 21.--Kermesse in another quarter of the commune,
with rifle contest and concert in
evening, followed by popular ball.
Sun. to Tues.,
July 5, 6, 7,--Annual Kermesse in the centre of the
commune, with archery contest (perche)
on Sunday, au berceau on Monday, and
Tir du Roi with public games and
sports on Tuesday. Itinerant amusement
enterprises of all kinds make
these annual kermesses a miniature
Coney Island while they last.
Sun., July 26.--Tir du Roi and Grand Fête Gymnastique,
followed by concert, Fête de Nuit and
a ball.
Sun., Aug. 9.--Fête d'Enfance, distribution of prizes to
school children with public exhibition
of school gymnastics, etc.
Sat. and Sun.,
Aug. 15 and
16.--Kermesse in a third quarter, with archery
contests and concert.
Sun. Mon. and
Tues., Aug.
30 to Sept. 1.--Annual Kermesse, with archery contests
of both kinds, concert and sports and
games.
Sun., Sept. 20.--Archery au berceau and rifle contest.
Sun., Oct. 25.--Same.
Sun., Nov. 21.--Archery, perche.
Sun., Dec. 13.--Rifle contest.
It must be confessed that this programme is somewhat monotonous, but
in the larger towns it is considerably amplified and varied. Still to
one who was brought up in a small country village in New Hampshire it
seems very good, both as an evidence of the popular desire for
healthy and rational out-door enjoyment, and of the disposition of the
Government to promote and foster legitimate amusements of all kinds.
The kermesse is an European rather than a Belgian institution and
requires no description further than that it is a jolly good time for
everybody. It has existed in Flanders and throughout the Walloon
provinces from time immemorial, as ancient paintings and still more
ancient historical references conclusively show. Its most interesting
feature to the American visitor is the night dancing out of doors on
the rough cobble-stones of the town square or on the soft grass of the
village green. Lighted by flaring gas torches, or sometimes only by
the moon and such stray beams as fall on the dancers from the open
doors and windows of adjacent cafés, the spectacle of the gaily
dancing couples carries the observer back to the days when the world
was young, and love and laughter and happiness reigned supreme.
[Illustration: AN ANCIENT PAINTING OF THE FLEMISH KERMESSE, BY
TENIERS.]
CHAPTER VII
WHEN YPRES WAS A GREATER CITY THAN LONDON
As we returned from our trip to Dixmude, Furnes and Nieuport, the
Professor announced that our next destination would be Ypres. If he
had said that it would he Chingwangtao, or the Comoro Archipelago, the
ladies could hardly have stared at him more blankly. They had never
heard of it. Since October the whole world has heard of it, and the
name of the all but forgotten old town is familiar to every
schoolboy--and will continue so for generations to come. The record of
our visit that follows was written amid the pleasant and peaceful
scenes that it describes. When we were there the swans were swimming
majestically in the waters of the moat that still surrounded the
remnants of the old city walls, but we were told that for military
purposes all this was obsolete. No doubt it was, but the brave old
town was none the less able--with the help of its stubborn English
defenders--to withstand the most furious, determined and bloody
assaults in all history. To the German host the mediæval term _la
morte d'Ypres_ was revived in those awful weeks of October and
November, 1914, for the grim, low-lying ramparts of the town meant
death to countless thousands.
Whether anything whatever is still standing of the old structures
described in this chapter it is at present impossible to say. The
British trenches were under a well-nigh continuous storm of shells for
many weeks, and the town itself must undoubtedly have suffered
severely. Late in November it was reported that the old Cloth Hall had
been destroyed by the furious German bombardment, or, at least,
severely injured. The account of the various points of interest in the
famous old town as they appeared in peaceful June--together with some
brief sketches of its former greatness--may be all the more
interesting now that its ruins lie in the lime-light of the world's
attention. As compared with the half-dozen tourists that averaged to
visit Ypres each day before the war the return of peace will see it
become the Mecca for daily thousands. To these the remains of the town
itself should vie in interest with the trenches of the famous
battle-fields of the Great War, for during a period two or three
times as long as the entire duration of the nation known as the United
States of America, Ypres was one of the greatest and richest cities in
the world.
It was hard to believe it, however, as we rumbled into the railroad
station and, stepping out upon the almost deserted platform, took our
first look at the place. As is usually the case in Flanders, the train
deposits the visitor some distance from the centre of the town. The
very first view was full of delight and promise of better things in
store, however, for as we emerged from the station we found ourselves
facing a pretty little park or square on the opposite side of which we
could see a bit of the ancient city walls which stretched away toward
the right most invitingly.
Postponing the pleasure of inspecting these renowned ramparts till a
later occasion, we made our way through narrow winding streets direct
to the Grande Place, pausing now and then to admire the quaint gabled
houses on the rue au Beurre (Butter Street). At the Grande Place the
Professor led us directly to the huge Cloth Hall, which completely
fills one side of it, for here--he said--we would find the best
introduction to the history and romance of the city. The concierge
proved hard to find, and we wandered up-stairs and through a
deserted corridor, trying several doors that proved all to be locked,
before we located the familiar sign. Our fees being duly paid--fifty
centimes each, which was little enough for the privilege of inspecting
the finest monument of its kind in Flanders, or for that matter in all
Europe--one of the doors was obligingly unlocked and we found
ourselves immediately in the great Guild Hall.
[Illustration: CLOTH HALL, YPRES.]
The _Halle aux Draps_, or Cloth Hall, is the largest civil edifice in
Belgium, and without doubt one of the largest in the world. It is four
hundred and thirty-three feet long by more than two hundred in
width--or larger than Madison Square Garden. Its huge bulk, and that
of the former cathedral hard by, contrast strangely with the present
dimensions of the little city. Yet when they were built Ypres was the
powerful rival of Bruges and Ghent, then at the apex of their glory,
and one of the foremost cities in the world. The Cloth Hall was begun
in 1200 and completed in 1304, or two years after the Battle of the
Spurs, a victory won by the guildsmen of Ypres and Bruges against the
chivalry of France. During that period the city had two hundred
thousand inhabitants, its woollen weavers operated four thousand
looms, and more than four hundred guilds responded to the calls to
arms that sounded, at frequent intervals, from the belfry.
The greatest wonder of the edifice is the immense gallery, or hall,
which occupies the side next to the Grande Place. This extends for the
entire length of the building, broken only by the belfry in the centre
which forms a sort of transept across it. In height it reaches clear
to the roof, the huge roof beams forming its ceiling. There is a
veritable forest of these, massive, sturdy, and as perfect as the day
they were hewed from the fair oaks of the countryside roundabout. The
concierge will not fail to tell you, if you pause to admire this
majestic timber-work of six hundred years ago, that from that day to
this no spider has ever spun its web there--nor is any spider ever
seen. Like the story of the snakes in Ireland, it would be a big pity
to spoil this by finding one and pointing it out--one must needs be a
good runner to do it, and be very sure which road leads to the railway
station, for it might go hard with him--but we could not see any the
day we were there. In fact, the legend has been repeated by many
writers since the sixteenth century and is now such a matter of local
pride that no doubt the concierge who permitted one to get in and set
up housekeeping in this spiderless Eden--for it certainly must look
like the Promised Land to a spider--would not only lose his or her
job, but be severely punished by the indignant city fathers into the
bargain.
Looking at the Cloth Hall from across the Grande Place it has the
aspect of being a low building, but within this gallery one gains
precisely an opposite impression--of unusual loftiness. Just how high
the vast room is can best be estimated by noting the wooden façade of
an ancient house that has been taken down and erected against one wall
in its entirety. With its three stories and high peaked top this
structure appears to be literally lost, looking like an undersized pea
in an extra big pod. The great inner walls of the main gallery, facing
the windows that look out upon the Grande Place, have been decorated
by modern frescoes of great historical and artistic interest painted
by two artists of widely different methods and ideals. The portion
into which one first enters, extending to the break formed by the
tower, was decorated by Ferdinand Pauwels, Director of the Royal
Academy of Dresden. Both the art critics, and those who make no
pretence to superior knowledge in such matters, agree that this work
has been magnificently done. The vastness of the wall spaces made it
possible to paint the pictures on a scale of size and with a wealth of
detail surpassing the fine frescoes of the Hotel de Ville at Bruges
and the general effect upon the beholder is impressive in the extreme.
The pictures represent notable events in the town's history down to
the fourteenth century, and were begun in 1872 and completed in 1881.
The subjects selected by the artist are as follows:
1.--Visit of Count Philip of Alsace to the Hospital of
Our Lady in 1187.
2.--Count Ferdinand of Portugal orders the Magistrates
to fortify the town in 1214.
3.--Countess Jeanne of Constantinople setting prisoners
free on Good Friday, 1206.
4.--5.--The Magistrates give the Countess Margaret the
ransom of her son William, who was made prisoner
during the 7th Crusade.
6.--Building the West wing of the Guild Hall in the time
of Guy of Dampierre, 1285.
7.--8.--Return of the armed forces of Ypres in 1302
after the Battle of the Spurs.
9.--The Plague, known as la Morte d'Ypres, in 1347.
10.--11.--Banquet offered in this very hall to Mahaut,
Countess of Flanders, and Matthew, Duke of Lorraine
on their marriage in 1314.
12.--An episode of the siege of Ypres by the English
and the men of Ghent in 1383.
As will be noted, the pictures are not arranged in exact chronological
order, but, taken together, they form a wonderful pictorial summary
of the city's history--down to the Fall of 1914, which merits a
separate gallery by itself. To us the most impressive of the series
was the vast picture in two sections showing the triumphant return
from the Battle of Courtrai and the tragic representation of the Black
Death, which swept through all the densely populated Flemish towns;
but was more destructive at Ypres than elsewhere. The visitation here
represented was by no means the only one in the city's history, and
for centuries _la morte d'Ypres_ was a name of terror throughout the
countryside.
In the section of the Great Hall beyond the belfry the mural paintings
are the work of Louis Delbeke, a painter of Ypres. His pictures were
the subject of violent criticism when they were first exhibited, and
are entirely unlike those in the other portion of the chamber. The
artist endeavoured to give his work an archaic appearance, in keeping
with the antiquity of its surroundings, and it was his intention to
symbolise the various manifestations of the public life of the
city--Civic Freedom, Commerce, Industry, Charities, Literature and so
on. The work was interrupted by his death and has never been
completed.
Another room of great interest is the _Salle Echevinale_, where for
five centuries the magistrates of Ypres held their sessions. Between
1322 and 1468 local artists painted on the wall above the three Gothic
arches in this room a frieze comprising portraits of the early Counts
and Countesses of Flanders, beginning with Louis of Nevers and ending
with Charles the Bold. When the French occupied the town in 1794 they
covered these "emblems of superstition and portraits of tyrants" with
a thick coat of whitewash which was only accidentally knocked off in
1844, exposing a bit of the ancient and still brilliantly coloured
painting. The discovery created quite a sensation, as the very
existence of this work had been forgotten, and a native artist was
commissioned to remove the whitewash and restore the paintings, which
he did in a manner that is not entirely satisfactory, but none the
less gives us an opportunity to view once more this interesting
work--one of the earliest pieces of mural painting in Flanders. On the
north wall of this room is a modern fresco by Godefroid Guffens,
representing "The State Entry of Philip the Bold" in 1384, while on
the other side of the room is a monumental Flemish chimney-piece
carved by Malfait of Brussels, with mural paintings on each side by
Jean Swerts--like Guffens, a painter of the modern Antwerp school.
These represent the Magistrates of Ypres issuing an order regarding
the maintenance of the poor, in 1515; and the visit of the Magistrates
to one of the Free Schools founded in 1253--thus illustrating the
early interest taken by the commune in free education and public
charities.
Leaving this interesting building we went across a small roughly paved
square to the Church of St. Martin, which dates from the thirteenth
century, and was for many centuries a cathedral. The unfinished square
tower was erected in 1433. The choir is Romano-ogival, while the nave
and aisles are early Gothic, and the edifice has many other peculiar
features of interest to students of architecture. It contains the
usual paintings, of which none are of remarkable interest, and some
excellent choir stalls. The most famous of the Bishops of St. Martin,
while it was a Cathedral Church, was Jansenius, one of the leading
figures in the Reformation, who died of the Plague in 1638. His great
work on St. Augustine occupied twenty-two years of his life while at
Ypres and caused a tremendous discussion. It was finally declared to
be heretical, but its teachings had already given rise to an ardent
group of followers of the learned Flemish churchman, who were called
Jansenists. The archives of the city and church contain much
interesting material regarding this celebrated mediæval theologian.
His tomb, which still stands in the church of which he was once the
head, formerly contained a long and highly eulogistic inscription,
which, by an order from the Pope in 1655, was cut down to the bare
remnant that still remains.
The Grande Place of Ypres is another of the surprises that this tiny
city has to offer to those unacquainted with its history, for it is
one of the largest in all Flanders--a veritable Sahara of a Place on a
hot summer day, albeit a Sahara bordered with many pleasant oases
where cooling drinks, if they do not bubble up from the ground, can at
least be had without much difficulty. During most of the week the vast
paved space is almost deserted, save for an occasional peasant's cart
that rumbles slowly and clumsily across it, but on market-days it is
full of picturesque and swarming life. Then the peasants come in from
the countryside by the thousand, while the itinerant hucksters and
pedlars who, in Belgium travel from one fair or market-place to
another, set up their canvas-covered booths in long streets from one
side of the Grande Place to the other. The country people press along
between these rows of tiny shops and haggle energetically with the
proprietors for whatever takes their fancy. An astounding variety of
wares are offered for sale on these market days--dress goods of every
description in the great Cloth Hall, which for a brief moment reflects
a feeble glimmer of its ancient glory; ready-made garments for man,
woman and child; footwear, headwear, and every conceivable kind of
hardware, of tinware, of crockery. In short, the display is a
veritable department store, for the most part cheap stuff, it is true,
but now and then one runs across laces for which the prices asked are
quite high. Then, of course, there is the inevitable array of
everything possible to eat--from the butchers' stalls in the basement
of the Cloth Hall to the huckster selling live chickens from a bag on
the corner, and the scores of stands selling fruits and vegetables of
every seasonable variety.
At last, however, the market comes to an end, the hucksters and market
gardeners take down their booths and drive away in their heavy Flemish
carts; the country people, after a more or less protracted visit to
the places of refreshment around the Place and in the adjacent
streets, go homeward, and the Grande Place settles down again into its
sleep of centuries. While we were there the moon was at its full, and
as its white light fell upon the grass-grown Place and the huge grey
mass of the Cloth Hall it was not hard to picture the old days come
back again and review, in fancy, some of the stirring times that the
old houses around it have looked down upon. The great bell in the
Cloth Hall tower rings and from far and wide come hurrying throngs of
sturdy artisans, with their lances, pikes and clubs. The _Serments_,
or oath-bound corporations, take their positions gravely and in good
order--men of substance these, portly, well-fed, and prosperous. Then
the _Métiers_, or lesser craftsmen, assemble--no doubt more noisily
and boisterously, as would be expected from their rougher class and
lower breeding. Each of the four hundred guilds assembles around its
respective banner, the Count and others of the nobility come riding
up; and with them, on terms of full equality, the commanders of the
citizen soldiery confer. Then, as the trumpets sound, or mayhap the
great bell peals again, the hosts march off in serried ranks to the
city gates, or to take their positions along the walls. The old
streets echo to the sound of their tramping feet, the noise of their
shouts and cries dies away, and once more the still moonlight falls
upon the deserted old Place.
As we sat in one of the cafés facing the Cloth Hall, our minds filled
with these and other fancies of the olden days--the moonlight, the old
houses all around us, and the many quaint and ancient things we had
seen during the day all contributing to the dreamy sense of
enchantment--the Professor told us something of the legend and history
of that far-off thirteenth century when much of the Ypres we had seen
that day was built. It was an age when men firmly believed in magic
and fairies and delighted in tales of mystery and enchantment. Some of
the most famous stories told by the old Flemish chroniclers relate to
the career of Baldwin IX, who came to be known as Baldwin of
Constantinople. After the long and wise reigns of Dierick of Alsace
and his son Philip, Flanders had become one of the richest and most
prosperous countries in Europe. The French, who looked upon its
fertile plains and fair cities with covetous eyes, composed these
lines, which no doubt expressed their sincere conviction:
"La plus belle Comté est La Flandre,
La plus belle Duché est La Bourgogne,
La plus belle Royaume est France."
Baldwin was not only Count of Flanders, but also Count of Hainaut, of
which Mons was the capital--his dominions therefore extending from the
North Sea to the River Meuse and including much of the Ardennes. It
was in this region--the true fairy-land of Belgium--that the Count met
with an adventure, according to certain of the chroniclers, which gave
his reign a most sinister beginning. It happened in this wise. The
Count was very fond of hunting, and very neglectful of the duty his
loyal subjects felt that he owed to them--of getting married and
securing children to insure the succession. For nothing was more
disastrous to a country than to have its line of princes die out,
leaving their title to be fought for by all who felt themselves strong
enough to seize it. The Count was to have married Beatrice of France,
the most beautiful princess in Christendom, but to the neglect of this
important matter he went hunting in the Ardennes, where from time
immemorial the wild boars have been very large and fierce.
Here, after a day of poor sport, the Count came upon a black boar of
enormous strength which killed several of his dogs and even wounded
one of his companions. Pursuing the savage beast eagerly the Count
lost sight of his followers and when he finally brought it to bay he
was alone. With a blow from his javelin he finally killed it, and then
cut off its monstrous head. As he paused to get his breath he heard a
slight rustle in the bushes and there was the most beautiful lady he
had ever seen, seated on a palfrey. Upon his inquiring who she was,
and why she was there in the forest alone, she replied that she was an
Eastern princess and had come to find and wed the richest Count in
Christendom, adding that she had learned that the Count of Flanders
was the noblest lord in all the West, and it was therefore that Count
for whom she was seeking.
To this the Count, who had already fallen deeply in love with the
beautiful stranger, whose dark eyes flashed upon him with a glance at
once mysterious and entrancing, replied that he was the Count of
Flanders and the richest Count under Heaven. He then and there
proposed to the damsel, offering to marry her at once, nor did he
perceive that the wild boar he had lately slain had disappeared, and
even the blood of the battle was gone, while as for the huge head that
he had cut off with his own hands the palfrey upon which the Eastern
princess was seated stood on the very spot. He then blew so loud a
recall upon his horn that it was heard for miles through the great
forest, and presently the lesser counts and knights who formed his
train came riding up. To these he introduced the strange princess and,
despite the prudent counsels of some that it might be well to learn
more about the lady, he forthwith repaired to Cambrai where they were
married in great splendour. The Countess, beautiful as she was, did
not become popular, the people attributing to her the heavy taxes they
had to pay. It was also whispered that she never attended the
elevation of the Host at mass, always leaving before the bell was
rung.
Notwithstanding her unpopularity, and the gossip of the busybodies,
the Count still loved his bride who bore him two children, Jeanne and
Margaret, and ever remained as wonderfully beautiful as the day they
first met in the forest. As they were celebrating Easter one year at
Wynandael with a great feast a pilgrim arrived from the East with news
that the Saracens were besieging Constantinople. He was forthwith
invited into the great hall of the castle and food placed before him,
which he ate eagerly. Just then the Countess entered, with a train of
ladies. At sight of her the pilgrim stopped eating and trembled, while
the Countess turned deadly pale and whispered to her lord to send
that stranger away as he was wicked and meant only evil by coming
there. But the Count bade the pilgrim say whereat he was alarmed,
whereupon the stranger rose and in a loud voice bade the devil who
filled the body of the Countess to depart from it. At this the
Countess rose and confessed she was indeed one of the devils cast out
of Paradise who had inhabited the body of the most beautiful maiden of
the East, the soul having departed from it. With this confession, at
which all present were naturally appalled, she rose in all her beauty
before them and vanished through a window of the hall, nor was she
ever seen or heard of again.
Other chroniclers and historians deny this story, pointing out that
the Count was, in fact, happily married to Marie of Champagne and that
it was the beautiful French Countess and no princess of satanic origin
who bore his two daughters, Jeanne and Margaret. This, in truth, was
the case, but many of the superstitious Flemings believed the tale
about the devil none the less, and the Count's brilliant but tragic
later career caused the story to be repeated and handed down for many
generations.
Only five years after coming to the throne Count Baldwin announced his
intention of going on a crusade, and in the presence of a vast throng
both he and Marie took the cross in the church of St. Donatian at
Bruges. This was in 1199, but the Count was not able to leave his
dominions at once and in the following year he and Marie came to Ypres
to dedicate the foundation stone of the great Cloth Hall. He finally
set out in 1203, but the Venetians compelled the crusaders, in payment
for their passage, to make a campaign which resulted in the capture of
Constantinople, the founding of the Latin Empire, and the election of
Count Baldwin as the first Emperor. Marie, meanwhile, had gone to
Syria by another route and there she died of the plague, only learning
in her last hour that her husband had become an Emperor and that she
was an Empress. Her death was the first of the reverses of fortune in
Baldwin's meteoric career. A year later, in 1205, he fell wounded in a
battle before the walls of Adrianople--or, perhaps, slain. Certain it
is that he disappeared from the world of men and for a space of twenty
years was heard of no more.
Then, in the heart of the great forest that in those days stretched
from Tournai to Valenciennes, some wood-cutters found a long bearded,
white-haired old man, his face covered with scars, living the life of
a hermit in a hut none of them remembered ever having seen before.
Gradually this wonder attracted more and more of the people thereabout
to see the stranger, and men began to say that he resembled the good
Count Baldwin. Some of the nobles who had known the Count heard of it,
visited the hut in the forest, and declared that this was indeed Count
Baldwin and the Emperor.
If he was the Count his country needed him sorely, for the King of
France, Philip Augustus, had during his twenty years' absence all but
made Flanders a French province. When it became clear that Baldwin was
either dead or a prisoner of the pagans Philip had seized his two
daughters--Jeanne being then a girl of fourteen, and Margaret still in
her cradle--claiming their wardship as the dead Count's suzerain. Five
years he kept them, nor did he permit them to return till he had
married Jeanne to a kinsman of his own, Ferdinand of Portugal, who he
thought would be a mere puppet in his hands. Ferdinand, however,
proved to be a man of determination and resisted Philip's seizure of
St. Omer and Aire, two Flemish towns. Philip invaded Flanders with a
great army, capturing Cassel and destroying Damme and all the
merchandise stored there, Lille, Courtrai and many smaller towns.
Ferdinand, unable to resist the superior forces of Philip
single-handed, brought about an alliance with King John of England.
The battle of Bouvines shattered this alliance, and for twelve years
Ferdinand languished in a French prison, while King John was forced to
grant the Magna Carta to his English subjects. Thus a victory for
tyranny in Flanders resulted indirectly in a greater victory for the
cause of freedom in England. Jeanne, while her husband was in prison,
was the titular Countess of Flanders, but Philip kept her completely
under the influence of his counsellors. Margaret, meanwhile, had been
married, but her husband was unable to make head against the
far-reaching power of the King of France.
It was under these circumstances that the hermit who men thought
resembled Count Baldwin came on the stage. If he was an impostor his
_coup_ was shrewdly planned, for Jeanne was as hated by the Flemings
as her father had been loved. If he was really the good Count and the
Emperor his arrival in Flanders seemed to that distracted country like
a direct interposition of Providence. A great delegation from
Valenciennes went out to the forest and hailed him as their Count
and then he at last admitted that he was indeed Baldwin of
Constantinople.
His tale was a strange one, but more easily believed in those wild
days than it would be now. He had, he asserted, been wounded before
Adrianople and made a prisoner by the Bulgarians. While a captive a
Bulgarian princess saw him, fell in love, and contrived to effect his
escape after he had promised to marry her. Once free, however, he
repented of his pledge to marry an infidel, and murdered his
benefactress. This wicked deed was quickly followed by his recapture
by the barbarians, who made him a slave and even a beast of burden.
Escaping at last, after many years, he had become a hermit in penance
for his great sin.
The men of Valenciennes believed this story, and pardoning his
self-confessed crime as of little moment, since it affected only an
infidel, proclaimed him their Count. The great towns of Flanders flung
open their gates to him wherever he went, and finally he held his
court in Bruges. His neighbours, the Dukes of Brabant and Limbourg,
and his former ally, the King of England, acknowledged his claims,
while his daughter Jeanne fled to France for protection.
The chief reason for believing that Baldwin was an impostor is the
fact that at this crisis of his career he failed signally to show any
of the decision and judgment that twenty years before had made the
true Baldwin Emperor. To be sure, twenty years of slavery, and the
haunting memory of the beautiful Marie of Champagne who had followed
him to her death, and of the Bulgarian princess whom he had so basely
slain, may have enfeebled his intellect. He was now an old man. At all
events, after a period of indecision he did the very thing he never
should have done--he appealed to Philip for aid against his daughter.
Summoned to Péronne, where the King of France was then holding court,
he was subjected to a trial by the royal Council, which clearly showed
its determination to convict him as an impostor. Perceiving that he
had blundered into a trap, the old man fled from the castle and
escaped to Flanders. Here, however, the appeal to Philip and its
result, together with much French gold judiciously expended in behalf
of Jeanne, caused the nobility to turn cold. He determined to lay his
cause before the Pope, but while on his way to Rome was captured and
sold to Jeanne who ordered him to be hanged in chains in the
market-place at Lille between two hounds. If he was the true
Baldwin, after all, few careers in history offer wider contrasts of
glory and shame.
[Illustration: HOTEL MERGHELYNCK, YPRES.]
Whether one stays at Ypres a day or a week he will not lack for
objects of interest, for the Cloth Hall and the Cathedral are but the
beginning of the list. A day is hardly too much to devote to the rue
de Lille alone, for here are the Hospice Belle, with a number of
valuable old paintings, and the Hotel-Musée Merghelynck. The latter is
an institution as unique as it is admirable. Built in 1774 by François
Merghelynck, a Treasurer and Grand Bailiff of Ypres, this fine mansion
is filled with furniture and objets d'art of the eighteenth century
coming from Flanders, Holland and France and collected with rare taste
and judgment. In its entirety it represents the residence of a
nobleman of the period, complete down to the smallest detail, with
every article in its proper place, as if the owner had just stepped
out and might be expected back at any moment. The seven principal
rooms are panelled with carved wood. The dining-room is decorated with
bas-reliefs representing all of the principal implements of husbandry.
These were carved by Antony Deledicque of Lille and have been compared
with the work in some of the smaller rooms in the Palace of
Versailles. The music-room is similarly embellished with
representations of musical instruments, and all have fine panel
friezes and gilded carvings. In each room the proprietor of the
mansion, Arthur Merghelynck, the great-grandson of the original owner,
has collected a complete equipment of eighteenth-century furniture.
The dining-room has rare porcelain from Tournai, with the precious
gilt marks of the choicest make, the music-room has an old-time
harpsichord, the kitchen possesses an array of old-time pewter, copper
and brassware. In the chambers the same plan has been faithfully
carried out, even to placing the owner's uniforms and gala raiment in
the wardrobes. Permission to visit these delightful rooms is freely
granted to all visitors to Ypres without charge, other than an
optional fee to the attendant. We were told that natives of the city
are not admitted, but forgot to ask the caretaker if this was true.
A little farther down this same rue de Lille is an old edifice that
for many years has been called the House of the Templars. It has been
restored and is now used as the Post Office--it was for a long time a
brewery--but it is not now believed that this was ever the House of
the famous mediæval order. The Templars, however, did erect at
Ypres their first house in Europe, and it may well be that this
structure was copied from it. Beyond this interesting edifice we
encountered a grim-looking old church, that of St. Peter, within the
doorway of which is a most curious mediæval Calvary. This church is
one of the oldest in Flanders, having been built in 1073 by Robert the
Frisian, one of the early Counts. On this street also stands the
Hospice St. Jean which was founded in 1277. It contains one fine
timbered ceiling room, with panelled walls, called the nuns' workroom,
and some paintings by Kerel van Yper, an obscure local artist of the
sixteenth century.
[Illustration: CHURCH OF ST. PETER, YPRES.]
In this section we were so fortunate as to see the lace workers, of
whom there are still several hundred, making _point de Valenciennes_
outside the doors of their tiny houses. Mrs. Professor never tired of
watching these women,--who are for the most part middle-aged, while
some of them are very old--as their nimble fingers dexterously shifted
the innumerable little bobbins to and fro, while the delicate fabric
slowly took the design upon which they were working. It is said that
more Valenciennes lace is made here at Ypres, and at Courtrai and
among the little Flemish towns between these two cities, than in the
French city from which this fine point derives its name.
It is along the rue de Lille that the visitor will (let us hope!) find
the wooden house that is the last, or nearly the last, survival of a
type of architecture that was once very common in Ypres. It is
inferior to the one in the Cloth Hall, which also came from this
street, but is still in use--although it seemed to be closed when we
passed it. A few steps further on we came to the Porte de Lille with
its three semi-circular towers, erected in 1395. The Porte is
connected with the open country beyond by a bridge across the wide
moat, in which a stately white swan was swimming. The ancient walls,
built by the famous military engineer Vauban, extend here for a long
distance in both directions and are in a fairly good state of
preservation. At the Porte de Thourout, where the fortifications end
on the northeastern side of the town, there is an open-air swimming
pool which, according to the local guidebook is free during certain
hours for men Saturday and Sunday, for women Wednesday, for soldiers
Thursday and Friday, and for ladies Tuesday. The distinction between
the women who can come on Wednesday and the ladies who are admitted
Tuesday is not stated.
From the Porte de Lille we walked along the top of the ramparts toward
the railway station--a promenade full of interest and charm. The broad
moat in which a dozen snow white swans were swimming, the huge trees
arching overhead, the quaint little houses to our right, with now and
then a narrow street bending back into the town as if inviting us to
follow and explore it--everything seemed to combine to make this one
of our pleasantest experiences in Flanders, and we regretted that we
did not have weeks instead of days in which to study this rare old
town and visit some of the charming old Flemish villages by which it
is surrounded.
The causes for the decline of the city from the proud position it
occupied in the Middle Ages to its comparative insignificance to-day
can be sketched in a very few words. Like the rest of Flanders, it had
flourished exceedingly in consequence of the Hundred Years' War
between France and England. As commerce and industry in these
two great neighbouring countries declined, that of the Low
Countries--which were then enjoying a prolonged period of comparative
peace--augmented with abnormal rapidity. It was inevitable that when
peace across the frontier was restored much of the trade that France
had temporarily lost should return to it. A series of great sieges cut
off the wool traffic with England that formed the foundation of the
city's industry and prosperity. The first of these was in 1383 when
the guildsmen of Ypres successfully beat off a powerful army from
Ghent, aided by a large contingent from England. The plague, that
terror of every overcrowded industrial town in those days, swept off
thousands of people in 1347 and in 1490, and a third of the
inhabitants in 1552. These disasters still further crippled the cloth
industry. In 1583 and 1584 an eight months' siege and the plague
together reduced the population so fearfully that when the town at
last surrendered to the Prince of Parma barely five thousand remained.
After the religious wars were over it recovered some of its ancient
prosperity, but between 1648 and 1678 it was besieged no less than
four times, being a border town and one of the first to be attacked as
the fortunes of war swayed, first one way and then the other. Roused
by the ravages of the plague the magistrates cleaned the city, passed
stringent sanitary regulations, paved the streets and built a costly
system of sewers--Ypres being one of the first cities in Europe to
have these modern improvements. Wise as these steps were, they came
too late to arrest the decline of the town's industries and commerce.
One by one the artisans gave up the battle against the forces that
were sapping the foundations of their prosperity and moved away--some
to Ghent and Bruges, both of which were already beginning to decline;
others to far-off England, where they remained to lay the foundations
of the vast textile industry that has since grown up across the
Channel, but which traces its origin back to the artisans of Ypres in
the days when the fame of that until lately all but forgotten town was
known from one end of the world to the other.
CHAPTER VIII
COURTRAI AND THE BATTLE OF THE SPURS
Our next expedition, after the delightful visit at Ypres, was to
Courtrai, which is only twenty-two miles distant, although the two
plodding little _omnibus_ trains that we took, one after the other,
were more than an hour getting us there. It was an hour most
pleasantly spent, however, for we were constantly on the lookout for
the fields of flax that we had read covered the valley of the River
Lys as far as eye could see. If this was ever so it certainly was not
the case in the summer of 1914, for there were more and larger fields
of barley and other small grains than of flax. Still, we saw a great
many plantings of the latter, and as the plant was in full bloom the
sight was a very pretty one--the delicate green of each field being
faintly tinged with the blue of the tiny flowers. It did not seem to
be very tall, but it was still early June and a very backward summer.
We also passed many fields in which the flax of the previous season
was stacked to bleach, evidently the crop from several fields being
concentrated into one for this purpose. The water of the River Lys,
from which some authorities say the French Fleur de Lys derives its
name, is said to be superior to that of all other rivers for the
retting of flax, and at all events the raising and preparation of this
important staple has been the leading industry in this region for
centuries, although Ghent is more important as a flax manufacturing
centre.
Presently our destination, of which the Flemish name is Kortrijk, came
in sight, and we started--with the Professor leading the way, as
usual--for the Grande Place. Here we found a market going on, with
numerous booths and stalls arranged in crooked little streets, and
crowds of thick-set peasant women with big baskets examining the wares
displayed gingerly as if afraid that too great a display of interest
would cause the merchants to enhance their prices. Amid this bustle
and confusion we worked our way slowly to the centre of the Place
where stood the small ivy-covered Belfry, which dates from early in
the fourteenth century, and is one of the prettiest in Flanders. When
the city was sacked in 1382, after one of its many sieges, the Belfry
was one of the few edifices to escape injury. Repaired or restored in
1423, in 1519, and again in 1717, this little monument of the Middle
Ages has come down to us in an admirable state of preservation.
Originally connected with a small public market, _les petites halles_,
it gradually came to be surrounded with private houses until only its
spire was visible, but in 1899 these were torn down and the Belfry
left isolated as it is now. The clock originally placed on this tower
is said by the historian Froissart to have been "_l'un des plus biaux
que on seuist trouver decha ne dela la mer_"--one of the most
beautiful here or abroad--but was removed by Philip the Bold, the
first of the Burgundian Dukes to rule over Flanders, to Dijon, the
capital of Burgundy. This was in 1382, but in 1395 the people of
Courtrai had replaced it by another equally ingenious. We tried to
enter the old tower, but found one entrance guarded by the alarming
sign, "_Haute tension--danger de la mort_," indicating that the
electric light company used the lower part of the edifice as a
transforming station. There was another small doorway, but it did not
appear to have been opened for a long time, and we could find no one
who knew who had the key.
When we first announced our intention to spend a Summer in Flanders
many friends protested, "But you do not speak Flemish--how do you
expect to get along?" Right here it may be stated that this bugbear
proved without foundation. Even in Ypres, where our Belgian
acquaintances said we surely would have trouble, we found only two or
three of those with whom we had occasion to converse who did not
understand French at least well enough to give us the information we
required. On a few occasions, when touring the poorer quarters of some
old Flemish town, we were non-plussed for a moment, but the children
helped us out in these emergencies by running off eagerly to find some
one who spoke French. Everywhere we found the people accommodating and
courteous, never surly as one author says those he met in these very
same towns were when he visited them half a dozen years ago. To be
sure, our visits seldom took us into the very little towns, where, no
doubt, Flemish is often spoken exclusively--as our experience in
Nieuport showed.
The most curious fact about the little Kingdom of Belgium is that it
is sharply bi-lingual, the line of demarcation between the French and
the Flemish speaking provinces running across the country from
southwest to northeast a little to the south of Brussels; that city,
however, being far more French than Flemish. Most of the towns have
two names, which usually mean the same but are often so different in
form that it is a wonder the people themselves do not get mixed up now
and then. For example, the French name for the capital of the province
of H
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