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.
[Illustration: STATUE OF PETER DE CONINCK AND JOHN BREIDEL, BRUGES.]
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.
Unlike many Flemish towns, Courtrai is less renowned for its churches
than for its civic monuments. The great church of St. Martin, whose
picturesque Gothic tower rises high above the Grande Place, although
the edifice itself is some hundred yards distant from the Place
itself, dates from 1382, when an older church on the same site was
burned by the victorious troops of Charles VI when they sacked the
city after the Battle of Rosbecque. It was completed in 1439 and
contains a number of interesting paintings and carvings, several of
them by local artists and sculptors. The more important Church of
Notre Dame, with its square unfinished tower, dates from 1211 and was
founded by Baldwin of Constantinople. At that time the Counts of
Flanders had a castle at Courtrai and it was at the side of this that
Count Baldwin and his fair wife Marie located their great church, of
which the foundation stone was laid before the Count departed on the
crusade from which he was destined never to return. In the Chapel of
the Counts, which was built in the fourteenth century, are mural
paintings of the Counts and Countesses of Flanders, the earlier ones
dating from the century during which the chapel itself was
constructed.
The artistic masterpiece of this church is the "Raising of the Cross,"
by Van Dyck. This fine picture was painted for this very church and
was delivered by the artist in 1631, the church still possessing his
receipt for the one hundred livres de gros (about two hundred and
twenty dollars) paid for it. In 1794 the picture was carried to Paris
and placed in the Louvre, and on its restoration to the Netherlands
was several years in the museum at Brussels, being returned to its
proper place in Notre Dame in 1817. During the night of December
6th-7th, 1907, it was mysteriously stolen, its disappearance causing a
great commotion, but January 23rd it was discovered in a field at
Pitthem, where it had lain exposed to the rain and sunshine since its
removal from the church. Apparently the robbers had become frightened
and abandoned it, or possibly were prevented from returning to get it
by the hue and cry that had been raised. At any rate, it did not seem
to be much the worse for its little outing, and was duly hung up again
where any tourist who has a franc to spare can see it.
It was in Notre Dame that the victors after the battle of Courtrai
hung up seven hundred golden spurs, more or less, picked up from the
battle-field. These were hung in a little side chapel at present
decorated by two black lions, but the original spurs were taken away
when the French sacked the city after the disastrous battle of
Rosbecque.
A little beyond this interesting old church the rue Guido
Gezelle--named after the poet who for many years was a _vicaire_ at
Notre Dame and whose bust stands in a little _bosquet_, or wooded
parklet, hard by--conducts us to the famous old Broel towers which
guard an ancient bridge across the Lys. These fine specimens of
mediæval military architecture are in an admirable state of
preservation. The Spuytorre, or Southern tower, was first built by
Philip of Alsace in the twelfth century, was pillaged, and perhaps
wholly destroyed, by Charles VI and restored or rebuilt by Philip the
Bold, Duke of Burgundy, in 1386. There was not much to see in this
tower, save some dungeons below. The Inghelbrugtorre, or South tower,
was built at the same time as the bridge, in 1411-1413. There was
formerly an archeological museum in this tower, but we were told that
it had been removed to the Grandes Halles, near the railroad station,
which have recently been restored. We subsequently visited the
collections there, which were very interesting but too miscellaneous
to be described. Returning from the towers by the rue de Groeninghe we
paid a brief visit to the fine monument of the Battle of Groeninghe,
which is the Flemish name for the Battle of the Spurs. At the summit a
bronze Pucelle of Flanders brandishes a _goedendag_, one of the
celebrated war-clubs that did such deadly work on that famous day.
This monument, by Godefroid Devreese, a native of Courtrai, was
erected by popular subscription in 1905.
It is in these smaller Flemish towns that the visitor who takes the
time to journey a little away from the closely built houses and rough
paved streets of the city will find himself after a few minutes of
brisk walking out in the green fields and winding lanes of the open
country. The trip is well worth the small exertion, for nowhere in the
world can one see such marvellous wild flowers--_fleurs des
champs_--as in Belgium. Every wheat field is sprinkled with the most
wonderful poppies, of a rich deep red that even the choicest
artificial flowers in America cannot equal; with blue corn-flowers
growing tall and big and of an indescribably deep blue that at times
shades into purple; and along the edges is a thin fringe of small
purple flowers, shaped like morning glories but much smaller, the
English name of which I do not know. In the grass of the pasture lands
are innumerable tiny white marguerites, with here and there a tuft of
daisies. Along the country lanes one can pick a score of other
varieties of wild flowers which here bloom all summer long, not to
mention the exquisite purple heather that makes every hillside glow
with colour in August and throughout the fall. To us, however, the
wheat fields with the poppies and corn-flowers were by far the most
charming as we wandered up and down West Flanders in the month of
June. Often one or the other grew so profusely as to give the whole
field a rich mass of colour, at times all red, in other places a solid
blue.
As we strolled along through these flower gardens of the fields we
enjoyed still another treat, for everywhere in Belgium the skylarks
abound in myriads. To one who has never heard them there are few
enjoyments more exquisite than to watch and listen as these tiny
minstrels of the sky go through their little performance. Suddenly,
almost before the eye can locate it, one shoots upward from the waving
wheat in front of us, his rich trills fairly making the air vibrate
with melody. Higher and yet higher he goes, his little wings
struggling wildly, as if the effort of flying and singing at the same
time was too much for him. Never, for an instant, however, does the
music stop, and as his tiny form rises farther and farther into the
air he gradually begins to drive forward in a wide curve--but still
rising and still fluttering madly--until he becomes a mere speck
against the sky. Then, all at once, the fluttering wings spread
outward and are still, and he begins to volplane slowly downward in a
long slow sweep, while his notes become if possible more shrill and
vibrating than ever. Then, like a flash, as he nears the ground, he
darts sharply out of sight and the song is over.
All day long the pleasant, flower-bedecked fields ring with this
music--at times a dozen are singing in the air at once. When the sun
is high the birds often rise until completely out of sight, only their
falling music telling the listener that they are still there. Toward
evening the flights are shorter, but as the calm of approaching night
settles over the broad and peaceful fields it seems as if the songs
are sweeter than at any other time.
Two of the greatest English poets have given us wonderful word
pictures of this marvellous little bird, which surely sings as sweetly
in Belgium as in England. Shelley in his famous Ode, describes the
song itself; his metre imitating the breathless rush of the aerial
notes:
"Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
"Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire;
The deep blue thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest."
In Wordsworth's noble lines the thought is less upon the song, but
dwells upon the mother bird and her hidden nest:
"Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
Thy nest, which thou canst drop into at will,
Those quivering wings composed, that music still!"