From the Porte de Lille we walked along the top of the ramparts toward the railway station—a promenade full of interest and charm. The broad moat in which a dozen snow white swans were swimming, the huge trees arching overhead, the quaint little houses to our right, with now and then a narrow street bending back into the town as if inviting us to follow and explore it—everything seemed to combine to make this one of our pleasantest experiences in Flanders, and we regretted that we did not have weeks instead of days in which to study this rare old town and visit some of the charming old Flemish villages by which it is surrounded.
The causes for the decline of the city from the proud position it occupied in the Middle Ages to its comparative insignificance to-day can be sketched in a very few words. Like the rest of Flanders, it had flourished exceedingly in consequence of the Hundred Years’ War between France and England. As commerce and industry in these two great neighbouring countries declined, that of the Low Countries—which were then enjoying a prolonged period of comparative peace—augmented with abnormal rapidity. It was inevitable that when peace across the frontier was restored much of the trade that France had temporarily lost should return to it. A series of great sieges cut off the wool traffic with England that formed the foundation of the city’s industry and prosperity. The first of these was in 1383 when the guildsmen of Ypres successfully beat off a powerful army from Ghent, aided by a large contingent from England. The plague, that terror of every overcrowded industrial town in those days, swept off thousands of people in 1347 and in 1490, and a third of the inhabitants in 1552. These disasters still further crippled the cloth industry. In 1583 and 1584 an eight months’ siege and the plague together reduced the population so fearfully that when the town at last surrendered to the Prince of Parma barely five thousand remained. After the religious wars were over it recovered some of its ancient prosperity, but between 1648 and 1678 it was besieged no less than four times, being a border town and one of the first to be attacked as the fortunes of war swayed, first one way and then the other. Roused by the ravages of the plague the magistrates cleaned the city, passed stringent sanitary regulations, paved the streets and built a costly system of sewers—Ypres being one of the first cities in Europe to have these modern improvements. Wise as these steps were, they came too late to arrest the decline of the town’s industries and commerce. One by one the artisans gave up the battle against the forces that were sapping the foundations of their prosperity and moved away—some to Ghent and Bruges, both of which were already beginning to decline; others to far-off England, where they remained to lay the foundations of the vast textile industry that has since grown up across the Channel, but which traces its origin back to the artisans of Ypres in the days when the fame of that until lately all but forgotten town was known from one end of the world to the other.
[CHAPTER VIII]
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.