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The Spell of Flanders
The Spell of Flanders / An Outline of the History, Legends and Art of Belgium's Famous Northern Provinces
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.
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.”