Loe raamatut: «The Spell of Flanders», lehekülg 2

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.

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.