The Spell of Flanders

CHAPTER XXI

WHERE MODERN FLANDERS SHINES—OSTENDE AND “LA PLAGE”

Our last stopping place in Flanders was the one that many tourists visit first, the gay watering place of Ostende. Here a little fleet of fast Channel steamers convey the traveller to Dover in four or five hours, while an excellent service of through express trains connect the Dover end of the water route with London, and the Ostende end with Brussels, Berlin and half the capitals of Europe. Our stay in Flanders, however, was drawing to a close, and we were headed for Liverpool, where the new Aquitania was waiting to bear us home.

The tourist who expects in Ostende to find much that is reminiscent of the Flanders of the sixteenth century, of which so much has been said in the other chapters of this book, will be disappointed. To be sure, it is not a young city, being mentioned in the chronicles of Flanders as far back as the eleventh century. In the Eighty Years’ War between Spain and her revolted Dutch colonies Ostende was for a long time held by the Dutch, who beat off two severe attacks by the Spaniards in 1583 and 1586, the former led by the all but invincible Farnese, Prince of Parma. In the year 1600 the Battle of the Dunes took place at Nieuport, in which the troops of the Archduke Albert were defeated by a Dutch army under Maurice, Prince of Nassau. This victory, while it gave great encouragement to the enemies of Spain by demonstrating that the renowned Spanish soldiers were not invincible, was otherwise barren of results, and in 1601 the Archdukes determined to besiege Ostende, which was the last stronghold of the Dutch in Flanders.

Prior to the war with Philip II Ostende had been little more than an obscure fishing-village, but since it had been fortified by the Dutch, and had so successfully maintained itself against all assaults, the place was fast becoming a “thorn in the foot” to the government of the Archdukes. Queen Elizabeth, whose defeats of Philip’s armadas had made England mistress of the seas, was determined that Spain should not regain so important a strategic base, and had kept an English garrison there under an English commander. Since Albert’s accession the town had been greatly strengthened by new ramparts, bastions and fortifications of every type, then known in the engineering art of warfare. To protect Flanders against this hostile fortress in its very midst the Archdukes were obliged to erect eighteen forts around Ostende and keep them constantly garrisoned and supplied. This cost ninety thousand crowns a month and kept the rich province in a state of perpetual war. Towns in the vicinity were compelled to pay tribute in order to escape pillage, and commerce—then, as always, dependent upon peace—languished.

The Estates of Flanders under these direful conditions offered the Archdukes three hundred thousand florins a month as long as the siege to rid them of this menacing stronghold might last, and three hundred thousand florins additional as a bonus to be paid in instalments—a third when the city was invested, a third when a breach was made in the fortifications, and the balance when the place was taken. These terms are curiously similar to those employed in drawing building loans at the present day and show that the Flemings had lost none of their ancient caution.

On July 5th, 1601, the Archduke Albert arrived before Ostende and formally began its investment. The Infanta Isabella came with him, and often shared camp life with her husband during the weary months that followed. The siege from the very first developed into a contest of engineers and military strategists on the taking and the defence of fortified places the like of which had never before been known in Europe. In fact nearly all Europe was directly engaged in the conflict. On the Archdukes’ side were Spaniards, Italians and Walloons; on the ramparts of the defenders were lined up side by side English, Dutch, French, German and Scotch forces. The fortress was commanded by Sir Francis Vere. The operations of the siege consisted of mining and counter-mining, the erection and destruction of batteries, storming of outlying works—all the devices of attack and defence known to the military science of the day. Never before had the world seen such cannons and engines of destruction. The siege became Homeric, epic, a seventeenth-century Siege of Troy.

The great difficulty of the besiegers was their inability to cut off the town from receiving new provisions and supplies, and a constant stream of reinforcements, by sea. The Dutch, English and French ships came and went almost at will. All the summer and fall of 1601 the siege dragged on, and through the cold winter that followed. In 1602 Sir Francis Vere and a large part of the garrison were relieved and a new commander and garrison installed without the Archdukes being able to prevent the manœuvre. In 1603 Ambrose, the Marquis Spinola, a young scion of a rich Genoese family, offered to take charge of the siege of Ostende and to capture the city. As the Archduke Albert had made a complete failure of the job, and was unpopular besides among his troops, whom he had not been able to pay with any regularity, he welcomed this offer and Spinola assumed the command. His wealth enabled him to pay and feed his soldiers, while his youth and ambition made him a wary and energetic commander. Day and night he took part in person in supervising the mines, assaults, trenches and erection of new positions. Gradually, under his vigorous leadership, the besiegers began to burrow their way into the town. Maurice of Nassau, unable to pierce Spinola’s network of entrenchments around the town created a diversion by besieging and capturing Sluys. In spite of this, however, Spinola clung doggedly to his prey and on September 13th, 1603, Sand Hill, after a resistance of three years, was captured. Seven days later the Governor, who now controlled nothing but the heart of the town, capitulated and on September 22nd, the garrison marched out with all the honours of war. Hardly a soul of the former population of Ostende remained at the time of its capture, and it is said that the Archduchess Isabella “wept at the sight of the mound of earth, all that remained of the city which she had been so anxious to capture.” It was estimated that the place, which had been little more than a village, cost the besiegers one hundred thousand lives and the defenders sixty thousand. The siege had lasted three years, two months and seventeen days, but the “thorn” had at last been extracted.

For several years after this Ostende remained a city without inhabitants, the Archdukes rebuilding the place but population coming to it but slowly. In 1722 The East and West India Company of the Austrian Netherlands was founded at Ostende, chiefly by Antwerp capitalists and merchants, who were deeply interested in the enterprise. Factories were established in India, but the Emperor Charles VI dissolved the company in 1731 in order to secure English and Dutch support for his Pragmatic Sanction. The next century was one of stagnation, the town reverting to a fishing-place, but almost at the moment of Belgian independence—or from about 1830—it began to be renowned as a watering-place. It owes much of its present prosperity to Leopold II, who made it a place of royal residence during the summer, and whose royal palace still looks down upon the Digue not far from the racetrack. The coming of the cross-channel steamers still further stimulated its growth, and at present it is one of the most beautiful and picturesque of all the Flemish cities.

Our visit was unfortunate—as we regretfully told one another at the time—in that it came in July, before the season had really opened. August is the time to come, the waiters and hotel porters all assured us, for then the Grand Dukes come from Russia, the long special trains from Germany roll in one after another loaded to capacity, the Channel steamers arrive three times a day with decks black with English tourists, and Ostende’s many kinds of gaiety are in full swing. However, the opening of the August season in 1914 was conducted under circumstances that made us rather glad we were there in July. The Germans came, to be sure, but the gaiety departed.

No one in Ostende foresaw a bit of the terrible future when we were there in July. The long curving beach was crowded with people, little people for the most part, and most of the queer little beach-houses—summer cottages on wheels—were gradually getting rented. The beach is splendidly broad and smooth, but the slope seaward is so slight that at low tide one must needs go very far out to get into the water at all. This did not seem to trouble anybody very much, for we saw few who ever went near the water, most of the pleasure-seekers staying on the warm, dry sand up near the big sloping sea wall of the Digue. For families with small children the little summer-houses seemed rather attractive, as papa and mamma could sit within, sheltered from sun or rain, while the youngsters rollicked all day long in the deep sand.

The Digue just mentioned is a high artificial seawall or embankment, faced with sloping stone on the sea side and surmounted by a broad boulevard—the Esplanade. It slopes gradually on the landward side, one row of stately hotels and lodging-houses facing directly on the Esplanade, while on the side streets the buildings drop each below the other until they reach the level of the town, which is some forty or fifty feet lower than the summit of the embankment. Here the fashionable crowds promenade at the proper times, while the unfashionable promenade all day long and far into the night. Even in July the sight is a most fascinating one, and the Bohemianism of the crowd and its diversity of national types most interesting. Here, as everywhere in Belgium, the cafés and hotels place their tables and chairs far out into the roadway, so that we can sit outdoors in the manner that the Madame so much enjoys and eat our dinner, or sip our coffee and cognac, while watching the ever-changing crowds go by.

At Ostende the scale of expenses for everything, rooms, meals, service, pleasure, cigars, tips, and even for the English newspapers, increases or falls according to the proximity or remoteness of the Digue. If you are on top of it—look out! To Americans the charges, even in the finer big hotels, do not seem particularly excessive—though in August they are usually much higher than in July—but there is a constant succession of incidental expenses that make the voyager as a rule hurry more than once to the banker where his letter of credit can have another illegible notation made on it. Externally the hotels are very imposing and stately—making a brave show as one looks down the long line that extends for several miles from the harbour entrance westward to Westende and beyond half way to Nieuport. Within they are pretty much like all Belgian hotels of the better class. For the novelty of the thing we thought of renting one of the tiny apartements meublés, that, each with a charming broad window—usually open all day long like a piazza—look out directly upon the sea. The price was a thousand francs a month, which seemed too much for what was after all little more than one big room with an alcove. The landlady informed us that she attended to all the details of the ménage, cooking and serving the meals and providing maid service, but that messieurs must provide the provisions, both solid and liquid.

The great show place of Ostende is, of course, the Kursaal, a huge structure of glass, iron and stone belonging to no particular school of architecture, but in the main making a pleasing impression and serving very well indeed for the somewhat diversified uses for which it is intended. In the daytime the Kursaal is a place of relatively little interest, although well-dressed people flock through it at all hours. At night it is the scene of much animation, and is, as it was meant to be, the centre of the gay life of the town. A large orchestra gives a concert every evening in a very pretty concert hall, which, when we were there, contained numerous little tables for refreshments, although I have seen pictures in which the room was filled with seats in solid rows, like a theatre. It was much more comfortable the way we found it, and the concert was very enjoyable. At the intermission, however, we observed that nearly everybody rose and flocked off into an anteroom leading out of the concert hall. The Professor and I decided that there appeared to be “something doing” in that direction and followed the crowd, leaving the ladies to look after our wraps, and promising to return and get them if we found anything worth while.

I fear that the narrative of our experience may sound a bit like an extract from Innocents Abroad, but I will relate the thing as it happened and make no pretence that we were a bit more sophisticated than we really were. The crowd seemed to be headed through a long and handsome corridor toward a distant room. We followed along, passing on the way what looked more or less like the office of a hotel, with a register book and two or three clerks, to which we paid no attention. Arrived at the end of the corridor we found ourselves in a large circular room around which were a number of small tables on which visitors were rolling balls down toward a group of pockets—some such a game as one sees at Coney Island or any popular American amusement resort. The price was two francs for three shots, and barkers were shouting lustily to all comers to try their luck. On one side a doorway was heavily curtained with velvet draperies and here occasional groups of the guests were silently disappearing. We approached this mysterious passageway and sought to pass like the others when two tiny lads in brilliant livery demanded our cards. On our replying that we had none, a large man, also in livery, appeared from somewhere behind the draperies and courteously informed us that special membership or admission cards were required from all who wished to proceed further.

We thereupon returned to the ladies and reported what we had seen, and took our turn at looking after the wraps while they visited the circular room. They likewise returned, reporting that admission beyond the curtains had been refused. After the concert was over we decided to make another attempt—as both the Professor and I surmised what attraction lay beyond the mysterious portal. Pausing at the hotel office we had previously noticed, we asked bluntly how admission to the hidden room could be secured, and were told that a card would be given each of us on the sole formality of registering. This we accordingly did, giving our names, hotel address, home address and one reference. This done, we each received a card admitting two and departed to find the Madame and Mrs. Professor.

Arriving at the doorway armed with the cards we had received, we were ushered at once into a very handsome room where perhaps three hundred people were gathered about half a dozen roulette tables. No one paid the slightest attention to us, nor did any employé appear to care whether we played or contented ourselves with merely looking on. Practically every one in the room, however, was playing—with all the tense earnestness that this game of chance seems to impress upon its devotees. White chips, we observed, cost five francs, reds twenty, round blues a hundred—or twenty dollars. There were, in addition, a large ovalshaped blue, marked five hundred and an oblong one marked one thousand. In less than three minutes one player lost eight of the thousand franc chips, and then, this being apparently enough for the evening, lit a cigar and started for home. While he was playing we observed an over-painted young woman who had just lost her last stake solicit a loan from him. He tossed the girl a hundred-franc chip and left without pausing to see whether she won or lost with it. We were more curious. She lost.

At about this period of the evening the Madame raised a commotion by discovering that her reticule was open and a piece of money had fallen out onto the thick carpet. The Professor and I instantly got down to look for it, and even the croupiers at the adjoining gaming table paused to take in the incident. Two or three attendants and waiters hurried up to help when the Madame spied her lost coin and triumphantly seized it. It was a one centime piece—worth a fifth of a cent! I have never seen a more disgusted-looking group of attendants, and doubt if so small a coin had ever been seen before in this northern Monte Carlo. The Madame, however, was serenely indifferent to their opinion. This was the nearest, I may add, that we came to losing any money there.

At the end of the Esplanade is the Estacade, a pier that extends well out to sea. Pleasure steamers start here for short trips along the coast, and turning to the right at this end of the town one comes to the harbour and the broad basin where hundreds of little brown-sailed shrimp fishing-boats congregate. Several of these came in while we were there and sold their cargoes, almost as soon as they were tied up, to groups of eager market-women with big baskets. Several girls sat along the quay wall mending huge nets also used in the shrimp fishery. The little back streets in this vicinity, and around the quaint fish-market, are the oldest in the town—and the most crooked.

The principal business street of the little city is the rue de Flandre and its continuation, the rue de la Chapelle, which together take one from the Digue de Mer straight to the railway and boat stations. On one side of this street is the Place d’Armes, where a military band played every evening, and facing which is the Hotel de Ville. Our last day was spent poking about this part of the town in a pouring rain, with an occasional peep into huge cafés designed to accommodate a thousand guests, but which were then almost deserted. The rain ceased suddenly toward nightfall and we returned to the Digue for a farewell look at the crowds and the long beach. It was night before we had seen enough, and then, after ordering and enjoying to the utmost our last Flemish dinner, we made our way to the Gare Maritime to take the night boat for Dover. As we steamed out past the long Estacade and looked back upon the gleaming lights along the Digue we saw the moon rising redly above the masts in the little harbour. This was our last view of Flanders, and, as we regretfully saw the lights of the city sink out of sight behind the tossing waves that gleamed brightly under the moonbeams, we knew that our pilgrimage was over.

CHAPTER XXII

THE SPELL OF FLANDERS

In this little book the author has endeavoured to portray as clearly as his limited powers of expression permitted, some of the many elements that make the spell that Flanders lays upon the minds and hearts of those who know it and love it well. It is a complex influence, composed of many and widely diverse factors. If in the narrative a thread of history has been permitted to obtrude itself, sometimes perhaps at undue length, it is because before all else Flanders is a land whose interest lies in its long and romantic history, and in the marvellous manner in which its artists and sculptors have portrayed its famous past. As Mr. Griffis in “Belgium, the Land of Art,” has well expressed it, “No other land is richer in history or more affluent in art than is Belgium. In none have devout, industrious, patriotic and gifted sons told their country’s story more attractively. By pen and in print, on canvas, in mural decoration, in sculpture, in monuments of bronze and marble, in fireplaces and in wood-carving, the story may be read as in an illuminated missal. Belfries, town halls, churches, guild houses, have each and all a charm of their own.” If these pages have caught ever so little of that charm they have served their purpose.

To the student of history, of art and architecture, of tapestry and lace-making, of the origin of the great woollen and linen industries, of guilds and the organisation of labour, of the commune or municipal republic in its earliest and finest development, and—before all else—of liberty in its age-long conflict with tyranny and oppression, Flanders is a land of endless interest and inspiration. Nowhere else in the world can there be found within so small a compass so many monuments of the past, so many of the milestones of human progress. That some of these relate to a past so remote as to be all but forgotten, while others are hidden away in spots where few tourists ever penetrate, only enhances the pleasure of those who are so persevering or so fortunate as to find them.

Like rare wine, Flanders has mellowed with age, the storms and sunshine of succeeding centuries touching its fine old houses, its noble churches and splendid town halls and guild houses but lightly—imparting the majesty of antiquity without the sadness of decay. Its dramatic and tragic history—some of which was so terrible in the making—lives again, without the old-time rancour and hatred, as the foundation upon which artists with chisel, brush or pen have created some of the finest of the world’s masterpieces.

That to-day Flanders has once more, as so often in the past, become the battleground of warring Europe gives an element of inexpressible sadness to these feeble attempts to sketch its glories as they were only a few short months ago. Already some of the splendid monuments described in these pages have been shattered by engines of war more destructive than all those of all former wars taken together. The noble Hotel de Ville at Ypres, the fine old church of St. Nicholas at Dixmude, the incomparable cathedral of Malines—we know that these at least have suffered fearfully, that they may have been injured beyond any hope of restoration.

In this last sad chapter of Flemish history, it is a pleasure to be able to record the fact that the people of the United States have for the first time entered its pages—and in a work of mercy. To the American people have been given the opportunity, the means and the disposition to play a noble part in this later history of much troubled Flanders—to feed the starving, care for the widowed and orphaned non-combatants of the great war, to help bind up the nation’s wounds and restore hope and courage to its fearfully afflicted people. This is our part in the history of Flanders—our duty to the people of the brave nation of which Flanders forms so important and so famous a part. May all of those on whom the spell of Flanders falls do their share, however small, to help in this great work so long as the need lasts!