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.