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CHAPTER 1

The Season in Ostend

The season in Ostend signifies a colourful and unbroken alternation of festivals and public events. For all who frequent this, the largest and most elegant among the Belgian coastal resorts, the motivation, officially at least, is that which otherwise incites most people to visit bathing resorts: the need for peace and relaxation. The person who, through the course of a year, has the sense of being dragged through the stimulating and thrilling round of metropolitan pleasures, who feels the pulse of life and all their resilience stretched to the limit and is, one might say, bloated with culture and refinement, becomes accustomed to profiting from summer weeks of harmonious relaxation in the calm contemplation of nature cut off from these energies. But for the clientele of Ostend it's different. For them, this summer halt is not a rest, a chance to switch off, on the contrary it's only another shining link in the endless chain of society distractions, an ersatz for the broiling boulevards of the metropolis, for their theatres, their festivals, their gardens, which summer renders unapproachable. Little by little Ostend has become the unofficial rendezvous-location for the real and bogus aristocracy that one sees floating like a spume above the waves of capitals, everywhere encountering and recognising itself, and for whom a home-town is merely a station in transit from which they seek to reach the great international centres of pleasure. Ostend shelters these welcome guests in high summer, from July to the last days of August.

One could speak copiously and endlessly of these days without ever evoking by a single word the happy situation of Ostend, for in the overall canvas, nature is merely a backdrop. You might say that here nature is only so prodigious in beauty in order to glorify the triumph of modern civilisation and to provide a frame worthy of its perfection, where within is celebrated human beauty and mankind's conquests in ingenuity. Here, the effect of the shore does not depend on the view extending into the distance over the sea, which bears to you a tangy and health-giving air, so much as on admiring the extraordinary elegance of the hotels on the front and the splendid outfits of the women gathered there as if they were promenading in the city. The pier, which runs far out into the sea, signals the great achievements of modern technology, the port with its elegant steamships and yachts; the beach is of more interest for the particular style of the bathing costumes and the rather prodigious display of freedom of manners, than through any effect of its own. As has been said, here nature is modest in comparison with the works of men, for culture comes to stand facing her, all-conquering with its last, most important and most refined achievements.

The physiognomy of Ostend is naturally the exact mirror of its visitors. People most active throughout the year feel in summer the need for idleness; on the other hand, those without profession, or whose jobs do not detain them, always aspire to some superficial occupation that they may satisfy here through sport or gambling. One fact proves to what extent gambling has become for Ostend a condition of existence: last year when the gaming rooms had to be closed at Ostend and Spa, the Belgian state wanted to award these two towns a compensation package of seven million francs – a decree that for the moment has not come to bear. In any case, the amount of compensation gives a rough idea of the astonishing level of receipts that each season's gambling gives rise to.

The centre of Ostend's world of elegance is the Kursaal. This splendid and substantial edifice stands alongside the sea wall, flanked on both sides by rows of the most elegant villas offering a view from the rear over Léopold Park and the town. In the great room, afternoons and evenings, the distinguished public of Ostend attend concerts; particularly in the evening when the men may only appear in society dress or dance attire, and women of all nations compete in the magnificence of their outfits and jewellery, when the vast room is filled to capacity by the noble ranks of the beau monde – and this is true even of the demi monde– in such moments Ostend leaves a veritably grandiose impression, even on the inhabitants of a major city. Every day after the concert they give a ball; but the majority of visitors retire then to the other rooms at the rear of the casino, which form part of the assembly rooms. In the first the gambling is public and open to all; of course, here the turnover is not so high and the most audacious bid for Red or Black is fixed at three hundred francs. Gambling properly speaking takes place at Cercle Privé, the biggest club in Ostend, which nevertheless does not operate a rigorous admissions policy and requests a mere twenty francs for the price of entry. There unfold the most interesting scenes, which from the very next day are customarily the talk of the town; losses and wins of several thousand francs at Roulette. The most sumptuous outfits mix together, sometimes belonging to real princesses, sometimes to princesses of the music hall; one encounters here also numerous cosmopolitan people of whom no one knows anything other than that they frequent all the world's casinos and are never absent so long as the gaming rooms remain open. And this scene continues, unchanged, from morning until the dawn of the following day.

Amongst the wealth of other distractions, it's as well to mention first the floral festivals where taste, wealth and beauty rise equally to the challenge of competition. This season they have been a little modified in relation to previous years. One can only view them in closed-off streets that require an entry fee to be visited. They have, for this reason, lost their ancient splendour, for then the whole town took part with great passion in the confetti-and-flower battle whose sphere spread to virtually all the elegant streets. Now, it's true, the procession of cars so pompously decorated wins in privacy, the struggle breathes an atmosphere of greater noblesse and one no longer experiences those untoward excesses that, in recent years, had distanced the distinguished public. In any case, the competition for the most beautiful car and the most attractive balcony obtained the most favourable results.

Naturally sport is never out of place in Ostend. Car races alternate with yacht and track races, pigeon shooting and dog racing, and no day passes when the Englishman in particular is not afforded the opportunity of placing a bet. The best attended are the horse races where they distribute winnings to a total value of four hundred thousand francs; especially during the Grand Prix d'Ostende, the composition of the public offers a marvellous spectacle as, for the grand occasions, they are not recruited exclusively from the ranks of health-resort visitors but also from the reunion of a sporting elite coming from nearby Brussels or London and even Paris. In the course of these days, on which the king himself is accustomed almost always to attend, Ostend deploys all her splendour, gathering beneath her sceptre the millions of diverse nations, their beauties, and for grandiosity only the nocturnal festivals can compare, when the sea and port, normally plunged in a profound darkness, are ablaze with a thousand coloured lights, and out of the night rockets shoot towards the sea wall flooded with an enchanted light from the projections of the lighthouse.

But trump card of the season must go to the great procession of officers. Requests for inclusion pour in from virtually all armies and this spectacle must certainly count among the most interesting of the year. Then comes September and with it little by little the bright colours fade. The hotels close up; Ostend, the town of Ostend, reveals itself more and more: the fishermen who scratch a living from their catch, the port from which boats leave for London or Holland, and primarily the poverty and destitution that usually, dazzled by glitter and luxury during the season, one does not notice. The summer residence of King Léopold of Belgium (who satisfies his predilection for cosmopolitan resort life, summer months in Ostend and winter months on the Côte d'Azur, and last season gave the honours to a very exotic guest, the Shah of Persia) closes its doors too and lowers its awnings, like all hotels whose activity ceases with summer's end. The freshening wind of autumn blows in off the North Sea. Then eight or nine sad months, where all rests in leaden sleep, until it starts all over again, this unique unforgettable game, of human fallibility, passions and distractions, which, each year, find themselves assembling for the season in the Belgian seaside resort.

– 1902

Bruges

It's hard to wander in the evening through the dark and confined streets of this dreaming town without abandoning oneself to a serene melancholy, that gentle nostalgia aroused by the last days of autumn; no longer the shrill feasts of the fruiting season, but the more restful drama of decay and natural forces in decline. Carried by the uninterrupted wave of the pious carillon of vespers, one gradually sinks into this boundless ocean of enigmatic memories that cling to every door and wall gnawed away by time. One is a casual pilgrim here, until suddenly sensing all the greatness of a drama where action and life seem to arise from one's own muffled footsteps, while mighty silent shapes are stood in the dark wings. No other town possesses a greater power to symbolise the tragedy of death, and perhaps even more terrifying the actual death throes, than does Bruges.

One fully experiences this in these half-convents, Béguinages, where many aged persons come to die, because what the austere contours of the streets in the evening can only leave us guessing at, reveals itself here through those weary glances, shunning any radiance, in which only a feeble ray of life reflects: that here is an existence without hope or prospect for the future, apathetic and entirely concerned with the past. One cannot easily forget the way of life of these folk who regard so impassively the shy blooming of the little convent gardens and show not the slightest interest in strangers. Equally astonishing is that crepuscular image of streets both ancient and empty.

And it's a strange thing: here, silence is not only linked to evening, which weaves about it all those dreams and nostalgic memories, but seems to spread constantly over the gabled rooftops a veil of grey that draws into itself all sound and matter; muteness that distils noise into a murmur, outbursts of joyfulness into smiles and cries into sighs. Of course there can't be a total absence of hustle and bustle in the streets around midday. Barrows and carts trundle over the cobbles, people go about their business in order to earn their daily crust, numerous cafés, restaurants and estaminets bear witness to the care taken to maintain an agreeable foothold on this earth, and yet neither the inhabitants nor the town are smiling. Nowhere that gaiety characterised by the Flemish towns, gangs of children who sing and dance making their clogs ring out behind the Barbary organ grinder, nowhere the lavish garments in bold colours. And always these stifled sounds. When one ascends the cool and dark spiral staircase of the belfry, rooted, immense, inflexible on the marketplace like the giant Roland, and faintly oppressed by the weighing darkness, one encounters with a mix of fear and rapture the light spreading its luminous colours and one is bound to note that, down below within a boundary where activity reigns supreme, the human voice is absent. Of the town stretched out at your feet and of its charming setting only a gentle hum rises up, magic as the sound of the bells of Vineta above the sea on Sundays. And this confusion of red tiled roofs, these indented gables and these window ledges of gleaming white give the impression in their disorder of being mere playthings cast aside by a casual hand amongst the greenery. Enchanted yet lifeless – that's how it seems, this entanglement of tightly crammed dwellings and circular cloisters, skilfully interspersed with modest plots occupied by lush gardens and wide lanes leading into that prosperous land of Flanders where stand the great windmills, vital accessories of the Dutch landscape, their sails ever whirling round. Yet even from such a height where one enjoys the more amiable and playful aspects of the town, it is impossible to ignore that tragic gesture that better allows one to understand the muted sorrow of the streets; an arm stretched greedily towards the distant ocean, that broad canal by which the silted-up port seeks to reach the salutary waves. The dramatic history of Bruges returns to one via memory: the flourishing beginnings of a time when every ship owner set out his stall here, when hundreds of ships decked with flags crisscrossed the port, when kings humbly negotiated with aldermen, while queens admired with secret yearning the sumptuous finery of the burghers. Then the slow decline: long years of war, epidemics, conflicts and finally the fortune that withdrew at the same time as the sea, leaving her enclosed within her walls. This last is distant now, only a silver line on the horizon visible on a clear day. And the colours of the town have faded, only the heavy brocaded altar cloths have retained the flush of their ardent purple; otherwise she wears a nun's habit, and the perpetual clamour of the port, not to mention the din from the taverns crowded with drinkers, are silenced as never before. Suddenly one comes to understand the gesture of refusal by which Bruges, like her elder sister Ypres, isolated herself from all other towns, which at the sign of a dawning epoch drew to themselves all the powers and honours of culture. Whilst Antwerp, Hamburg, Brussels and other sister towns in their bellicose fervour brandished aloft the standard of life, Bruges-the-solitary became ever more muffled in her robe and cowl, withdrawing into the belt of her ancient walls. Remaining there, motionless and brooding across the centuries, entirely turned towards the past, she ended up resembling a great monk, whose imposing bearing inspired both melancholy and an infinite respect, replete with wonder and enchantment.

This feeling of the ephemeral, of the fickleness of every object, seizes all who observe the shadow of such a mighty past fall onerously upon Bruges, and who sense, through the permanence engendered in these walls and within the inhabitants themselves, that state of dependence on which religion is founded. The roads, with their innumerable monuments to the memory of long-vanished figures, represent a call to humility so powerful that those who have grown up subjected to this influence cannot hide away from faith. And so here the sublime is not reflected in the infinity of time but in God and the symbols of the Catholic Church. There reigns in this town a faith dark, austere and resilient like the very churches themselves, which stand before God, stark, unyielding, lacking the customary intricate ornament of the Gothic jagged edge or dainty pinnacles. Missals and pious images adorn the boutiques, almost without rest the carillon sound the call to prayer. At every moment nuns and monks pass furtively, greeting each other in subdued tones, dark, silent, hurrying, funereal at first sight like harbingers of death. But as they draw closer, watching over the long lines of children in their care, and you discover beneath the white caps or in the shadow of wide brims, calm gentle faces, then you realise that only the constant reminder of grandeur and death could be behind so immutable a gravity and could have etched such a coarse picture of life in these features. And tirelessly the bells ring out and statues of saints are leant against peaceful bridges. Yet even in the onerous darkness of this faith quivers a mystical purple light. There is the ardent celebration of great miracles, the profound tenderness of the Marian cult and that gentle poetry of sacred things that only the simplest men are destined to create in the naive passions of their piety. One can hardly forget the day when the reliquary adorned with precious stones, containing the saviour's blood, is carried solemnly out from the chapel, the bliss of prodigal grace causing a shimmering of exultation in the silent town that spreads over these people who can barely raise a smile for worldly things. Is it not enchanting to follow this route studded with names so soft, with such a peaceful aura: to pass along the incomparable Quai Rosaire, before the Sisters of Charity, Notre Dame, the Béguinage, St John's Hospital, to arrive eventually at the Minnewater, the lake of love? This is a pool of murky motionless water on whose bank leans, like a sleeping night watchman, a dark round tower. The sky seems to rest upon the black wavelets and white clouds scud overhead, as if messengers of paradise. What solemnity, what majesty love must have been endowed with in the eyes of these people for them to attribute such a name to these dreamy and seraphic surroundings.

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Excerpted from "Journeys"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Stefan Zweig.
Excerpted by permission of Pushkin Press.
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