The Spell of Flanders

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.

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 Hainaut is Mons, meaning mountain, while the Flemish name is Bergen, which means the same thing but looks very different. The important railroad junction of Braine-le-Comte between Mons and Brussels bears the queer Flemish name of ’s Graven-Brakel. Even the postage stamps and the paper money are printed in the two languages, while the silver money is apparently minted in equal quantities of each. All public employés are required by law to know both languages, so that the public has no trouble either at the railway stations or post-offices. According to official statistics published while we were there, 38.17 per cent. of the population of the country speak only French; 43.38 per cent. speak only Flemish; while 18.13 per cent. speak more than one language and a few speak German only. Of the bi-linguals over 60 per cent. declared that they ordinarily spoke Flemish.

Facing the Grande Place, and only a few steps from the Belfry, is the Hotel de Ville, an unprepossessing structure externally, although the historians say that it was once much better looking. It has, at all events, been restored, and the statues of the Counts of Flanders that were destroyed during the Revolution replaced by modern ones carved by a local sculptor. After finding the concierge we were shown a small collection of modern paintings by Belgian artists bequeathed to the city by one of its wealthy sons. This, however, was merely en route, as it were, to the great show-place of this—as of all other Flemish hotels de ville—the Salle du Conseil. Here the pièce de résistance is the great chimney-piece, carved in 1525 by unknown sculptors, who probably were natives of the city as there were several of good renown residing and working there at that period. The elaborate carvings with which this masterpiece is decorated comprise three tiers. At the top the figures represent the virtues: Faith, Humility, Charity, Chastity, Generosity, Temperance, Patience and Vigilance. In the middle section a series of pictures carved in stone typify the vices: Idolatry, Pride, Avarice, Sensuality, Jealousy, Gluttony, Anger and Idleness. The lowest tier contains reliefs that are supposed to show the punishment for these vices, although the idea is not always quite easy to follow. In niches projecting from the middle section are fine statues, carved from wood, of Charles V in the centre, with Justice and Peace on the opposite sides. At the right and left sides of the chimney-piece are two more tiers of carvings, but of inferior interest to those on the front. The beamed ceiling of this fine room is worthy of at least a glance, for on the corbels supporting it are some of the most curious carvings to be seen in Flanders, representing the conquests of woman over man—beginning with Adam and Eve and Samson and Delilah, and including several examples from pagan mythology.

We were next conducted down-stairs to the Salle Echevinale, where there is another fine chimney-piece which, however, was much less interesting than the one we had just seen. This room is further embellished with several frescoes by Guffens and Swerts, examples of whose work we had already seen at Ypres. The former artist painted the large composition entitled the “Departure of Baldwin IX for Constantinople,” and the latter the more interesting picture of the Consultation of the Flemish leaders in this very room the day before the Battle of Courtrai. Smaller frescoes depict other notable scenes in the old town’s history, while small carvings near the ceiling represent the chief virtues of an upright judge.

On a hot July day, in the year 1302, there took place, just outside the ancient walls of the city, the most famous event in the history of Courtrai. This was the great “Battle of the Spurs.” In order to understand the significance of this conflict—which justly ranks as one of the decisive battles of the world—it is necessary to go back three-quarters of a century to the Baldwin of Constantinople, or the impostor who assumed his name and came to an ignominious end on the gibbet at Lille. This was in the year 1225. The following year Philip Augustus forced or persuaded Margaret, Baldwin’s younger daughter, to leave the loyal Fleming to whom she had been married almost since childhood and wed one of his retainers, William of Dampierre. Then, during a period of more than fifty years, the Kings of France were able to exert a steadily increasing influence in Flanders and reduce the country more and more completely to a French province. Finally, in 1296, the exactions of the French monarch—who, at that time, was Philip the Fair—became so humiliating that Margaret’s son, Guy of Dampierre, then the reigning Count, rebelled. A brief war followed, ending in Guy’s utter defeat and imprisonment, and in 1300 all Flanders was formally annexed to the French crown.

Instead of submitting tamely to this act of aggression, the Flemish burghers were roused to fight more furiously for their fatherland than they had ever done for their Count. At Bruges a true leader of the people appeared in the person of Peter de Coninck, the dean of the then all-powerful Guild of the Weavers, and one of the most picturesque figures in mediæval history. Small and ill-favoured in face and figure, with only one eye, and speaking no language but Flemish, he was able to arouse the citizens to the wildest pitch of fury against their aggressors. Another popular hero of the hour was John Breidel, Dean of the Butchers’ Guild, and reputed to be one of the richest men in Bruges; while a third was William of Juliers, Provost of Maestricht—a Churchman turned soldier for the cause of liberty. These three raised the standard of the Lion of Flanders to which rallied the Clauwaerts, as the Nationalist partisans were called; while the friends of France were named—after the Lily of France—the Liliaerts. The latter naturally included the magistrates and office-holders of the leading towns, and in 1301, when Philip made a triumphal progress through the chief cities of his new dominions, he was everywhere received with much outward pomp.

At Bruges the official reception was the most gorgeous of all, the rich gowns of the wives and daughters of the burghers causing Queen Isabella to exclaim, “I thought I was alone Queen, but here I see six hundred!” The mass of the people, however, were cold and sullen, and when the King proclaimed some public games no one would take part in them. Hardly had the royal party left the city before an insurrection broke out. De Coninck was arrested, but his followers burst into the prison, and, for a time, the leaders of the Liliaerts were behind the bars. A French force soon entered the city and set them free, and De Coninck fled to Damme, where the Lion of Flanders waved unmolested over a rapidly increasing host of Clauwaerts.

On the 17th of May, 1302, a still stronger army of French entered the city, and it was rumoured that a general massacre of the Clauwaerts was planned for the morrow. Without waiting for the blow to be struck, the men from Damme and the surrounding towns, under the leadership of De Coninck and John Breidel, poured into the city before daybreak and roaring “Schilt end vriendt”—a battle-cry and password that no Frenchman could pronounce—they overwhelmed the partisans of the Lily. So sudden and unexpected was the attack, in the darkness and among narrow streets with which they were not acquainted, that the two thousand French knights who had entered the city so gaily on the previous day could offer no resistance and were slaughtered almost to a man. Barely forty escaped to tell King Philip of the massacre, while no record was made of the number of Liliaerts among the Flemings themselves who were in the heaps of dead that for three days thereafter were being buried in the fields outside of the city. This was the famous Matin de Bruges, hardly a glorious day’s work considered as a feat of arms, but bold enough when regarded as a defiance by the artisans of a single industrial town of the most powerful monarch of the age.

Philip, as was to be expected, was furious, and at once gathered an army the like of which had never before been seen in France; while all Flanders, with the exception of Ghent which the French still held, rallied to the support of De Coninck and his comrades. Scores of Flemish nobles were at that time languishing in French prisons, but those who were free to come enlisted under the Lion of Flanders. The army of defence consisted for the most part, however, of workingmen—members of the great guilds of Bruges, Ypres, Audenaerde and the other Flemish towns, with seven hundred even from Ghent. Each guild marched under its gorgeous banner, the men armed with long pikes, iron lances, short swords, and a sort of club which they derisively called “goedendag,” or “good morning.” On the eve of the battle a conference was held by the leaders of the army of defence, this being the scene depicted in the fine fresco in the Hotel de Ville.

About nine or ten in the morning of the following day the French army, some forty thousand strong, was seen approaching, led by the youthful Count of Artois. After a reconnoitre two experienced officers advised the young Prince not to attack the Flemings at once, but to worry them with his archers and separate them from the town where their baggage and provisions were. “These people have to eat three, or four times a day—when they start to retreat, fall on them, you will quickly win,” they counselled him.

This sage advice did not appeal to the impetuous young Count, or to his valiant knights, who were burning with eagerness to avenge the Matin de Bruges. They confidently expected that at the very sight of their host, for the most part mounted knights, the cowardly townsmen would turn and run. Nor did they pay much heed to the shrewdness and skill with which the Flemish leaders had chosen their position. In the marshy ground in front of the Flemish army were many streams and canals, the water concealed by brushwood, while the River Lys and the fortifications of the town protected them against an attack on either flank or in the rear.

As the French knights rode forward the first ranks plunged into the hidden canals and streams with which the marsh—since known as the Bloed Meersch, or Bloody Marsh—was intersected. Then, as five centuries later at Waterloo, each succeeding rank pushed in the one before it, the canals became choked with drowning men and struggling horses, and it was not until these obstacles were literally filled with dead bodies that any part of the great French host could approach the Flemish lines. Then the Flemish guildsmen were for a moment hard pressed, but they quickly rallied and the proud French nobles were beaten down beneath their cruel pikes and clubs by hundreds. The Count of Artois himself led the reserves into the mêlée when the day was all but lost and fought his way clear to the great standard of the Lion of Flanders, at the foot of which he fell. Their leader killed, the French sought to flee, but the rout and slaughter lasted through the long summer twilight and far into the night.

According to an ancient chronicle, twenty thousand Frenchmen went down to death that day, including seven thousand knights, eleven hundred nobles, seven hundred lords, and sixty-three counts, dukes or princes. As to these statistics they differ in every history, but certain it is that the flower of French chivalry perished in unheard of numbers before the onslaught of the Flemish townsmen, and it is said that in all France there was no great house that did not mourn a father, a brother or a son.

To the men of Flanders, on the other hand, the victory was complete beyond their wildest dreams. They piously gave thanks to Notre Dame de Groeninghe, the Abbey overlooking the Bloody Marsh, and hung up seven hundred golden spurs taken from the battlefield in the Church of Notre Dame. For a time Philip the Fair sought to prolong the conflict, but his losses had been too terrible in this battle for him to risk another one against the now thoroughly aroused guildsmen, and a few years later a treaty was signed that completely rescinded the act of annexation and recognised the independence of Flanders once more.

In the little Museum of Paintings we found a most interesting picture of the famous battle by the great Belgian artist, Nicaise de Keyser. It is said that the historian Voisin suggested this subject to the painter, then a young man of twenty-three, and he devoted eight months to its execution. Exhibited at the Salon at Brussels in 1836, it made a sensation through its merit, the historical importance of the subject and the youth of the artist, and was purchased by the city of Courtrai by means of a popular subscription. It represents the decisive moment of the battle when the Count of Artois, unhorsed and disarmed, is about to be killed by the leader of the butchers’ guild, John Breidel. The museum contains a number of other interesting works by Belgian painters, chiefly modern, including one by Constantin Meunier, and a number by natives of Courtrai. This last feature is characteristic of all these little museums and is a most happy idea. In France the museums of fine arts in the provincial towns often form in themselves admirable memorials of the famous artists who were born or worked there, the names of the most important being carved about the frieze or brought to mind in some equally prominent way. In years to come it is to be hoped that these little Flemish towns can follow this example and erect suitable structures to house their art treasures—of which such a collection as this one at Courtrai forms a fine nucleus—and in so doing strive to commemorate all of those to whom the town is indebted for its artistic fame. In the case of Courtrai the roster would be a long one, for local authorities have recorded the names of more than two hundred painters, sculptors, architects, engravers, metal-workers, miniaturists and master-makers of tapestries.