WHERE MODERN FLANDERS SHINES--OSTENDE AND "LA PLAGE"
Our last stopping place in Flanders was the one that many tourists
visit first, the gay watering place of Ostende. Here a little fleet of
fast Channel steamers convey the traveller to Dover in four or five
hours, while an excellent service of through express trains connect
the Dover end of the water route with London, and the Ostende end with
Brussels, Berlin and half the capitals of Europe. Our stay in
Flanders, however, was drawing to a close, and we were headed for
Liverpool, where the new _Aquitania_ was waiting to bear us home.
The tourist who expects in Ostende to find much that is reminiscent of
the Flanders of the sixteenth century, of which so much has been said
in the other chapters of this book, will be disappointed. To be sure,
it is not a young city, being mentioned in the chronicles of Flanders
as far back as the eleventh century. In the Eighty Years' War between
Spain and her revolted Dutch colonies Ostende was for a long time held
by the Dutch, who beat off two severe attacks by the Spaniards in 1583
and 1586, the former led by the all but invincible Farnese, Prince of
Parma. In the year 1600 the Battle of the Dunes took place at
Nieuport, in which the troops of the Archduke Albert were defeated by
a Dutch army under Maurice, Prince of Nassau. This victory, while it
gave great encouragement to the enemies of Spain by demonstrating that
the renowned Spanish soldiers were not invincible, was otherwise
barren of results, and in 1601 the Archdukes determined to besiege
Ostende, which was the last stronghold of the Dutch in Flanders.
Prior to the war with Philip II Ostende had been little more than an
obscure fishing-village, but since it had been fortified by the Dutch,
and had so successfully maintained itself against all assaults, the
place was fast becoming a "thorn in the foot" to the government of the
Archdukes. Queen Elizabeth, whose defeats of Philip's armadas had made
England mistress of the seas, was determined that Spain should not
regain so important a strategic base, and had kept an English garrison
there under an English commander. Since Albert's accession the town
had been greatly strengthened by new ramparts, bastions and
fortifications of every type, then known in the engineering art of
warfare. To protect Flanders against this hostile fortress in its very
midst the Archdukes were obliged to erect eighteen forts around
Ostende and keep them constantly garrisoned and supplied. This cost
ninety thousand crowns a month and kept the rich province in a state
of perpetual war. Towns in the vicinity were compelled to pay tribute
in order to escape pillage, and commerce--then, as always, dependent
upon peace--languished.
The Estates of Flanders under these direful conditions offered the
Archdukes three hundred thousand florins a month as long as the siege
to rid them of this menacing stronghold might last, and three hundred
thousand florins additional as a bonus to be paid in instalments--a
third when the city was invested, a third when a breach was made in
the fortifications, and the balance when the place was taken. These
terms are curiously similar to those employed in drawing building
loans at the present day and show that the Flemings had lost none of
their ancient caution.
On July 5th, 1601, the Archduke Albert arrived before Ostende and
formally began its investment. The Infanta Isabella came with him,
and often shared camp life with her husband during the weary months
that followed. The siege from the very first developed into a contest
of engineers and military strategists on the taking and the defence of
fortified places the like of which had never before been known in
Europe. In fact nearly all Europe was directly engaged in the
conflict. On the Archdukes' side were Spaniards, Italians and
Walloons; on the ramparts of the defenders were lined up side by side
English, Dutch, French, German and Scotch forces. The fortress was
commanded by Sir Francis Vere. The operations of the siege consisted
of mining and counter-mining, the erection and destruction of
batteries, storming of outlying works--all the devices of attack and
defence known to the military science of the day. Never before had the
world seen such cannons and engines of destruction. The siege became
Homeric, epic, a seventeenth-century Siege of Troy.
The great difficulty of the besiegers was their inability to cut off
the town from receiving new provisions and supplies, and a constant
stream of reinforcements, by sea. The Dutch, English and French ships
came and went almost at will. All the summer and fall of 1601 the
siege dragged on, and through the cold winter that followed. In 1602
Sir Francis Vere and a large part of the garrison were relieved and a
new commander and garrison installed without the Archdukes being able
to prevent the manoeuvre. In 1603 Ambrose, the Marquis Spinola, a
young scion of a rich Genoese family, offered to take charge of the
siege of Ostende and to capture the city. As the Archduke Albert had
made a complete failure of the job, and was unpopular besides among
his troops, whom he had not been able to pay with any regularity, he
welcomed this offer and Spinola assumed the command. His wealth
enabled him to pay and feed his soldiers, while his youth and ambition
made him a wary and energetic commander. Day and night he took part in
person in supervising the mines, assaults, trenches and erection of
new positions. Gradually, under his vigorous leadership, the besiegers
began to burrow their way into the town. Maurice of Nassau, unable to
pierce Spinola's network of entrenchments around the town created a
diversion by besieging and capturing Sluys. In spite of this, however,
Spinola clung doggedly to his prey and on September 13th, 1603, Sand
Hill, after a resistance of three years, was captured. Seven days
later the Governor, who now controlled nothing but the heart of the
town, capitulated and on September 22nd, the garrison marched out with
all the honours of war. Hardly a soul of the former population of
Ostende remained at the time of its capture, and it is said that the
Archduchess Isabella "wept at the sight of the mound of earth, all
that remained of the city which she had been so anxious to capture."
It was estimated that the place, which had been little more than a
village, cost the besiegers one hundred thousand lives and the
defenders sixty thousand. The siege had lasted three years, two months
and seventeen days, but the "thorn" had at last been extracted.
For several years after this Ostende remained a city without
inhabitants, the Archdukes rebuilding the place but population coming
to it but slowly. In 1722 The East and West India Company of the
Austrian Netherlands was founded at Ostende, chiefly by Antwerp
capitalists and merchants, who were deeply interested in the
enterprise. Factories were established in India, but the Emperor
Charles VI dissolved the company in 1731 in order to secure English
and Dutch support for his Pragmatic Sanction. The next century was one
of stagnation, the town reverting to a fishing-place, but almost at
the moment of Belgian independence--or from about 1830--it began to be
renowned as a watering-place. It owes much of its present prosperity
to Leopold II, who made it a place of royal residence during the
summer, and whose royal palace still looks down upon the _Digue_ not
far from the racetrack. The coming of the cross-channel steamers still
further stimulated its growth, and at present it is one of the most
beautiful and picturesque of all the Flemish cities.
Our visit was unfortunate--as we regretfully told one another at the
time--in that it came in July, before the season had really opened.
August is the time to come, the waiters and hotel porters all assured
us, for then the Grand Dukes come from Russia, the long special trains
from Germany roll in one after another loaded to capacity, the Channel
steamers arrive three times a day with decks black with English
tourists, and Ostende's many kinds of gaiety are in full swing.
However, the opening of the August season in 1914 was conducted under
circumstances that made us rather glad we were there in July. The
Germans came, to be sure, but the gaiety departed.
No one in Ostende foresaw a bit of the terrible future when we were
there in July. The long curving beach was crowded with people,
little people for the most part, and most of the queer little
beach-houses--summer cottages on wheels--were gradually getting
rented. The beach is splendidly broad and smooth, but the slope
seaward is so slight that at low tide one must needs go very far out
to get into the water at all. This did not seem to trouble anybody
very much, for we saw few who ever went near the water, most of the
pleasure-seekers staying on the warm, dry sand up near the big sloping
sea wall of the _Digue_. For families with small children the little
summer-houses seemed rather attractive, as papa and mamma could sit
within, sheltered from sun or rain, while the youngsters rollicked all
day long in the deep sand.
The _Digue_ just mentioned is a high artificial seawall or embankment,
faced with sloping stone on the sea side and surmounted by a broad
boulevard--the Esplanade. It slopes gradually on the landward side,
one row of stately hotels and lodging-houses facing directly on the
Esplanade, while on the side streets the buildings drop each below the
other until they reach the level of the town, which is some forty or
fifty feet lower than the summit of the embankment. Here the
fashionable crowds promenade at the proper times, while the
unfashionable promenade all day long and far into the night. Even in
July the sight is a most fascinating one, and the Bohemianism of the
crowd and its diversity of national types most interesting. Here, as
everywhere in Belgium, the cafés and hotels place their tables and
chairs far out into the roadway, so that we can sit outdoors in the
manner that the Madame so much enjoys and eat our dinner, or sip our
coffee and cognac, while watching the ever-changing crowds go by.
At Ostende the scale of expenses for everything, rooms, meals,
service, pleasure, cigars, tips, and even for the English newspapers,
increases or falls according to the proximity or remoteness of the
_Digue_. If you are on top of it--look out! To Americans the
charges, even in the finer big hotels, do not seem particularly
excessive--though in August they are usually much higher than in
July--but there is a constant succession of incidental expenses that
make the voyager as a rule hurry more than once to the banker where
his letter of credit can have another illegible notation made on it.
Externally the hotels are very imposing and stately--making a brave
show as one looks down the long line that extends for several miles
from the harbour entrance westward to Westende and beyond half way to
Nieuport. Within they are pretty much like all Belgian hotels of the
better class. For the novelty of the thing we thought of renting one
of the tiny _apartements meublés_, that, each with a charming broad
window--usually open all day long like a piazza--look out directly
upon the sea. The price was a thousand francs a month, which seemed
too much for what was after all little more than one big room with an
alcove. The landlady informed us that she attended to all the details
of the _ménage_, cooking and serving the meals and providing maid
service, but that messieurs must provide the provisions, both solid
and liquid.
The great show place of Ostende is, of course, the Kursaal, a huge
structure of glass, iron and stone belonging to no particular school
of architecture, but in the main making a pleasing impression and
serving very well indeed for the somewhat diversified uses for which
it is intended. In the daytime the Kursaal is a place of relatively
little interest, although well-dressed people flock through it at all
hours. At night it is the scene of much animation, and is, as it was
meant to be, the centre of the gay life of the town. A large
orchestra gives a concert every evening in a very pretty concert hall,
which, when we were there, contained numerous little tables for
refreshments, although I have seen pictures in which the room was
filled with seats in solid rows, like a theatre. It was much more
comfortable the way we found it, and the concert was very enjoyable.
At the intermission, however, we observed that nearly everybody rose
and flocked off into an anteroom leading out of the concert hall. The
Professor and I decided that there appeared to be "something doing" in
that direction and followed the crowd, leaving the ladies to look
after our wraps, and promising to return and get them if we found
anything worth while.
I fear that the narrative of our experience may sound a bit like an
extract from _Innocents Abroad_, but I will relate the thing as it
happened and make no pretence that we were a bit more sophisticated
than we really were. The crowd seemed to be headed through a long and
handsome corridor toward a distant room. We followed along, passing on
the way what looked more or less like the office of a hotel, with a
register book and two or three clerks, to which we paid no attention.
Arrived at the end of the corridor we found ourselves in a large
circular room around which were a number of small tables on which
visitors were rolling balls down toward a group of pockets--some such
a game as one sees at Coney Island or any popular American amusement
resort. The price was two francs for three shots, and barkers were
shouting lustily to all comers to try their luck. On one side a
doorway was heavily curtained with velvet draperies and here
occasional groups of the guests were silently disappearing. We
approached this mysterious passageway and sought to pass like the
others when two tiny lads in brilliant livery demanded our cards. On
our replying that we had none, a large man, also in livery, appeared
from somewhere behind the draperies and courteously informed us that
special membership or admission cards were required from all who
wished to proceed further.
We thereupon returned to the ladies and reported what we had seen, and
took our turn at looking after the wraps while they visited the
circular room. They likewise returned, reporting that admission beyond
the curtains had been refused. After the concert was over we decided
to make another attempt--as both the Professor and I surmised what
attraction lay beyond the mysterious portal. Pausing at the hotel
office we had previously noticed, we asked bluntly how admission to
the hidden room could be secured, and were told that a card would be
given each of us on the sole formality of registering. This we
accordingly did, giving our names, hotel address, home address and one
reference. This done, we each received a card admitting two and
departed to find the Madame and Mrs. Professor.
Arriving at the doorway armed with the cards we had received, we were
ushered at once into a very handsome room where perhaps three hundred
people were gathered about half a dozen roulette tables. No one paid
the slightest attention to us, nor did any employé appear to care
whether we played or contented ourselves with merely looking on.
Practically every one in the room, however, was playing--with all the
tense earnestness that this game of chance seems to impress upon its
devotees. White chips, we observed, cost five francs, reds twenty,
round blues a hundred--or twenty dollars. There were, in addition, a
large ovalshaped blue, marked five hundred and an oblong one marked
one thousand. In less than three minutes one player lost eight of the
thousand franc chips, and then, this being apparently enough for
the evening, lit a cigar and started for home. While he was playing we
observed an over-painted young woman who had just lost her last stake
solicit a loan from him. He tossed the girl a hundred-franc chip and
left without pausing to see whether she won or lost with it. We were
more curious. She lost.
[Illustration: THE "SALLE DES JEUX" IN THE KURSAAL, OSTENDE.]
At about this period of the evening the Madame raised a commotion by
discovering that her reticule was open and a piece of money had fallen
out onto the thick carpet. The Professor and I instantly got down to
look for it, and even the croupiers at the adjoining gaming table
paused to take in the incident. Two or three attendants and waiters
hurried up to help when the Madame spied her lost coin and
triumphantly seized it. It was a one centime piece--worth a fifth of a
cent! I have never seen a more disgusted-looking group of attendants,
and doubt if so small a coin had ever been seen before in this
northern Monte Carlo. The Madame, however, was serenely indifferent to
their opinion. This was the nearest, I may add, that we came to losing
any money there.
At the end of the Esplanade is the Estacade, a pier that extends well
out to sea. Pleasure steamers start here for short trips along the
coast, and turning to the right at this end of the town one comes to
the harbour and the broad basin where hundreds of little brown-sailed
shrimp fishing-boats congregate. Several of these came in while we
were there and sold their cargoes, almost as soon as they were tied
up, to groups of eager market-women with big baskets. Several girls
sat along the quay wall mending huge nets also used in the shrimp
fishery. The little back streets in this vicinity, and around the
quaint fish-market, are the oldest in the town--and the most crooked.
The principal business street of the little city is the rue de Flandre
and its continuation, the rue de la Chapelle, which together take one
from the Digue de Mer straight to the railway and boat stations. On
one side of this street is the Place d'Armes, where a military band
played every evening, and facing which is the Hotel de Ville. Our last
day was spent poking about this part of the town in a pouring rain,
with an occasional peep into huge cafés designed to accommodate a
thousand guests, but which were then almost deserted. The rain ceased
suddenly toward nightfall and we returned to the Digue for a farewell
look at the crowds and the long beach. It was night before we had
seen enough, and then, after ordering and enjoying to the utmost our
last Flemish dinner, we made our way to the Gare Maritime to take the
night boat for Dover. As we steamed out past the long Estacade and
looked back upon the gleaming lights along the Digue we saw the moon
rising redly above the masts in the little harbour. This was our last
view of Flanders, and, as we regretfully saw the lights of the city
sink out of sight behind the tossing waves that gleamed brightly under
the moonbeams, we knew that our pilgrimage was over.