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.
